Page 114 of The Watchmaker's Hand

Their grief counselor had said, “You need to embrace the memories and then do what she would have wanted for you two: to move on.”

But he and Jenny agreed that was bullshit. What Claire would have wanted was to cry at Disney movies, to gossip with other girls, to flirt with boys and fight with Mom and Dad when she turned thirteen and pick a college and meet the right person and maybe, someday, have children of her own.

That’s what the girl would have wanted.

Her parents’ state of mind wasn’t—and shouldn’t have been—a thing she considered at all.

So they had mourned then, and they mourned now. They would always mourn.

Jenny had said it best earlier: They had gotten through it, yes. But move on? Never.

Finally, Ron asked, “So. What I was asking?”

Spencer took a notebook from his sport coat pocket. “Did some digging. And hate to break the news, Ron, but you’ve got yourself one hell of a problem.”

52.

AS GOOD Atactical solution as she could put together under the circumstances.

There was little cover on the cul-de-sac street, Hamilton Court, which was lined with buildings in various degrees of human-made destruction and natural decay. The short avenue had been a commercial area at one point, presumably devoted to wholesale food—the Meatpacking District was not far away. But developers had seen the glow of Manhattan profits and had scooped up the block.

Then, as Willis Tamblyn explained, the project crashed, thanks to a few pieces of old armament and traces of rum.

She was at the chained-off entrance, surveying the two hundred feet of cobblestones before her.

The evidence suggested that the Watchmaker and Gilligan had spent time here. The question, however, was whether this was the killer’s safe house, or simply a random spot they’d picked to stop at and have a conversation.

Except Rhyme and Sachs didn’t think it was the latter. Aerialviews of Hamilton Court showed a trailer, the sort used as headquarters on construction jobs. It was dusty and battered and invisible from the main streets. A good safe house.

Sachs had also speculated: The street is old, the buildings are old. Which would appeal to the Watchmaker psychologically, as the place was from a different moment in time.

An analysis she did not, of course, share with Lincoln Rhyme, who maintained a negative view of psych profiling.

As she directed the three entry teams into place, she noticed something else that suggested the trailer was his temporary home: a video camera at the mouth of the cul-de-sac, facing inward and hidden in a pile of bricks. She could understand security cameras on the trailer itself, but why cover the street leading to it? The logical answer was: to give warning of officers approaching.

She and one of the dynamic entry teams, four persons total on each, were now staged behind this pile of rubble, out of view of the camera.

“This is Car Seven. We’re ready. K.”

Her earpiece clattered loudly. She turned the volume down. “Roger, Seven.”

Two plain-clothed detectives in an SUV marked with the logo of an actual real estate company were parked on Hudson, fifty feet away.

At Sachs’s word, they would drive up to the entrance of Hamilton and turn into the mouth of Hamilton, blocking the camera.

“Five Eight Eight Five,” she radioed. “Teams Two and Three, report. K.”

“Team Two. In position behind 208 Hamilton. Back entrance breached. Clear route to trailer.”

“Roger, Two. Three?”

“Three, we’re second floor 216 Hamilton. Clear view of target premises. Sniper and spotter in position.”

“Roger.”

She charged her M4. The weapon could be fired fully automatic, burst or semi, and she moved the selector to auto.

I’ll try to keep him alive, Rhyme. But I’m not risking a single soul on my teams.

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