"Can I ask why?"
"I got a call. From Suzanne Creeley. Ben Creeley's wife. She thanked me for believing her, for finding out who'd really killed her husband. She was crying. She told me that she just couldn't bear the thought that her husband had killed himself. Murder was terrible but a suicide--that would've undermined everything they'd had together over the years."
Sachs shook her head. "A knot in a rope and a broken thumb . . . I realized that that's what this job is all about, Rhyme. Not the crap I got caught up in, the politics, my father, Baker and Wallace . . . You can't make it too complicated. Being a cop is about finding the truth behind a knot and a broken thumb. Nothing more than that."
You and me, Sachs . . .
"So," she asked, matter-of-fact, as she nodded toward the boards, "our bad boy--anything new on him?"
Rhyme told her about his present, the Breguet, then summarized: "A rock or mountain climber, possibly trained in Europe. He's spent time in California, near the shore. And he's been there recently. May live there now. Good education. Uses proper grammar, syntax and punctuation. And I want to go over every gear in the watch again. He's a watchmaker, right? That means he's probably taken the back off to poke around inside. If there's a molecule of trace, I want it." Rhyme nodded at the man's note and added, "He admits he was watching Charlotte's hotel around the time we collared her. I want every vantage point where he might've been standing searched. You're recruited for that one, Ron."
"Got it."
"And don't forget what we know about him. Maybe he's gone and maybe he isn't. Make sure your weapon's in reach. Outside the Tyvek. Remember--"
"Search well but watch my back?" Pulaski asked.
"An A for retention," the criminalist said. "Now get to work."
IV
12:48 P.M. MONDAY
What then is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know.
--SAINT AUGUSTINE
Chapter 43
The December day wasn't particularly cold but the ancient furnace in Rhyme's town house was on the fritz and everyone in his ground floor lab huddled in thick jackets. Clouds of steam blew from their mouths with every exhalation, and extremities were bright red. Amelia Sachs wore two sweaters and Pulaski was in a padded green jacket from which dangled Killington ski lift tickets like a veteran soldier's campaign medals.
A skier cop, Rhyme reflected. That seemed odd, though he couldn't say why exactly. Maybe something about the dangers of hurtling down a mountain with a hair-trigger 9-millimeter pistol under your bunny suit.
"Where's the furnace repair guy?" Rhyme snapped to his aide.
"He said he'll be here between one and five." Thom was wearing a tweed jacket, which Rhyme had given him last Christmas, and a dark purple cashmere scarf, which had been one of Sachs's presents.
"Ah, between one and five. One and five. Tell you what. Call him back and--"
"That's what he told--"
"No, listen. Call him back and tell him we got a report there's a crazed killer loose in his neighborhood and we'll be there to catch him between one and five. See how he likes them apples."
"Lincoln," the patient aide said. "I don't--"
"Does he know what we do here? Does he know that we serve and protect? Call him and tell him that."
Pulaski noted that Thom wasn't reaching for the phone. He asked, "Uhm, you want me to? Call, I mean?"
Ah, the sincerity of youth . . .
Thom replied to the young officer, "Don't pay him any attention. He's like a dog jumping up on you. Ignore him and he'll stop."
"A dog?" Rhyme asked. "I'm a dog. That's a bit ironic, isn't it, Thom? Since here you are biting the hand that feeds you." Pleased with the retort, he added, "Tell the repairman I think I'm suffering from hypothermia. I really think I am, by the way."
"So you can feel--" the rookie asked, his question braking to a halt.
"Yes, I goddamn well can feel uncomfortable, Pulaski."