The Cold Moon

business,” Rhyme said in an even voice, momentarily a gentle professor. “It’s all about the odds. What strikes you? Impressions. Just throw some out.”
    Pulaski could think of nothing for a moment. But then something occurred to him. “Why’d they park here?”
    “What?”
    “You asked what struck me. Well, it’s weird they parked here, this far from the exit. Why not drive right to it? And why not try to hide the Explorer better?”
    “Good point, Ron. I should’ve asked the question myself. What do you think? Why would they park there?”
    “Maybe he panicked.”
    “Could be. Good for us—nothing like fear to make somebody careless. We’ll think about it. Okay, now walk the grid to and from the exit and then around the car. Look underneath and on the roof. You know the grid?”
    “Yes.” Swallowing the “sir.”
    For the next twenty minutes Pulaski walked back and forth, examining the garage floor and ceiling around the car. He didn’t miss a millimeter. He smelled the air—and drew no conclusion from the exhaust/oil/disinfectant aroma of the garage. Troubled again, he told Rhyme that he hadn’t found anything. The criminalist gave no reaction and told Pulaski to search the Explorer itself.
    They’d run the VIN and the tag numbers on the SUV and found that it actually had belonged to one of the men Sellitto had identified earlier but who’d been dismissed as a suspect because he was serving a year on Rikers Island for possession of cocaine. The Explorer had been confiscated because of the drugs, which meant that the Watchmaker had stolen it from a lot where it was awaiting sheriff’s auction—a clever idea, Rhyme reflected, since it often took weeks to log seizures into DMV and several months before vehicles actually went up for sale. The license plates themselves had been stolen from another tan Explorer parked at Newark Airport.
    Now, with a curious, low tone in his voice, Rhyme said, “I love cars, Ron. They tell us so much. They’re like books.”
    Pulaski remembered the pages of Rhyme’s text that echoed his comments. He didn’t quote them but said, “Sure, the VIN, the tags, bumper stickers, dealer stickers, inspection—”
    A laugh. “ If the owner’s the perp. But ours was stolen, so the Jiffy Lube location where he changed the oil or the fact he has an honor student at John Adams Middle School aren’t really helpful, now, are they?”
    “Guess not.”
    “Guess not,” Rhyme repeated. “What information can a stolen car tell us?”
    “Well, fingerprints.”
    “Very good. There’re so many things to touch in a car—the steeringwheel, gearshift, heater, radio, hand grips, hundreds of them. And they’re such shiny surfaces. Thank you, Detroit. . . . Well, Tokyo or Hamburg or wherever. And another point: Most people consider cars their attaché cases and utility drawers—you know, those kitchen drawers that you throw everything into? Effluvia of personal effects. Almost like a diary where no one thinks to lie. Search for that first. The PE.”
    Physical evidence, Pulaski recalled.
    As the young cop bent forward he heard a scrape of metal from somewhere behind him. He jumped back and looked around, into the gloom of the garage. He knew Rhyme’s rule about searching crime scenes alone and so he’d sent all the backup away. The noise was just from a rat, maybe. Ice melting and falling. Then he heard a click. It reminded him of a ticking clock.
    Get on with it, Pulaski told himself. Probably just the hot spotlights. Don’t be such a wuss. You wanted the job, remember?
    He studied the front seats. “We’ve got crumbs. Lots of them.”
    “Crumbs?”
    “Junk food, mostly, I’d guess. Look like cookie crumbs, corn chips, potato chips, bits of chocolate. Some sticky stains. Soda, I’d say. Oh, wait, here’s something, under the backseat. . . . This’s good. A box of bullets.”
    “What kind?”
    “Remington. Thirty-two caliber.”
    “What’s inside the box?”
    “Uhm, well, bullets?”
    “You sure?”
    “I didn’t open it. Should I?”
    The silence said yes.
    “Yep. Bullets. Thirty-twos. But it’s not full.”
    “How many’re missing?”
    “Seven.”
    “Ah. That’s helpful.”
    “Why?”
    “Later.”
    “And get this—”
    “Get what? ” Rhyme snapped.
    “Sorry. Something else. A book on interrogation. But it looks more like it’s about torture.”
    “Torture?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Purchased? Library?”
    “No sticker on it,