That was smart, Vincent allowed, though he'd asked what they'd do if some cop did check the VIN. It wouldn't match the tag and he'd know the Explorer was stolen.

Duncan had replied, "Oh, I'd kill him." As if it was obvious.

Moving right along…

Duncan looked at his pocket watch and replaced it, zipped up the pocket. He opened his shoulder bag, which contained the clock and other tools of the trade, all carefully organized. He wound the clock, set the time and zipped the cover of the bag closed. Through the nylon, Vincent could hear the ticking.

They hooked up hands-free headsets to their mobile phones and Vincent set a police scanner on the seat next to him (Duncan's idea, of course). He clicked it on and heard a mundane clatter of transmissions about traffic accidents, the progress of street closings for some event on Thursday, an apparent heart attack on Broadway, a chain snatching…

Life in da big city…

Duncan looked himself over carefully, made sure all his pockets were sealed. He rolled a dog-hair remover over his body, to pick up trace evidence, and reminded Vincent to do the same before he came inside for his heart-to-heart with Joanne.

Meticulous…

"Ready?"

Vincent nodded. Duncan climbed out of the Band-Aid-mobile, looked up and down the street, then walked to the service door. He picked the lock in about ten seconds. Amazing. Vincent smiled, admiring his friend's skill. He ate two candy bars, chewed them down with fierce bites.

A moment later the phone vibrated and he answered. Duncan said, "I'm inside. How's the street look?"

"A few cars from time to time. Nobody on the sidewalks. It's clear."

Vincent heard a few metallic clicks. Then the man's voice in a whisper: "I'll call you when she's ready."

Ten minutes later Vincent saw someone in a dark coat walking toward the workshop. The stance and motion suggested it was a woman. Yep, it was his flower girl, Joanne.

A burst of hunger filled him.

He ducked low, so she wouldn't see him. He pushed the TRANSMIT button on the phone.

He heard the click of Duncan's phone. No "hello" or "yes."

Vincent lifted his head slightly and saw her walk up to the door. He said into the phone, "It's her. She's alone. She should be inside any minute."

The killer said nothing. Vincent heard the click of the phone hanging up.

Okay, he was a keeper.

Joanne Harper and Kevin had had three coffees at Kosmo's Diner, otherwise just another functional, boring eatery in SoHo, but as of today a very special place. She was now walking to the back door of the workshop, reflecting that she wished she could have lingered for another half hour or so. Kevin had wanted to-there were more jokes to tell, more stories to share-but her job loomed. It wasn't due till tomorrow night, but this was an important client and she needed to make sure the arrangements were perfect. She'd reluctantly told him she had to get back.

She glanced up and down the street, still a bit uneasy about the pudgy man in the parka and the weird sunglasses. But the area was deserted. Stepping inside the workshop, she slammed the door and double-locked it.

Hanging up her coat, Joanne inhaled deeply, the way she always did when she first walked inside, enjoying the myriad scents inside the shop: jasmine, rose, lilac, lily, gardenia, fertilizer, loam, mulch. It was intoxicating.

She flicked on the lights and started toward the arrangements she'd been working on earlier. Then she froze and gave a scream.

Her foot had struck something. It scurried away from her. She leapt back, thinking: Rat!

But then she looked down and laughed. What she'd kicked was a large spool of florist wire in the center of the aisle. How had it gotten there? All of the spools hung from hooks on the wall nearby. She squinted through the dimness and saw that somehow this one had slipped off and rolled across the floor. Odd.

Must be ghosts of florists past, she said to herself, then regretted the joke. The place was eerie enough and an image of the fat man in the sunglasses came back immediately. Don't go spooking yourself.

She picked up the spool and saw why it had fallen: the hook had slipped out of the wood. That's all. But then she noticed something else curious. This spool was one of the new ones; she hadn't used any wire from it yet, she thought. But she must have; some was missing.

She laughed. Nothing like love to make a girl forgetful.

Then she paused, cocking her head. She was listening to a sound she was unaccustomed to.

What was it?

Very odd…dripping water?

No, it was mechanical. Metal…

Weird. It sounded like a ticking clock. Where was it coming from? The workshop had a large wall clock in the back but it was electric and didn't tick. Joanne looked around. The noise, she decided, was coming from a small, windowless work area just beyond the refrigerated room. She'd check it out in a minute.

Joanne bent down to repair the hook.

Amelia Sachs skidded to a stop in front of Ron Pulaski. After he jumped in she pointed the car north and gunned the engine.

The rookie gave her the details of the meeting with Jordan Kessler. He added, "He seemed legit. Nice guy. But I just thought I ought to check with Mrs. Creeley myself to confirm everything-about what Kessler gets because of Creeley's death. She said she trusts him and everything's on the up-and-up. But I still wasn't sure so I called Creeley's lawyer. Hope that was okay."

"Why wouldn't it be okay?"

"Don't know. Just thought I'd ask."

"It's always okay to do too much work in this business," Sachs told him. "The problems're when somebody doesn't do enough."

Pulaski shook his head. "Hard to imagine somebody working for Lincoln and being lazy."

She gave a cryptic laugh. "And what'd the lawyer say?"

"Basically the same thing Kessler and the wife said. He buys out Creeley's share at fair market value. It's all legit. Kessler said his partner had been drinking more and had taken up gambling. His wife told me she was surprised he did that. Never was an Atlantic City kind of guy."

Sachs nodded. "Gambling-maybe some mob connections there. Dealing to them, or just taking along recreational drugs. Money laundering maybe. He win or lose, you know?"

"Dropped some big money, seems like. I was wondering if he hit a loan shark to cover the loss. But his wife said the losses were no big deal, what with his income and everything. A couple hundred thousand didn't hurt much. She wasn't real happy about it, you can imagine… Kessler said he had a good relationship with all his clients. But I asked for a list. I think we ought to talk to them ourselves."

"Good," Sachs told him. Then she added, "Things're getting gluier. There was another death. Murder/robbery, maybe." She explained about her meeting with Gerte and told him about Frank Sarkowski. "I need you to track down the file."

"You bet."

"I-"

She stopped speaking. She'd glanced into the rearview mirror and felt a tug in her gut. "Hm."

"What?" Pulaski asked.

She didn't answer but made a leisurely turn to the right, went several blocks more and then made a sharp left. "Okay, we may have a tail. Saw it a few minutes ago. Merc made those turns with us just now. No, don't look."

It was a black Mercedes with darkened windows.

She turned again, abruptly, and braked to a stop. The rookie grunted at the tug from the belt. The Merc kept going. Sachs glanced back, missed the tag but saw that the car was an AMG, the expensive, souped-up version of the German car.

She spun the Camaro in a U-turn but just then a delivery truck double-parked in front of her. By the time she got around it the Merc was gone.