Dellray shook his head. “An’ what about yo’ perp? Mr. Clockmaker?”

“It’s ‘Watchmaker,’” the criminalist grumbled. “And that’s a different story.” He explained that Charlotte’s daughter, Pam, had heard that he had a place in Brooklyn but she didn’t know where it was. “No other leads.”

Dellray bent down. “Where in Brooklyn? Need to know. And now.”

Charlotte replied defiantly, “You’re pathetic! All of you! You’re just lackeys for the bureaucracy in Washington. You’re selling out the heart of our country and—”

Dellray leaned forward, right into her face. He clicked his tongue. “Uh-uh. No politics, no philosophy . . . All we want’re answers to the questions. We all together on that?”

“Fuck you” was Charlotte’s response.

Dellray blew air through his cheeks like a trumpet player. He moaned, “I am no match for this intellect.”

Rhyme wished Kathryn Dance was here to interrogate the woman, though he guessed it would take a long time to pry information from her. He eased forward in the wheelchair and said in a whisper, so Pam couldn’t hear, “If you help us out I can make sure you see your daughter from time to time when you’re in prison. If you don’t cooperate, I will guarantee that you never see her again as long as you live.”

Charlotte glanced into the hallway, where Pam sat on a chair, defiantly clutching her Harry Potter. The dark-haired girl was pretty, with fragile features, but very slim. She wore faded jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt. The skin around her eyes was dark. She clicked her fingernails together compulsively. The girl seemed needy in a hundred different ways.

Charlotte turned back to Rhyme. “Then I’ll never see her again,” she said calmly.

Dellray blinked at this, his usually unrevealing face tightening in revulsion.

Rhyme himself could think of nothing more to say to the woman.

It was then that Ron Pulaski came running into the room. He paused to catch his breath.

“What?” Rhyme asked.

It took a moment for him to be able to answer. Finally, he said, “The phones . . . The Watchmaker . . .”

“Out with it, Ron.”

“Sorry . . .” A deep breath. “We couldn’t trace his mobile but a hotel clerk saw her, Charlotte, making calls around midnight every night over the past four or five days. I called the phone company. I got the number she called. They traced it. It’s to a pay phone in Brooklyn. At this intersection.” He handed the slip of paper to Sellitto, who relayed it to Bo Haumann and ESU.

“Good job,” Sellitto said to Pulaski. He called the deputy inspector of the precinct where the phone was located. Officers would start a canvass of the neighborhood as soon as Mel Cooper emailed pictures of the composite to the DI.

Rhyme supposed that the Watchmaker might not live near the phone—it wouldn’t have surprised the criminalist—but a mere thirty minutes later they had a positive identification from a patrol officer, who found several neighbors who recognized the man.