The Cold Moon

Reynolds walked slowly up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum on Fifth Avenue, out of breath by the time he got to the top. His hands and arms were very strong—helpful for when he had his heart-to-hearts with the ladies—but he got zero aerobic exercise.
    Joanne, his flower girl, floated into his thought. Yes, he’d followed and come close to raping her. But at the last minute another of his incarnations had taken charge, Smart Vincent, who was the rarest of the brood. The temptation had been great but he couldn’t disappoint his friend. (Vincent also didn’t think it was a wise idea to give any grief to a man whose advice for dealing with conflict was to “slash the eyes.”) So he’d merely checked up on her again, eaten a huge lunch and taken the train here.
    He now paid and entered the museum, noticing a family—the wife resembled his sister. He’d just written the previous week asking her to come to New York for Christmas but hadn’t heard back. He’d like to show her the sights. She could hardly come at the moment, of course, not while he and Duncan were busy. He hoped she’d visit soon, though. Vincent was convinced that having her more in his life would make a difference. It would provide a stability that would make him less hungry, he believed. He wouldn’t need heart-to-hearts quite so often.
    I really wouldn’t mind changing a little bit, Dr. Jenkins.
    Don’t you agree?
    Maybe she’d get here for New Year’s. They could go to Times Square and watch the ball drop.
    Vincent headed into the museum proper. There wasn’t any doubt about where to find Gerald Duncan. He’d be in the area that held the important touring exhibits—the treasures of the Nile, for instance, or jewels from the British Empire. Now, the exhibit was “Horology in Ancient Times.”
    Horology, Duncan had explained, was the study of time and timepieces.
    The killer had come here several times recently. It drew the older man the way porn shops drew Vincent. Normally distant and unemotional, Duncan always lit up when he was staring at the displays. It made Vincent happy to see his friend actually enjoying something.
    Duncan was looking over some old pottery things called incense clocks. Vincent eased up next to him.
    “What’d you find?” asked Duncan, who didn’t turn his head. He’d seen Vincent’s reflection in the glass of the display case. He was like that—always aware, always seeing what he needed to see.
    “She was alone in the workshop all the time I was there. Nobody camein. She went to her store on Broadway and met this delivery guy there. They left. I called and asked for her—”
    “From?”
    “A pay phone. Sure.”
    Meticulous.
    “And the clerk said she’d gone out for coffee. She’d be back in about an hour but she wouldn’t be in the store. Meaning, I guess, she’d go back to the workshop.”
    “Good.” Duncan nodded.
    “And what’d you find?”
    “The pier was roped off but nobody was there. I saw police boats in the river, so they haven’t found the body yet. At Cedar Street I couldn’t get very close. But they’re taking the case real seriously. A lot of cops. There were two that seemed in charge. One of them was pretty.”
    “A girl, really?” Hungry Vincent perked up. The thought of having a heart-to-heart with a policewoman had never occurred to him. But he suddenly liked the idea.
    A lot.
    “Young, in her thirties. Red hair. You like red hair?”
    He’d never forget Sally Anne’s red hair, how it cascaded on the old, stinky blanket when he was lying on top of her.
    The hunger soared. He was actually salivating. Vincent dug into his pocket, pulled out a candy bar and ate it fast. He wondered where Duncan was going with his comments about red hair and the pretty policewoman but the killer said nothing more. He stepped to another display, containing old-time pendulum clocks.
    “Do you know what we have to thank for precise time-telling?”
    The professor is at the lectern, thought Clever Mr. V, having replaced Hungry Mr. V for the moment, now that he’d had his chocolate.
    “No.”
    “Trains.”
    “How come?”
    “When people’s entire lives were limited to a single town they could start the day whenever they decided. Six A.M. in London might be six eighteen in Oxford. Who cared? And if you did have to go to Oxford, you rode your horse and it didn’t matter if the time was off. But with a railroad, if one train doesn’t leave the station on time and the next one