The Cold Moon

south.
    “In front of us? What’s that? Flashing lights?”
    “Yep.” Vincent could clearly see them. Heading their way. His voice rose. “What’re we going to do?”
    “Whatever we have to,” Duncan said, calmly turning the wheel precisely and making an impossible turn seem effortless.

    Lincoln Rhyme struggled to tune out the droning of Sellitto on his cell phone. He also tuned out the rookie, Ron Pulaski, making calls about Baltimore mobsters.
    Tuning it all out so he could let something else into his thoughts.
    He wasn’t sure what. A vague memory kept nagging.
    A person’s name, an incident, a place. He couldn’t say. But it was something he knew was important, vital.
    What?
    He closed his eyes and swerved close to the thought. But it got away.
    Ephemeral, like the puff balls he would chase when he was a boy in the Midwest, outside of Chicago, running through fields, running, running. Lincoln Rhyme had loved to run, loved to catch puff balls and the whirlygig seeds that spiraled from trees like descending helicopters. Loved to chase dragonflies and moths and bees.
    To study them, to learn about them. Lincoln Rhyme was born with a fierce curiosity, a scientist even then.
    Running . . . breathless.
    And now the immobilized man was also running, trying to grasp a different sort of elusive seed. And even though the pursuit was in his mind only, it was no less strenuous and intense than the footraces of his youth.
    There . . . there . . .
    Almost have it.
    No, not quite.
    Hell.
    Don’t think, don’t force. Let it in.
    His mind sped through memories whole and memories fragmented, the way his feet would pound over fragrant grass and hot earth, throughrustling reeds and cornfields, under massive thunderheads boiling up miles high and white in the blue sky.
    A thousand images from homicides, and kidnappings and larcenies, crime scene photos, department memos and reports, evidence inventories, the art captured in microscope eyepieces, the mountain peaks and valleys on the screen of a gas chromatograph. Like so many whirlygigs and puff balls and grasshoppers and katydids and robin feathers.
    Okay, close . . . close . . .
    Then his eyes opened.
    “Luponte,” he whispered.
    Satisfaction filled the body that could feel no sensation.
    Rhyme wasn’t sure but he believed there was something significant about the name Luponte.
    “I need a file.” Rhyme glanced at Sellitto, who was now sitting at a computer monitor, examining the screen. “A file!”
    The big detective looked over at him. “Are you talking to me?”
    “Yes, I’m talking to you.”
    Sellitto chuckled. “A file? Do I have it?”
    “No. I need you to find it.”
    “About what? A case?”
    “I think so. I don’t know when. All I know is the name Luponte figures.” He spelled it. “Was a while ago.”
    “The perp?”
    “Maybe. Or maybe a witness, maybe an arresting or a supervisor. Or even brass. I don’t know.”
    Luponte . . .
    Sellitto said, “You’re looking like the cat that got the cream.”
    Rhyme frowned. “Is that an expression?”
    “I don’t know. I just like the sound of it. Okay, the Luponte file. I’ll make some calls. Is it important?”
    “With a psychotic killer out there, Lon, do you think I’m going to have you waste time finding me something that’s not important?”
    A fax arrived.
    “Our ASTER thermal images?” Rhyme asked eagerly.
    “No. It’s for Amelia,” Cooper said. “Where is she?”
    “Upstairs.”
    Rhyme was about to call her but just then she walked into the lab. Herface was dry and no longer red, her eyes clear. She rarely wore makeup but he wondered if she’d made an exception to hide the fact she’d been crying.
    “For you,” Cooper told her, looking over the fax. “Secondary analysis of the ash from what’s-his-name’s place.”
    “Creeley.”
    The tech said, “The lab finally imaged the logo that was on the spreadsheet. It’s from software that’s used in corporate accounting. Nothing unusual. It’s sold to thousands of CPAs around the country.”
    She shrugged, taking the sheet and reading. “And Queens had a forensic accountant look over the recovered entries. It’s just standard payroll and compensation figures for executives in some company. Nothing unusual about it.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t seem important. I’m guessing whoever broke in just burned whatever they could find to make sure they destroyed everything connecting them to