The Cold Moon

Sergeant from the precinct was going to call her this morning.”
    Lincoln Rhyme generally didn’t find soft descriptions helpful. But he conceded that “bad” fit the situation.
    So did the word “intriguing.” He asked, “Why do you say it’s the same M.O.?”
    “Perp left a calling card at both scenes. Clocks.”
    “As in tick-tock?”
    “Yup. The first one was by the pool of blood on the pier. The other was next to the vic’s head. It was like the doer wanted them to see it. And, I guess, hear it.”
    “Describe them. The clocks.”
    “Looked old-fashioned. That’s all I know.”
    “Not a bomb?” Nowadays—in the time of the After—every item of evidence that ticked was routinely checked for explosives.
    “Nope. Won’t go bang. But the squad sent ’em up to Rodman’s Neck to check for bio or chemical agents. Same brand of clock, looks like. Spooky, one of the respondings said. Has this face of a moon on it. Oh, and just in case we were slow, he left a note under the clocks. Computer printout. No handwriting.”
    “And they said . . . ?”
    Sellitto glanced down at his notebook, not relying on memory. Rhyme appreciated this in the detective. He wasn’t brilliant but he was a bulldog and did everything slowly and with perfection. He read, “ ‘The full Cold Moon is in the sky, shining on the corpse of earth, signifying the hour to die and end the journey begun at birth.’” He looked up at Rhyme. “It was signed ‘the Watchmaker.’”
    “We’ve got two vics and a lunar motif.” Often, an astronomical reference meant that the killer was planning to strike multiple times. “He’s got more on the agenda.”
    “Hey, why d’you think I’m here, Linc?”
    Rhyme glanced at the beginning of his missive to the Times. He closed his word-processing program. The essay about Before and After would have to wait.

Chapter 3
    A small sound from outside the window. A crunch of snow.
    Amelia Sachs stopped moving. She glanced out at the quiet, white backyard. She saw no one.
    She was a half hour north of the city, alone in a pristine Tudor suburban house that was still as death. An appropriate thought, she reflected, since the owner of the place was no longer among the living.
    The sound again. Sachs was a city girl, used to the cacophony of urban noises—threatening and benign. The intrusion into the excessive suburban quiet set her on edge.
    Was its source a footstep?
    The tall, red-haired detective, wearing a black leather jacket, navy blue sweater and black jeans, listened carefully for a moment, absently scratching her scalp. She heard another crunch. Unzipped her jacket so her Glock was easily accessible. Crouching, she looked outside fast. Saw nothing.
    And returned to her task. She sat down on the luxurious leather office chair and began to examine the contents of a huge desk. This was a frustrating mission, the problem being that she didn’t know exactly what she was looking for. Which often happened when you searched a crime scene that was secondary or tertiary or whatever four-times-removed might be called. In fact, you’d be hard-pressed to call this a crime scene at all. It was unlikely that any perpetrators had ever been present, nor had any bodies been discovered here, any loot hidden. This was simply a little-used residence ofa man named Benjamin Creeley, who’d died miles away and had not been to this house for a week before his death.
    Still she had to search, and search carefully—because Amelia Sachs was not here in the role she usually worked: crime scene cop. She was the lead detective in the first homicide case of her own.
    Another snap outside. Ice, snow, branch, deer, squirrel . . . She ignored it and continued the search that had started a few weeks earlier, all thanks to a knot in a piece of cotton rope.
    It was this length of clothesline that had ended the life of fifty-six-year-old Ben Creeley, found dangling from the banister of his Upper East Side town house. A suicide note was on the table, no signs of foul play evident.
    Just after the man’s death, though, Suzanne Creeley, his widow, went to the NYPD. She simply didn’t believe that he’d killed himself. The wealthy businessman and accountant had been moody lately, yes. But only, she believed, because he’d been working very long hours on some particularly difficult projects. His occasionally dour moods were a far cry from suicidal depression. He had no history of mental or emotional problems