The Watchmaker’s Hand

He handed a glass of wine to his boss, who thanked him with a nod. A cabernet. Some people could tell where the grapes came from, the nature of the earth in which the vines had grown, the year it had been bottled. Rhyme could tell two things only: it contained alcohol and had a not-unpleasant taste.

His eyes returned to the TV.

An image came on the screen of the representative scurrying through a sea of reporters from a black sedan into his Manhattan town house, head down. Their voices swelled and rattled as their questions ricocheted around the front yard. The one question that was discernible through the TV was: “Representative, you support green reform, but you’re riding in a limo. Could you comment on that?”

A criticism that seemed a bit milquetoast, considering the man had apparently just nodded favorably to the violent overthrow of the government.

As Thom disappeared into the kitchen, Rhyme motored into the front hallway. It had been released as a crime scene and the floor and walls had been scrubbed clean of the Watchmaker’s blood.

Here he brought the wheelchair to a stop more or less on the spot where the bullet had landed. His eyes dropped to the marble.

Ten minutes later, he heard Thom’s voice. “Who’s here?”

“How’s that?” Rhyme called absently.

“I heard you talking to someone.”

“Hardly.”

Rhyme returned to the parlor, set the wine on a side table and said to his phone, “Command. Call Sachs.”

76

Rhyme and Lon Sellitto were in his town house, listening over the speaker.

Amelia Sachs was at the garage on West 46th Street where, two days ago, Charles Hale had swapped one SUV out for another before driving to the park to send Rhyme to sleep forever.

She reported: “No cameras. That’s curious. Nearly all garages in the city have them. Hale must’ve searched for a while to find this one.”

Rhyme said, “And since he was planning on leaving right after he killed me, he wouldn’t care if he was recorded only picking up a new car. But he would care if he was meeting somebody secretly. Somebody who’d be here after he was gone.”

“Exactly, Rhyme. No cameras in the garage, but... I found one in a retail store across the street. I did a timeline. A limo entered the garage fifteen minutes before Hale got there and left three minutes after he did in his new SUV. I ran the limo’s tag. And you’re not going to believe who it’s registered to.”

“I make it one security,” the ESU officer’s voice came through the Motorola earpiece. He had the richest baritone Sachs had ever heard and if he decided to get out of policing, he’d have a future as a radio announcer or a narrator of audiobooks.

“Roger. I have eyes on two. ESU Team Two?”

“No one else I can see. Only the subject and the guard, who’s armed. Saw a piece on his right-side belt. Large. Maybe a forty-five.”

Sachs was in a store once again, this time electronics, not buttons. It was located in downtown Manhattan, not far from Wall Street. Under cover of the window merchandise, she was eyeing the two individuals who were walking along the street. The bodyguard was six three or so and of Lyle Spencer’s side-of-beef build. His head was shaved, common among ex-military or ex-police security specialists.

She radioed, “Five Eight Eight Five to ESU Three. What do you see?”

The woman, Laticia Krueger, a sniper, was atop First Federal Bank, a five-story structure whose roof featured both a good view of the street and a perfect nest for a shooter and her spotter.

“Just the two, Detective. Subject and guard.”

“K. ESU, all units. I’m going to make the call.”

In total there were eight Emergency Service officers nearby.

Would they be needed?

Time to see.

She pulled out a mobile and placed a speed-dial call.

As she watched the pair approach, the security guard frowned and fished his own cell from his pocket. He glanced at the number and answered.

Sachs heard “Yo, Barney. We’re on Rector. We’ll be at the car in—”

“This is Detective Amelia Sachs, NYPD. I have Barney’s phone. Your associate’s in custody. Do not give a reaction to this call.”

“What—?”

“I said, no reaction.”

He fell silent.

“There’s a team about to move in and arrest your boss. We know you’re armed. You’re surrounded by a half-dozen tactical officers and a sniper has you in her sights. No, don’t look around. Just keep walking like nothing’s going on. Say, ‘That’s right,’ if you understand.”

“That’s right.”

“Now, you’re going to remove your weapon from the holster, thumb and index only, and drop it behind the standpipe you’re coming up to. Keep walking another twenty feet. Then you’ll stop and lie down face-first on the sidewalk. Do you understand?”

“Look, I—”

“Say, ‘Sure thing’ if you understand.”

A pause. “Sure thing.”

“Is your boss armed? And if you lie, it’ll be obstruction of justice.”

“No.”

“Do you have a second weapon?”

“No.”

“Any other associates in the area?”

“No.”

“You’re doing fine. You’re a great actor. Netflix quality. All right, almost there.”

Sachs stepped away from the window, then pushed outside. “Now,” she said into the phone and disconnected.