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"This is crazy. They wouldn't've had time to clean-wipe an entire car in five minutes. Do the outside, everything. Especially near the doors and the gas tank lid."

With unsteady hands, Pulaski kept searching. Had he handled the Magna Brush clumsily? Had he sprayed the chemicals on the wrong way? Was he wearing the wrong goggles?

The terrible head injury he'd suffered not long ago was having lingering effects, including post-traumatic stress and panic attacks. He also suffered from a condition he'd explained to Jenny as "this real complicated, technical medical thing--fuzzy thinking." It haunted him that, after the accident, he just wasn't the same, that he was somehow damaged goods, no longer as smart as his brother, though they'd once had the same IQ. He particularly worried that he wasn't as smart as the perps he was going up against in his jobs for Lincoln Rhyme.

But then he thought to himself: Time-out. You're thinking it's your screwup. Goddamn, you were top 5 percent at the academy. You know what you're doing. You work twice as hard as mos

t cops. He said, "I'm positive, Detective. Somehow they've managed not to leave any prints. . . . Wait, hold on."

"I'm not going anywhere, Ron."

Pulaski put on magnifying goggles. "Okay, got something. I'm looking at cotton fibers. Beige ones. Sort of flesh-colored."

"Sort of," Rhyme chided.

"Flesh-colored. From gloves, I'm betting."

"So he and his assistant are careful and smart." There was an uneasiness in Rhyme's voice that troubled Pulaski. He didn't like the idea that Lincoln Rhyme was uncomfortable. A chill trickled down his spine. He remembered the scraping sound. The clicking.

Tick, tock . . .

"Anything in the tire treads and the grille? On the sideview mirror?"

He searched there. "Mostly slush and soil."

"Take samples."

After he'd done this, Pulaski said, "Finished."

"Snapshots and video--you know how?"

He did. Pulaski had been the photographer at his brother's wedding.

"Then process the probable escape routes."

Pulaski looked around him again. Was that another scraping, a footstep? Water was dripping. It too sounded like the ticking of a clock, which set him even more on edge. He started on the grid again, back and forth as he made his way toward the exit, looking up as well as down, the way Rhyme had written in his book.

A crime scene is three-dimensional. . . .

"Nothing so far."

Another grunt from 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?


Tags: Jeffery Deaver Lincoln Rhyme Mystery