Still, she moved up slowly.
When she was even with the car, she casually looked inside and noted that it was occupied. So, not a trap.
A large man, complexion nearly as dark as the car’s paint job, sat in the driver’s seat, reviewing texts, or playing a game on his phone. He was in a black suit and a white shirt. In the backseat was a brown suitcase, a wheelie model. It was closed.
Before the man looked her way, she veered left and stepped into a store that sold buttons, of which there had to be a hundred thousand on display.
An Asian woman in a flowery dress called, “Wholesale only.”
Sachs, a former model, remembered the days of fashion shoots, when a product manager for the designer’s house would send a very nervous young assistant scurrying off to a store just like this to find an accessory for a gown because he didn’t feel the existing one “spoke to his vision.”
She held up her ID. “Police action. Go in the back. Stay there.”
The wide-eyed woman blinked and then turned one-eighty and headed for the door.
“And don’t make any calls.”
The clerk dropped her phone on the counter as if it were on fire and disappeared into the back.
She radioed, “Bo. I’m in Feldstein’s Buttons and Fixtures. Vehicle is occupied. Black male, thirties. He’s muscle. Couldn’t tell about weapons. He didn’t make me. Suitcase in the back, closed. I don’t think it’s a trap, but the luggage is making me nervous.”
Haumann said, “Bomb Squad and Fire’s on silent roll ups, six, seven minutes out. We’re there in four.”
The driver tapped his earpiece and sat forward slightly. The Merc’s engine turned over.
“Bo. Driver took a call and’s starting the engine. And he’s looking behind. Tamblyn’s on his way here. Maybe with the Watchmaker. I’m going to get the muscle out of the vehicle.”
“Can you wait for backup?”
“No time. They’re going to be leaving. I’ll get the driver inside the store, restrained. Tamblyn gets here, looks in the driver’s seat. I come up behind. If the Watchmaker’s with him, I get both down on their knees. Wait for you.”
Haumann hesitated. “All right. We’ll speed it up. Out.”
He didn’t say “Be careful” out loud, but his tone offered the sentiment.
She eased outside.
Another glance up and down the street.
A half-dozen people, but no Tamblyn.
Approaching the car, she noted the driver was reading his phone’s screen.
ID in her left hand. Her right was near her weapon.
Was detaining him legal? she wondered.
It might be iffy constitutionally — a tiny bit of HF acid trace on a shoe print in a commercial garage supporting probable cause? Maybe Tamblyn, but the driver? That was a close call.
But she’d worry about the law later.
Catch ’em first.
This was the Watchmaker they were after.
As she moved up to the window, about to rap on it — and draw down, if necessary — she realized that somebody among those she’d noted on the street had come up directly behind her.
She glanced back and saw a homeless man. He was in a stained coat and wore a weird hat, like a Middle Eastern warlord. He was vaguely familiar. Yes, he’d been at the first scene!
Amelia Sachs had made one of the fundamental mistakes in an arrest scenario: focusing on the obvious suspect and dropping her defenses with the apparently innocent.
But then she was looking past the hat, the coat, the tattered shoes, the dirty face, and she realized she recognized him from someplace other than the 89th Street scene.
From the DMV pictures Lincoln Rhyme had just sent.
Clean the face, comb the hair... and it was Willis Tamblyn, the developer, the man who, they now believed, had hired the Watchmaker to bring New York City’s cranes tumbling down to earth.
45
After closing and double-locking the door of his home in Queens, he kissed Jenny and called hello to the children, a greeting they might or might not have heard, as they were upstairs with their phones and computers. The parents had decided to keep them home today because of the publicity their father had garnered from the accident and the suspension.
And — though they didn’t share it with the children, of course — the threat that the Eddie Tarr investigation might or might not pose.
The dogs arrived, as always upon his entering, to greet him enthusiastically. Auggie was a dual citizenship canine — a mini Australian shepherd, aka American shepherd. He ran to Ron with the remnants of a stuffed toy he had recently eviscerated.
“Thanks,” he said, taking the limp thing, a dragon, and tossing it into the hallway, where the dog collected the hide and began chewing again. He seemed pleased of the acknowledgment and ripped and chomped all the harder.
Daisy was a kaleidoscope of genes: papillon, sheltie, Aussie, Jack Russell, and Chihuahua. The children sometimes reminded the sweet thing that her ultimate ancestor was the wolf. To no effect.
He noted that Jenny wasn’t wearing her usual household sweats but a flaring black skirt and red blouse. The slim woman looked like she was headed out for a night with the girls. “Book club?” he asked.
“Nope. Stayin’ home with my man.”
A smile, another kiss.
Her freckled face grew serious. “Reporter came by. Wanted to know my reaction to my husband being investigated. Distracted driving while under the influence.”
Ron frowned. He’d supposed the accident would get reported, but how had the fact he’d been on a phone call at the time even come up?
“I sent him away, tail between his legs. You can’t pepper spray reporters,” Jenny said, “I have that right?”
“They have laws against it.”
“Somebody in Albany needs to get that off the books.”
He kissed her again, this time her forehead. She was a foot shorter and this portion of her face was a frequent landing spot for his lips. Her appearance was much the same as it had been when they’d met years ago... Her hair was now a bob, which had the curious effect of changing the shape of her face, emphasizing different angles. He liked her hair short, liked it long. She was beautiful to him and had always been. Always would be.
He was then aware that the accident had made him sentimental and he kicked that emotion out the door.
“Lunch!” she called.
Seconds later, Martine and Brad descended the stairs like stuntpeople. It was apparently a race, with older Brad beating Martine by a nose. Preteen fashion dictated hoodies, both light gray. And, of course, baggy shorts — plaid in Brad’s case, bright orange in his sister’s. She was always the bolder in fashion choices and had already — to Ron’s horror — wondered aloud if tattoos hurt.
The two children, both blond and dusted with Mom’s freckles, knew their mealtime tasks — pouring water and soda and milk and bringing out the serving dishes of cold cuts, potato chips, pickles, salad, sliced watermelon. Ron sat down in his customary chair, the one with arms. He didn’t do this because he was the head of the family. It was because it was the most uncomfortable chair of the dining set. He could buy a new one. Another thing he now had time to get around to.
They dished up, they ate, they talked.
Like, Donovan? Going to the Mets? And Boston. It’s going to suck... Totally. Can I go to the retreat?... Luis and Harvey’re going... Near West Point. They have a tour. There’s some military museum there. I’m tired of the flute... Morgan’s got a guitar. Her father bought her a Fender... Oh, where we went last summer, Lake George?... There’s this TikTok video... A cat... After dinner... The test? Yeah, it went okay...