"Who do you think it was?"

Sachs shifted hard. "Probably a coincidence. Real rare to get tailed. And, believe me, it never happens by some dude in a hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar car."

Touching the cold body, the florist lying on the concrete, her face as pale as white roses scattered on the floor.

The cold body, cold as the Cold Moon, but still soft; the hardness of death had not yet set in.

Cutting the cloth off, the blouse, the bra…

Touching…

Tasting…

These were the images cascading through Vincent Reynolds's thoughts as he sat in the driver's seat of the Band-Aid-mobile, staring into the dark workshop across the street, breathing fast, anticipating what he was about to do to Joanne. Consumed with hunger.

Noise intruded. "Traffic Forty-two, can you…they want to add some barriers at Nassau and Pine. By the reviewing stand."

"Sure, we can do that. Over."

The words represented no threat to him or Gerald Duncan and so Vincent continued his fantasy.

Tasting, touching…

Vincent imagined that the killer would probably be pulling Joanne down on the floor, trussing her up right now. Then he frowned. Would Duncan be touching her in certain places? Her chest, between her legs?

Vincent was jealous.

Joanne was his girlfriend, not Duncan's. Goddamn it! If he wanted to fuck something, let him go find a nice girl on his own…

But then he told himself to calm down. The hunger did that to you. It made you crazy, possessed you like the people in those gory zombie films Vincent watched. Duncan's your friend. If he wants to play around with her, let him. They could share her.

Vincent looked at his watch impatiently. It was taking soooo long. Duncan had told him that time wasn't absolute. Some scientists once did an experiment where they put one clock way high in the air on a tower and one at sea level. The higher one ran more quickly than the one on the ground. Some law of physics. Psychologically, Duncan had added, time is relative too. If you're doing something you love, it goes by fast. If you're waiting for something, it moves slowly.

Just like now. Come on, come on.

The radio sitting on the dashboard crackled again. More traffic info, he assumed.

But Vincent was wrong.

"Central to any available unit in lower Manhattan. Proceed to Spring Street, east of Broadway. Be advised, looking for florist shops in the vicinity, in connection with the homicides on the pier at Two Two Street and the alley off Cedar Street last night. Proceed with caution."

"Jesus, Lord," Vincent muttered aloud, staring at the scanner. Hitting REDIAL on the phone, he glanced up the street-no sign of any police yet.

One ring, two…

"Pick up!"

Click. Duncan didn't say anything-this was according to their plans. But Vincent knew he was on the line.

"Get out, now! Move! The cops're coming."

Vincent heard a faint gasp. The phone disconnected.

"This is RMP Three Three Seven. We're three minutes from scene."

"Roger that, Three Three Seven…Further to that call-we have a report, a ten-three-four, assault in progress, at four-one-eight Spring. All available units respond."

"Roger."

"RMP Four Six One, we're on the way too."

"Come on, for Christ sake," Vincent muttered. He put the Explorer in gear.

Then a huge crash as a ceramic urn slammed through the glass front door of the florist's workshop. Duncan came charging outside. He sprinted over the shattered glass shards, nearly fell on the ice and then raced to the Explorer, leaping into the passenger seat. Vincent sped away.

"Slow down," the killer commanded. "Turn at the next street."

Vincent eased off the gas. It was just as well he brought the speed down because, just as he did, a squad car skidded around the corner in front of them.

Two more converged on the street, the officers leaping out.

"Stop at the light," Duncan said calmly. "Don't panic."

Vincent felt a quiver run through his body. He wanted to punch it, just take the chance. Duncan sensed this. "No. Just behave like everybody else here. You're curious. Look at the police cars. That's okay to do."

Vincent looked.

The light changed.

"Slow."

He eased away from the light.

More cop cars streaked past, responding to the call.

The scanner reported several other cars were en route. An officer radioed that there was no ID of the suspected perp. No one said anything about the Band-Aid-mobile. Vincent's hands were shaking but he kept the big SUV steady, square in the middle of his lane, speed never wavering. Finally, after they'd put some distance between them and the florist shop, Vincent said softly, "They knew it was us."

Duncan turned to him. "They what?"

"The police. They were sending cars to look for florists around here, like it had something to do with the murders last night."

Gerald Duncan considered this. He didn't seem shaken or mad. He frowned. "They knew we were there? That's curious. How could they possibly know?"

"Where should I go?" Vincent asked.

His friend didn't answer. He continued to look out at the streets. Finally he said in a calm voice, "For now, just drive. I have to think."

"He got away?" Rhyme's voice snapped through the speaker of the Motorola. "What happened?"

Standing beside Sachs at the scene in front of the florist shop, Lon Sellitto replied, "Timing. Luck. Who the fuck knows?"

"Luck?" Rhyme snapped harshly, as if it were a foreign word he didn't understand. Then he paused. "Wait…Are you using a scrambled frequency?"

Sellitto said, "We are for tactical, but Central isn't, not for nine-one-one calls. He must've heard the initial call. Shit. Okay, we'll make sure they're all scrambled on the Watchmaker case."

Rhyme then asked, "What does the scene say, Sachs?"

"I just got here."

"Well, search it."

Click.

Brother…Sellitto and Sachs glanced at each other. As soon as she'd gotten the call about the 10-34 on Spring, she'd dropped Pulaski off to find the Sarkowski homicide file and sped here to search the scene.

I can do both.

Let's hope, Sachs…

She tossed her purse onto the backseat of the Camaro, locked the door and headed to the florist shop. She saw Kathryn Dance walking up the street from the main retail shop, where she'd interviewed the owner, Joanne Harper, who'd narrowly escaped being the Watchmaker's third victim.

An unmarked car pulled up to the curb, the emergency lights in the grille flashing. Dennis Baker shut them off and climbed out. He hurried toward Sachs.

"It was him?" Baker asked.

"Yep," Sellitto told him. "Respondings found another clock inside. Same kind."

Three down, Sachs thought grimly. Seven to go…

"Another love note?"

"Not this time. But we were real close. I'm guessing he didn't have a chance to leave one."

"I heard the call," Baker said. "How'd you figure out it was him?"

"There'd been an environmental agency bust a block from here-a spill at an exterminating company stockpiling illegal thallium sulfate, rat poison. Then Lincoln learned the main use of the fish protein found at the Adams killing was fertilizer for orchids. Lon had dispatch send out cars to florists and landscaping companies near the extermination operation."

"Rat poison." Baker gave a laugh. "That Rhyme, he thinks of everything, doesn't he?"

"And then some," Sellitto added.

Dance joined them. She explained what she'd learned from the interview: Joanne Harper had returned from coffee and found some wire misplaced in the store. "That didn't bother her too much. But she heard this ticking and then thought she heard somebody in a back room. She called nine-one-one."