Still, though, she knew she’d have to keep an eye on the lean, handsome boy with curly hair and Dance’s green eyes. He continued to grow sullen at times, detached and angry. Some of it typical male adolescence, some of it the residue of losing his father at a young age. Typical behavior, her counselor had explained, nothing to worry about. But Dance felt that it might take a little time before he’d be ready for the chaos of New York, and she’d never push him. When she got home she’d ask him whether he wanted to visit. Dance couldn’t understand parents who seemed to believe they needed magic incantations or psychotherapy to find out what their children wanted. All you really needed to do was ask and listen carefully to their answers.

Yep, Dance decided that, if he was comfortable, she’d bring them here on vacation next year, before Christmas. A Boston girl, born and bred, Dance’s main objection to the central California coast was the lack of seasons. The weather was lovely—but for the holidays you longed for the bite of the cold in your nose and mouth, the snowstorms, the glowing logs in the fireplace, the frost spiderwebbing the windows.

Dance was now pulled from her reverie by her cell phone’s musical chirp, which changed frequently—a joke by the children (though the number-one rule—Never program a cop’s phone to SILENT—was adhered to).

She looked at caller ID.

Hm. Interesting. Yes or no?

Kathryn Dance gave in to impulse and hit the ANSWER button.

Chapter 10

As he drove, the big detective fidgeted, he touched his belly, he tugged at his collar.

Kathryn Dance took in the body language of Lon Sellitto as he drove the unmarked Crown Vic—the same official vehicle she had in California—fast through the streets of New York, grille lights flashing, no siren.

The call she’d taken in the cab was from him, once again asking if she’d help them in the case. “I know you’ve got a flight, I know you’ve got to get home, but . . .”

He explained that they’d discovered a possible source for the clocks left at the Watchmaker’s crime scenes and wanted her to interview the man who might’ve sold them. There was a possibility, though slight, that he had some connection with the Watchmaker and they wanted her opinion about him.

Dance had debated only a brief moment before agreeing. She’d regretted her abrupt departure from Lincoln Rhyme’s town house earlier; Kathryn Dance hated leaving a case unfinished, even if it wasn’t hers. She’d had the cab turn around and return to Rhyme’s, where Lon Sellitto was waiting for her.

Now, in the detective’s car, Dance asked, “It was your idea to call me, wasn’t it?”

“How’s that?” Sellitto asked.