The Cold Moon

shook her head. “I’m going to close the St. James case. And I’ll do whatever you need to nail the Watchmaker. But after that . . .”
    “You know, if you quit, a lot of buttons get pushed. It’ll affect you for a long time, if you ever wanted to come back.” He looked away, blood pounding in his temple.
    “Rhyme.” She pulled a chair up, sat and closed her hand around his—the right one, the fingers of which had some sensation and movement. She squeezed. “Whatever I do, it won’t affect us, our life.” She smiled.
    You and me, Rhyme . . .
    You and me, Sachs . . .
    He looked off. Lincoln Rhyme was a scientist, a man of the brain, not the heart. Some years ago Rhyme and Sachs had met on a hard case—a series of kidnappings by a killer obsessed with human bones. No one could stop him, except these two misfits—Rhyme, the quadriplegic in retirement, and Sachs, the disillusioned rookie betrayed by her cop lover. Yet, somehow, together, they had forged a wholeness, filling the ragged gaps within each of them, and they’d stopped the killer.
    Deny it as much as he wanted to, those words, you and me, had been his compass in the precarious world they’d created together. He wasn’t at all convinced that she was right that they wouldn’t be altered by her decision. Would removing their common purpose change them?
    Was he witnessing the transition from Before to After?
    “Have you already quit?”
    “No.” She pulled a white envelope from her jacket pocket. “I wrote the resignation letter. But I wanted to tell you first.”
    “Give it a couple of days before you decide. You don’t owe it to me. But I’m asking. A couple of days.”
    She stared at the envelope for a long moment. Finally she said, “Okay.”
    Rhyme was thinking: Here we are working on a case involving a man obsessed with clocks and watches, and the most important thing to me at this moment is buying a little time from Sachs. “Thanks.” Then: “Now, let’s get to work.”
    “I want you to understand. . . .”
    “There’s nothing to understand,” he said with what he felt was miraculous detachment. “There’s a killer to catch. That’s all we should be thinking about.”
    He left her alone in the bedroom and took the tiny elevator downstairs to the lab, where Mel Cooper was at work.
    “Blood on the jacket’s AB positive. Matches what was on the pier.”
    Rhyme nodded. Then he had the tech call the NASA Jet Propulsion Lab about the ASTER information—the thermal scans to find possible locations of roof tarring.
    It was early in California but the tech managed to track down somebody and put some pressure on him to find and upload the images. The picturesarrived soon after. They were striking but not particularly helpful. There were, as Sellitto had suggested, hundreds, possibly thousands of buildings that showed indications of elevated heat, and the system couldn’t discriminate between locations that were being reroofed, under construction, being heated with Consolidated Edison steam or simply had particularly hot chimneys.
    All Rhyme could think to do was tell Central that any assaults or break-ins in or near a building having roofing work done should be patched through to them immediately.
    The dispatcher hesitated and said she’d put the notice on the main computer.
    The tone of her voice suggested that he was grasping at straws.
    What could he say? She was right.

    Lucy Richter closed the door to her co-op and flipped the locks.
    She hung up her coat and hooded sweatshirt, printed on the front with 4th Infantry Division, Fort Hood, and on the back the division’s slogan: Steadfast and loyal.
    Her muscles ached. At the gym, she’d done five miles, at a good pace and 9-percent incline, on the treadmill, then a half hour of push-ups and crunches. That was something else military service had done: taught her to appreciate muscle. You can put down physical fitness if you want, make fun of it as vanity and a waste of time but, fact is, it’s empowering.
    She filled the kettle for tea and pulled a sugared doughnut out of the fridge, thinking about today. There were plenty of things that needed to be done: phone calls to return, emails, baking cookies and making her signature cheesecake for the reception on Thursday. Or maybe she’d just go shopping with friends and buy dessert at a bakery. Or have lunch with her mother.
    Or lie in bed and watch the soaps. Pamper herself.
    It was the start of heaven—her