The Cold Moon

take his order.”
    “How’d you find out about his death?”
    “Overheard something. Them talking.”
    “The officers from the precinct?”
    She nodded.
    “Any other deaths that you heard of?”
    “Nope.”
    “Any other crimes? Shakedowns, assaults, bribes?”
    She shook her head, pouring ketchup on the burger and making a pool for dunking the fries. “Nothing. That’s all I know.”
    “Thanks.” Sachs put ten down on the table to cover the woman’s meal.
    Gerte glanced at the money. “The desserts’re pretty good. The pie. You ever eat here, have the pie.”
    The detective added another five.
    Gerte looked up and gave an astute smile. “Why’m I telling you all this stuff? You’re wondering, right?”
    Sachs nodded with a smile. She’d been wondering exactly that.
    “You wouldn’t understand. Those guys in the back room, the cops? The way they look at us, Sonja and me, the things they say, the things they don’t say. The way they joke about us when they think we can’t hear ’em . . .” She gave a bitter smile. “Yeah, I pour drinks for a living, okay? That’s all I do. But that don’t give ’em the right to make fun of me. Everybody’s got the right to some dignity, don’t they?”

    Joanne Harper, Vincent’s dream girl, had not returned to the workshop yet.
    The men were in the Band-Aid-mobile, parked on east Spring Street across from the darkened workshop where Duncan was about to kill his third victim and Vincent was about to have his first heart-to-heart in a long, long time.
    The SUV wasn’t anything great but it was safe. The Watchmaker had stolen it from someplace where he said it wouldn’t be missed for a while. It also sported New York plates that’d been stolen from another tan Explorer—to pass an initial call-in by the cops if they happened to get spotted (they rarely checked the VIN number, only plates, the Watchmaker lectured Vincent).
    That was smart, Vincent allowed, though he’d asked what they’d do if some cop did check the VIN. It wouldn’t match the tag and he’d know the Explorer was stolen.
    Duncan had replied, “Oh, I’d kill him.” As if it was obvious.
    Moving right along . . .
    Duncan looked at his pocket watch and replaced it, zipped up the pocket. He opened his shoulder bag, which contained the clock and other tools of the trade, all carefully organized. He wound the clock, set the time and zipped the cover of the bag closed. Through the nylon, Vincent could hear the ticking.
    They hooked up hands-free headsets to their mobile phones and Vincent set a police scanner on the seat next to him (Duncan’s idea, of course). He clicked it on and heard a mundane clatter of transmissions about traffic accidents, the progress of street closings for some event on Thursday, an apparent heart attack on Broadway, a chain snatching. . . .
    Life in da big city . . .
    Duncan looked himself over carefully, made sure all his pockets weresealed. He rolled a dog-hair remover over his body, to pick up trace evidence, and reminded Vincent to do the same before he came inside for his heart-to-heart with Joanne.
    Meticulous . . .
    “Ready?”
    Vincent nodded. Duncan climbed out of the Band-Aid-mobile, looked up and down the street, then walked to the service door. He picked the lock in about ten seconds. Amazing. Vincent smiled, admiring his friend’s skill. He ate two candy bars, chewed them down with fierce bites.
    A moment later the phone vibrated and he answered. Duncan said, “I’m inside. How’s the street look?”
    “A few cars from time to time. Nobody on the sidewalks. It’s clear.”
    Vincent heard a few metallic clicks. Then the man’s voice in a whisper: “I’ll call you when she’s ready.”
    Ten minutes later Vincent saw someone in a dark coat walking toward the workshop. The stance and motion suggested it was a woman. Yep, it was his flower girl, Joanne.
    A burst of hunger filled him.
    He ducked low, so she wouldn’t see him. He pushed the TRANSMIT button on the phone.
    He heard the click of Duncan’s phone. No “hello” or “yes.”
    Vincent lifted his head slightly and saw her walk up to the door. He said into the phone, “It’s her. She’s alone. She should be inside any minute.”
    The killer said nothing. Vincent heard the click of the phone hanging up.

    Okay, he was a keeper.
    Joanne Harper and Kevin had had three coffees at Kosmo’s Diner, otherwise just another functional, boring eatery in SoHo, but as of