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"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 . . .
