Duncan was driving meticulously, yes, but without any obvious destination. At first Vincent wondered if this was to lose the police but there didn't seem to be any risk of pursuit. Then he decided that Duncan was on automatic pilot, driving in large circles.

Like the hands of a clock.

Once again the shock of a narrow escape faded and Vincent felt the hunger growing again, hurting his jaw, hurting his head, hurting his groin.

If we don't eat, we die.

He wanted to be back in Michigan, hanging out with his sister, having dinner with her, watching TV. But his sister wasn't here, she was miles and miles away, maybe thinking of him right now-but that didn't give him any comfort… The hunger was too intense. Nothing was working out! He felt like screaming. Vincent had better luck cruising strip malls in New Jersey or waiting for a college coed or receptionist jogging through a deserted park. What was the point of-

In his quiet voice Duncan said, "I'm sorry."

"You…?"

"I'm sorry."

Vincent was disarmed. His anger diminished and he wasn't sure what to say.

"You've been helping me, working hard. And look what's happened. I've let you down."

Here was Vincent's mother, explaining to him, when he was ten, that she'd let him down with Gus, then with her second husband, then with Bart, then with Rachel the experiment, then with her third husband.

And every time, young Vincent had said just what he said now. "It's okay."

"No, it's not…I talk about the great scheme of things. But that doesn't minimize our disappointments. I owe you. And I'll make it up to you."

Which is something his mother never said, much less did, leaving Vincent to find what comfort he could in food, TV shows, spying on girls and having his heart-to-hearts.

No, it was clear that his friend, Duncan, meant what he was saying. He was genuinely remorseful that Vincent hadn't been able to have Lucy. Vincent still felt the urge to cry but now for a different reason. Not from the hunger, not from frustration. He felt filled with an odd sensation. People hardly ever said nice things to him like this. People hardly ever worried about him.

"Look," Duncan said, "the one I'm going to do next. You're not going to want her."

"Is she ugly?"

"Not really. It's just the way she's going to die…I'm going to burn her."

"Oh."

"In the book, remember the alcohol torture?"

"Not really."

The pictures in the book were of men being tortured; they hadn't interested Vincent.

"You pour alcohol on the lower half of someone's body and set fire to it. You can put out an alcohol fire quickly if they confess. Of course, I'm not going to be putting it out."

True, Vincent agreed, he wouldn't want her after that.

"But I have another idea."

Duncan then explained what he had in mind, Vincent's spirits improving with every word. Duncan asked, "Don't you think it'll work out for everybody?"

Well, not quite everybody, thought Clever Vincent, who was back and in a pretty good mood, all things considered.

Sitting in front of the evidence charts, Rhyme heard Sachs come back on the line.

"Okay, Rhyme. We've found he was hiding in the closet."

"Which one?"

"In Lucy's bedroom."

Rhyme closed his eyes. "Describe it to me."

Sachs gave him the whole scene-the hallway leading to the bedroom, the layout of the bedroom itself then the furniture, pictures on the wall, the Watchmaker's entrance and exit route and other details. Everything was described in precise, objective detail. Her training and experience shone as sharply as her red hair. If she left the force he wondered how long it would take another cop to walk the grid as well as she did.

Forever, he thought cynically.

Anger flared for a moment. Then he forced the emotion away and concentrated again on her words.

Sachs described the closet. "Six feet four inches wide. Filled with clothes. Men's on the left, women's on the right, half and half. Shoes on the floor. Fourteen pair. Four men's, ten women's."

A typical ratio, Rhyme reflected, for a married couple, thinking of his own closet from years ago. "When he was hiding, was he lying on the floor?"

"No. Too many boxes."

He heard her ask a question. Then she came back on the line. "The clothes're ordered now but he must've moved them. I can see some boxes moved on the floor and a few bits of that roofing tar we found earlier."

"What were the clothes he was hiding between?"

"A suit. And Lucy's army uniform."

"Good." Certain garments, like uniforms, are particularly good at collecting evidence, thanks to their prominent epaulettes, buttons and decorations. "Was he against the front or back?"

"Front."

"Perfect. Go over every button, medal, bar, decoration."

"Okay. Give me a few minutes."

Then silence.

His impatience, laced with anger, was back. He stared at the whiteboards.

Finally she said, "I found two hairs and some fibers."

He was about to tell her to check the hairs against samples in the apartment. But of course he didn't need to do this. "I compared the hairs to hers. They don't match." He began to tell her to find a sample of the woman's husband's hair when Sachs said, "But I found her husband's brush. I'm ninety-nine percent sure they're his."

Good, Sachs. Good.

"But the fibers…they don't seem to match anything else here." Sachs paused. "They look like wool, light-colored. Maybe a sweater…but they were caught on a pocket button at about shoulder level for a man of the Watchmaker's height. Could be a shearling collar."

A reasonable deduction, though they'd have to examine the fibers more carefully in the lab.

After a few minutes she said, "That's about it, Rhyme. Not much but it's something."

"Okay, bring everything in. We'll go over it here." He disconnected the line.

Thom wrote down the information Sachs gave them. After the aide left the room Lincoln Rhyme stared again at the charts. He wondered if the notes he was looking at weren't simply clues in a homicide case, but evidence of a different sort of murder: the corpse of the last crime scene he and Amelia Sachs would ever work together.

Lon Sellitto was gone and, inside Lucy Richter's apartment, Sachs was just finishing packing up the evidence. She turned to Kathryn Dance and thanked her.

"Hope it's helpful."

"That's the thing about crime scene work. Only a couple of fibers, but they could be enough for a conviction. We'll just have to see." Sachs added, "I'm heading back to Rhyme's. Listen, I don't know if you'd be willing but could you do some canvassing in the neighborhood? You've sure got the touch when it comes to wits."

"You bet."

Sachs gave her some printouts with the Watchmaker's composite picture and left, to head back to Rhyme's.

Dance nodded at Lucy Richter. "You're doing okay?"

"Fine," the solider replied and offered a stoic smile. She walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. "You want some tea? Or coffee?"

"No. I'm going to be outside looking for witnesses."

Lucy was staring down at the floor, a good semaphore signal to a kinesics expert. Dance said nothing.

The soldier said, "You said you were from California. You going back soon?"

"Tomorrow, probably."

"Just wondering if you'd have time for coffee or something." Lucy played with a potholder. On it were the words 4th Infantry Division. Steadfast and Loyal.

"Sure. We'll work it out." Dance found a card in her purse and wrote her hotel name on it, then circled her mobile on the front.

Lucy took it.

"Call me," Dance said.

"I will."

"Everything okay?"

"Oh, sure. Just fine."

Dance shook the woman's hand, then left the apartment, reminding herself of an important rule in kinesic analysis: Sometimes you don't need to uncover the truth behind every deception you're told.