“Pretty deserted. That’s like being fairly unique or kind of pregnant. Are there cars nearby or not?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Six, sir. They range from ten to twenty feet away from the subject vehicle.”

“Don’t need the ‘sir.’ Save your breath for the important things.”

“Right.”

“Are the cars empty? Anybody hiding in them?”

“ESU cleared them.”

“Are the hoods hot?”

“Uhm, I don’t know. I’ll check.” Should’ve thought of that.

He touched them all—with the back of his hand, in case fingerprints might become an issue. “No. They’re all cold. Been here for a while.”

“Okay, so no witnesses. Any sign of recent tread marks heading toward the exit?”

“Nothing looks fresh, no. Other than the Explorer’s.”

Rhyme said, “So they probably didn’t have backup wheels. Which means they took off on foot. That’s better for us. . . . Now, Ron, take in the totality of the scene.”

“Chapter Three.”

“I wrote the fucking book. I don’t need to hear it again.”

“Okay, the totality—the car’s parked carelessly, across two lines.”

“They bailed out fast, of course,” Rhyme said. “They knew they were being followed. Any obvious footprints?”

“No. The floor’s dry.”

“Where’s the closest door?”

“A stairwell exit, twenty-five feet away.”

“Which’s been cleared by ESU?”

“That’s right.”

“What else about the totality?”

Pulaski stared, looking around him, three-sixty. It’s a garage. That’s all it is. . . . He squinted, willing himself to see something helpful. But there was nothing. Reluctantly he said, “I don’t know.”

“We never know in this business,” Rhyme said in an even voice, momentarily a gentle professor. “It’s all about the odds. What strikes you? Impressions. Just throw some out.”

Pulaski could think of nothing for a moment. But then something occurred to him. “Why’d they park here?”

“What?”

“You asked what struck me. Well, it’s weird they parked here, this far from the exit. Why not drive right to it? And why not try to hide the Explorer better?”

“Good point, Ron. I should’ve asked the question myself. What do you think? Why would they park there?”

“Maybe he panicked.”

“Could be. Good for us—nothing like fear to make somebody careless. We’ll think about it. Okay, now walk the grid to and from the exit and then around the car. Look underneath and on the roof. You know the grid?”

“Yes.” Swallowing the “sir.”

For the next twenty minutes Pulaski walked back and forth, examining the garage floor and ceiling around the car. He didn’t miss a millimeter. He smelled the air—and drew no conclusion from the exhaust/oil/disinfectant aroma of the garage. Troubled again, he told Rhyme that he hadn’t found anything. The criminalist gave no reaction and told Pulaski to search the Explorer itself.

They’d run the VIN and the tag numbers on the SUV and found that it actually had belonged to one of the men Sellitto had identified earlier but who’d been dismissed as a suspect because he was serving a year on Rikers Island for possession of cocaine. The Explorer had been confiscated because of the drugs, which meant that the Watchmaker had stolen it from a lot where it was awaiting sheriff’s auction—a clever idea, Rhyme reflected, since it often took weeks to log seizures into DMV and several months before vehicles actually went up for sale. The license plates themselves had been stolen from another tan Explorer parked at Newark Airport.