The Watchmaker’s Hand

“I’m suspending this officer effective immediately. You’ll keep the scene secure until another CSU officer arrives.”

Sanchez glanced from Burdick to Pulaski and back again. “It’s his scene, Deputy Inspector. He makes the calls.”

“But not if he’s being incompetent. And insubordinate. I’m relieving him of command.”

Pulaski frowned. There was no procedure for this that he’d heard of. Sanchez’s face revealed that the idea was alien to him as well.

“Can’t do it, sir. You know he’s working for Lincoln Rhyme.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m not impressed.”

Keeping his insincerely smiling face as calm as possible — the cameras were clicking — he waited for Sanchez to move or at least for Pulaski to back down.

Like Sachs had taught him, Pulaski wore his service belt outside the Tyvek so his weapon would be easily accessible.

The handcuffs too, which he now reached for.

“You can’t be serious,” the man blustered.

The standoff lasted only a few seconds. Then Burdick gave a faint nod. He said in a louder voice: “Oh, you’re saying there might be an active shooter nearby?”

Burdick turned to the press. “This officer has informed me that we’ve just learned a shooter might be nearby. It would be safer if we moved to the end of the block. You should’ve mentioned that sooner, Officer.”

Pulaski summoned up a my-bad frown. “Sorry, sir. My mistake.”

The DI gestured the reporters back — as if he were saving their lives — and Pulaski quickly ran the tape around the light poles at the far end, and those across the street. He handed off the roll to one of the officers to finish the job at the other end of the block.

Pulaski stepped onto the curb and walked along the entire length of the street, head down, searching for the recent tire tracks — the shooter’s — which he knew were here.

Except there weren’t any.

Oops. Got that one wrong.

But the conclusion was even better than finding the shooter’s tire treads. It meant the killer and his victim drove here together.

Pulaski confirmed this by taking electrostatic impressions from the street beneath the driver’s side and the passenger’s side of the Lexus. The first matched Gilligan’s. The second matched the shooter’s.

He returned to the CS van and looked over the vacant lot. The number cards, yellow with black type on them, placed where every bit of evidence had been found.

He realized he was stalling.

It had occurred to him some moments ago what he had to do.

And he was dreading it.

Was there an alternative?

No, not given his rule on the first forty-eight minutes.

He needed to push the case forward immediately and there was only one way he could make that happen.

He walked to a cluster of uniforms nearby. “Anybody help me? Need some gum.”

One patrolman nodded. “Juicy Fruit.”

“Great.” It was in fact his favorite. He took the stick and began to chew. Then he turned to the blond officer, who had started to string the tape. He nodded to her purse. “I hope you don’t think this’s an insult. But I’ve got to ask you a question.”

19

Lincoln Rhyme was looking into the sterile portion of the parlor, at the cartons Ron Pulaski had just brought in from the Gilligan scene.

Mel Cooper was taking the samples, logging them and starting analysis.

“You scored a burner phone,” Rhyme noted, looking at the evidence bag in Pulaski’s hand.

Lon Sellitto grumbled, “So? It’ll be locked. They’re always locked.”

“This one’s not,” Pulaski said.

“Yeah? Careless of him.”

“It was locked. I unlocked it.”

“How?”

A tightening of his lips. “Wasn’t the most pleasant thing in the world. I washed the blood and brains off Gilligan’s forehead, stuffed some chewing gum in the bullet hole and knocked a few pieces of bone back into place. Then I borrowed some makeup from one of the uniforms. Was afraid I’d insulted her, you know, like she’s a woman, of course she’d have makeup. But she was cool with it.”

Rhyme barked an uncharacteristic laugh. “You tricked the facial rec lock.”

Sellitto glanced toward Rhyme. “The chewing gum — makeup trick. Put that in the next edition of your book, Linc.”

The young officer continued, “Once I was in, I shut off the password security.”

“Always thinking, Pulaski. Always thinking. Well, let’s see what’s on it.” Rhyme called, “Thom? Thom!”

The aide walked into the room. “Yes?”

“Glove up and play cop. Give me everything that’s on that phone. Call logs, voice mails, texts. Let’s hope we can see emails without a password.”

“Me?”

“Amelia’s on a lead.”

“Hm. Do I get a raise?”

“No, you get not fired.”

“I’ll organize a strike later.” He pulled on latex gloves and took the evidence bag containing the phone.

“And don’t forget...”

“Chain of custody,” he called as he disappeared into the dining room to begin excavation.

Pulaski gave the men his theory that Gilligan and the shooter knew each other.

“Gilligan? Corrupt?” Rhyme, not pleased, looked around the parlor. “If so, not a great idea, us inviting him in.”

Sellitto said, “But remember, Linc. We didn’t. He came to us.”

Even more troubling... He wanted to be here. Why?