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Thom blinked. Then he laughed. "Maybe later." It was the first time, Rhyme believed, that he'd ever offered his aide a drink.
The criminalist sipped the smoky liquor, staring at the pocket watch. He thought of the note the killer had included with the timepiece. Rhyme had long ago memorized it.
The pocket watch is a Breguet. It is the favorite of the many timepieces I have come across in the past year. It was made in the early 1800s and features a ruby cylinder escapement, perpetual calendar and parachute anti-shock device. I hope you appreciate the phases-of-the-moon window, in light of our recent adventures together. There are few specimens like this watch in the world. I give it to you as a present, out of respect. In my years at this profession, no one has ever stopped me from finishing a job; you're as good as they get. (I would say you're as good as I, but that is not quite true; you did not, after all, catch me.) Keep the Breguet wound (but gently); it will be counting out the minutes until we meet again.
Some advice--If I were you, I would make every one of those seconds count.
You're good, Rhyme spoke silently to the killer.
But I'm good too. Next time, we finish our game.
Then his thoughts were interrupted. Rhyme squinted, looking away from the watch and focusing out the window. Something had caught his eye.
A man in casual clothing was dawdling on the sidewalk across the street. Rhyme maneuvered his TDX to the window and looked out. He sipped more whisky. The man stood beside a dark overpainted bench in front of the stone wall bordering Central Park. He was staring at the town house, hands in his pockets. Apparently he couldn't see that he was being observed from inside the town house's large window.
It was his cousin, Arthur Rhyme.
The man started forward, nearly crossing the street. But then he stopped. He walked back to the park and sat on one of the benches facing the town house, beside a woman in a running suit, sipping water and bobbing her foot as she listened to her iPod. Arthur pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, looked at it and put it back. His eyes returned to the town house.
Curious. He looks like me, Rhyme reflected. In all their years of comradeship and separation, he'd never realized it.
Suddenly, for some reason, his cousin's words from a decade ago filled his mind: Did you even try with your father? What do you think he felt, having a son like you, who was a hundred times smarter than he was? Going off all the time because he'd rather hang out with his uncle. Did you even give Teddy a chance?
The criminalist shouted, "Thom!"
No response.
A louder summons.
"What?" the aide asked. "You finished the scotch already?"
"I need something. From the basement."
"The basement?"
"I just said that. There're a few old boxes down there. They'll have the word 'Illinois' on them."
"Oh, those. Actually, Lincoln, there are about thirty of them."
"However many."
"Not a few."
"I need you to look through them and find something for me."
"What?"
"A piece of concrete in a little plastic box. About three by three inches."
"Concrete?"
"It's a present for someone."
"Well, I can't wait for Christmas, to see what's in my stocking. When would you--?"
"Now. Please."
A sigh. Thom disappeared.
