The Cold Moon

Rhyme.
    Pulaski heard what sounded like a footstep.
    His hand strayed to his hip. It was then that he realized his Glock was inside his Tyvek overalls, out of reach. Stupid. Should he unzip and strap it around the outside of the suit?
    But if he did that, it could contaminate the scene.
    Ron Pulaski decided to leave the gun where it was.
    It’s just an old garage; of course there’re going to be noises. Relax.

    The inscrutable moon faces on the front of the Watchmaker’s calling cards stared at Lincoln Rhyme.
    The eerie eyes, giving nothing away.
    The ticking was all that he heard; from the radio there was only silence. Then some curious sounds. Scrapes, a clatter. Or was it just static?
    “Ron? You copy?”
    Nothing but the tick . . . tick . . . tick.
    “Ron?”
    Then a crash, loud. Metal.
    Rhyme’s head tilted. “Ron? What’s going on?”
    Still no response.
    He was about to order the unit to change frequency to tell Haumann to check on the rookie when the radio finally crackled to life.
    He heard Ron Pulaski’s panicked voice. “ . . . needs assistance! Ten-thirteen, ten . . . I—”
    A 10-13 was the most urgent of all radio codes, an officer in distress call.
    Rhyme, shouting, “Answer me, Ron! Are you there?”
    “I can’t—”
    A grunt.
    The radio went dead.
    Jesus.
    “Mel, call Haumann for me!”
    The tech hit some buttons. “You’re on,” Cooper shouted, pointed to Rhyme’s headset.
    “Bo, Rhyme. Pulaski’s in trouble. Called in a ten-thirteen on my line. Did you hear?”
    “Negative. But we’ll move on it.”
    “He was going to run the stairwell closest to the Explorer.”
    “Roger.”
    Now that he was on the main frequency, Rhyme could hear all the transmissions. Haumann was directing several tactical support teams and calling for a medical unit. He ordered his men to spread out in the garage and cover the exits.
    Rhyme pressed his head back into the headrest of his chair, furious.
    He was mad at Sachs for abandoning His Case for the Other Case and forcing Pulaski to take the assignment. He was mad at himself for letting an inexperienced rookie search a potentially hot scene alone.
    “Linc, we’re on the way. We can’t see him.” It was Sellitto’s voice.
    “Well, don’t goddamn tell me what you haven’t found.”
    More voices.
    “Nothing on this level.”
    “There’s the SUV.”
    “Where is he?”
    “Somebody over there, our nine o’clock?”
    “Negative. That’s a friendly.”
    “More lights! We need more lights!”
    Moment of silence passed. Hours, it felt.
    What was going on?
    Goddamn it, somebody let me know!
    But there was no response to this tacit demand. He went back to Pulaski’s frequency.
    “Ron?”
    All he heard was a series of clicks, as if somebody whose throat had been cut was trying to communicate, though he no longer had a voice.

Chapter 18
    “Hey, Amie. Gotta talk.”
    “Sure.”
    Sachs was driving to Hell’s Kitchen in Midtown Manhattan, on her quest for the Frank Sarkowski homicide file. But she wasn’t thinking about that. She was thinking of the clocks at the crime scenes. Thinking of time moving forward and time standing still. Thinking of the periods when we want time to race ahead and save us from the pain we’re experiencing. But it never does. It’s at these moments that time slows interminably, sometimes even stops like the heart of a death-row prisoner at the moment of execution.
    “Gotta talk.”
    Amelia Sachs was recalling a conversation from years earlier.
    Nick says, “It’s pretty serious.” The two lovers are in Sachs’s Brooklyn apartment. She’s a rookie, in her uniform, her shoes polished to black mirrors. (Her father’s advice: “Shined shoes get you more respect than an ironed uniform, honey. Remember that.” And she had.)
    Dark-haired, handsome, bulging-muscle Nick (he too could’ve been a model) is also a cop. More senior. Even more of a cowboy than Sachs is now. She sits on the coffee table, a nice one, teak, bought a year ago with the last of the fashion modeling money.
    Nick was on an undercover assignment tonight. He’s in a sleeveless T-shirt and jeans and wearing his little gun—a revolver—on his hip. He needs a shave, though Sachs likes him scruffy. The plans for this eveningwere: He’d come home and they’d have a late supper. She’s got wine, candles, salad and salmon, all laid out, all homey.
    On the other hand, Nick hasn’t been home nights for a while. So maybe they’ll