Amelia Sachs and Lon Sellitto arrived at the old apartment building in Greenwich Village, nestled on quaint Barrow Street.

“That’s it?”

“Uh-huh,” Sellitto said. His fingers were blue. His ears, red.

They looked into the alley beside the building. Sachs surveyed it carefully.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Richter. Lucy I think’s her first name.”

“Which window’s hers?”

“Third floor.”

She glanced up at the fire escape.

They continued on to the front stairs of the apartment building. A crowd of people were watching. Sachs scanned their faces, still convinced that the Watchmaker had swept up at the first scene because he intended to return. Which meant he might have remained here too. But she saw no one that resembled him or his partner.

“We’re sure it was the Watchmaker?” Sachs asked Frank Rettig and Nancy Simpson, cold and huddling next to the Crime Scene rapid response van, parked cockeyed in the middle of Barrow.

“Yep, he left one of those clocks,” Rettig explained. “With the moon faces.”

Sachs and Sellitto started up the stairs.

“One thing,” Nancy Simpson said.

The detectives stopped and turned.

The officer nodded at the building, grimacing. “It won’t be pretty.”

Chapter 24

Sachs and Sellitto ascended the stairs slowly. The air in the dim stairwell smelled of pine cleanser and oil furnace heat.

“How’d he get in?” Sachs mused.

“This guy’s a ghost. He gets in however he fucking wants to.”

She looked up the stairwell. They paused outside the door. A nameplate said, Richter/Dobbs.

It won’t be pretty. . . .

“Let’s do it.”

Sachs opened the door and walked into Lucy Richter’s apartment.

Where they were met by a muscular young woman in sweats, hair pinned up. She turned away from the uniformed officer she’d been talking to. Her face darkened as she glanced at Sachs and Sellitto and noticed the gold badges around their necks.

“You’re in charge?” asked Lucy Richter angrily, stepping forward, right in Lon Sellitto’s face.

“I’m one of the detectives on the case.” He identified himself. Sachs did too.

Lucy Richter put her hands on her hips. “What the hell do you people think you’re doing?” the soldier barked. “You know there’s some psycho leaving these goddamn clocks when he kills people. And you don’t tell anybody? I didn’t survive all these months of combat in the goddamn desert just to come home and get killed by some motherfucker because you don’t bother to share that information with the public.”

It took some time to calm her down.

“Ma’am,” Sachs explained, “his M.O. isn’t that he’s delivering these clocks ahead of time to let people know he’s on his way. He was here. In your apartment. You were lucky.”

Lucy Richter was indeed fortunate.

About a half hour ago a passerby happened to see a man climb onto her fire escape and head for the roof. He’d called 911 to report it. The Watchmaker had apparently glanced down, realized he’d been spotted and fled.