Saturday, 10:15 p.m., to Sunday, 5:30 a.m. 2 page

“I’m not tired,” Rhyme snapped.

“Tired or not, you need to rest.”

“No, I need another drink.”

Black suitcases lined the wall, awaiting the help of officers from the Twentieth Precinct to transport them back to the IRD lab. Mel Cooper was carting a microscope case downstairs. Lon Sellitto was still sitting in the rattan chair but he wasn’t saying much. Just coming to the obvious conclusion that Lincoln Rhyme was not a mellow drunk at all.

Thom said, “I’m sure your blood pressure’s up. You need rest.”

“I need a drink.”

Goddamn you, Amelia Sachs, Rhyme thought. And didn’t know why.

“You should give it up. Drinking’s never been any good for you.”

Well, I am giving it up, Rhyme responded silently. For good. Monday. And no twelve-step plan for me; it’s a one-stepper;

“Pour me another drink,” he ordered.

Not really wanting one.

“No.”

“Pour me a drink now!” Rhyme snapped.

“No way.”

“Lon, would you please pour me another drink?”

“I—”

Thom said, “He doesn’t get any more. When he’s in a mood like this he’s insufferable and we’re not going to put up with him.”

“You’re going to withhold something from me? I could fire you.”

“Fire away.”

“Crip abuse! I’ll get you indicted. Arrest him, Lon.”

“Lincoln,” Sellitto said placatingly.

“Arrest him!”

The detective was taken aback by the viciousness of Rhyme’s words.

“Hey, buddy, maybe you should go a little light,” Sellitto said.

“Oh, Christ,” Rhyme groaned. He started to moan loudly.

Sellitto blurted, “What is it?” Thom was silent, looking on cautiously.

“My liver.” Rhyme’s face broke into a cruel grin. “Cirrhosis probably.”

Thom swung around, furious. “I will not put up with this crap. Okay?”

“No, It’s not oh-kay—”

A woman’s voice, from the doorway: “We don’t have much time.”

“—at all.”

Amelia Sachs walked into the room, glanced at the empty tables. Rhyme felt spittle on his lip. He was overwhelmed with fury. Because she saw the drool. Because he wore a crisp white shirt he’d changed into just for her. And because he wanted desperately to be alone, forever, alone in the dark of motionless peace—where he was king. Not king for a day. But king for eternity.

The spit tickled. He cramped his already sore neck muscles trying to wipe his lip dry. Thom deftly swiped a Kleenex from a box and dried his boss’s mouth and chin.

“Officer Sachs,” Thom said. “Welcome. A shining example of maturity. We aren’t seeing much of that right at the moment.”

She wasn’t wearing her hat and her navy blouse was open at the collar. Her long red hair tumbled to her shoulders. Nobody’d have any trouble differentiating that hair under a comparison ’scope.

“Mel let me in,” she said, nodding toward the stairs.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, Sachs?”

Thom tapped a shoulder. Behave yourself, the gesture meant.

“I was just at the federal building,” she said to Sellitto.

“How are our tax dollars doing?”

“They’ve caught him.”

“What?” Sellitto asked. “Just like that? Jesus. They know about it downtown?”

“Perkins called the mayor. The guy’s a cabbie. He was born here but his father’s Serbian. So they’re thinking he’s trying to get even with the UN, or something. Got a yellow sheet. Oh, and a history of mental problems too. Dellray and feebie SWAT’re on their way there right now.”

“How’d they do it?” Rhyme asked. “Betcha it was the fingerprint.”

She nodded.

“I suspected that would figure prominently. And, tell me, how concerned were they about the next victim?”

“They’re concerned,” she said evenly. “But mostly they want to nail the unsub.”

“Well, that’s their nature. And let me guess. They’re figuring they’ll sweat the location of the vic out of him after they take him down.”

“You got it.”

“That may take some doing,” Rhyme said. “I’ll venture that opinion without the benefit of our Dr. Dobyns and the Behavioral mavens. So, a change of heart, Amelia? Why’d you come back?”

“Because whether Dellray collars him or not I don’t think we have time to wait. To save the next vic, I mean.”

“Oh, but we’re dismantled, haven’t you heard? Shut down, done gone outa business.” Rhyme was looking in the dark computer screen, trying to see if his hair had stayed combed.

“You giving up?” she asked.

“Officer,” Sellitto began, “even if we wanted to do somethin’ we don’t have any of the PE. That’s the only link—”

“I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“All of it. It’s downstairs in the RRV.”

The detective glanced out the window.

Sachs continued, “From the last scene. From all the scenes.”

“You have it?” Rhyme asked. “How?”

But Sellitto was laughing. “She ’jacked it, Lincoln. Gawdamn!”

“Dellray doesn’t need it,” Sachs pointed out. “Except for the trial. They’ve got the unsub, we’ll save the victim. Works out nice, hm?”

“But Mel Cooper just left.”

“Naw, he’s downstairs. I asked him to wait.” Sachs crossed her arms. She glanced at the clock. After eleven. “We don’t have much time,” she repeated.

His eyes too were on the clock. Lord, he was tired. Thom was right; he’d been awake longer than in years. But, he was surprised—no, shocked—to find, that, while he might have been furious or embarrassed or stabbed with heartless frustration today, the passing minutes had not lain like hot, unbearable weights on his soul. As they had for the past three and a half years.

“Well, church mice in heaven.” Rhyme barked a laugh. “Thom? Thom! We need coffee. On the double. Sachs, get those cello samples to the lab along with the Polaroid of the bit Mel lifted from the veal bone. I want a polarization-comparison report in an hour. And none of this ‘most probably’ crap. I want an answer—which grocery chain did our unsub buy the veal bone at. And get that little shadow of yours back here, Lon. The one named after the baseball player.”

The black vans sped through side streets.

This was a more circuitous route to the perp’s location but Dellray knew what he was doing; anti-terror operations were supposed to avoid major city streets, which were often monitored by accomplices. Dellray, in the back of the lead van, tightened the Velcro strap on the body armor. They were less than ten minutes away.

He looked at the failing apartments, the trash-filled lots as they sped along. The last time he’d been in this decrepit neighborhood he’d been Rastafarian Peter Haile Thomas from Queens. He’d bought 137 pounds of cocaine from a shriveled little Puerto Rican, who decided at the last minute to ’jack his buyer. He took Dellray’s buy-and-bust money and aimed a gun at Dellray’s groin, pulling the trigger as calmly as if he were picking vegetables at the A&P. Click, click, click. Misfire. Toby Dolittle and the backup team took the fucker and his minders down before the scumbag found his other piece, leaving one shook-up Dellray to reflect on the irony of nearly getting killed because the perp truly bought the agent’s performance—that he was a dealer not a cop.

“ETA, four minutes,” the driver called.

For some reason Dellray’s thoughts flipped to Lincoln Rhyme. He regretted he’d been such a shit when he took over the case. But there hadn’t been much choice. Sellitto was a bulldog and Polling was a psycho—though Dellray could handle them. Rhyme was the one who made him uneasy. Sharp as a razor (hell, it had been his team that found Pietrs’s print, even if they didn’t jump on it as fast as they should’ve). In the old days, before his accident, you couldn’t beat Rhyme if he didn’t want to get beat. And you couldn’t fool him either.

Now, Rhyme was a busted toy. It was a sad thing what could happen to a man, how you could die and still be alive. Dellray had walked into his room—his bedroom, no less—and hit him hard. Harder than he needed to.

Maybe he’d call. He could—

“Show time,” the driver called, and Dellray forgot all about Lincoln Rhyme.

The vans turned onto the street where Pietrs lived. Most of the other streets they’d passed had been filled with sweating residents, clutching beer bottles and cigarettes, hoping for a breath or two of cool air. But this one was dark, empty.

The vans cruised slowly to a stop. Two dozen agents climbed out, in black tactical outfits, carrying their H&Ks equipped with muzzle lights and laser sights. Two homeless men stared at them; one quickly hid his bottle of Colt 44 malt liquor under his shirt.

Dellray gazed at a window in Pietrs’s building; it gave off a faint yellow glow.

The driver backed the first van into a shadowy parking space and whispered to Dellray, “It’s Perkins.” Tapping his headset. “He’s got the director on the horn. They want to know who’s leading the assault.”

“I am,” snapped the Chameleon. He turned to his team. “I want surveillance across the street and in the alleys. Snipers, there, there and there. An’ I want ever’body in place fi’ minutes ago. Are we all together on that?”

Down the stairs, the old wood creaking.

His arm around her, he guided the woman, half-conscious from the blow to her head, into the basement. At the foot of the stairs, he shoved her to the dirt floor and gazed down at her.

Esther ...

Her eyes rose to meet his. Hopeless, begging. He didn’t notice. All he saw was her body. He began to remove her clothing, the purple jogging outfit. It was unthinkable that a woman would actually go outside in this day and age wearing what was no more than, well, undergarments. He hadn’t thought that Esther Weinraub was a whore. She’d been a working girl, stitching shirts, five for a penny.

The bone collector observed how her collarbone showed at her throat. And where some other man might glance over her breasts and dark areolae he stared at the indentation at the manubrium and the ribs blossoming from it like spider’s legs.

“What’re you doing?” she asked, groggy from the blow to her head.

The bone collector looked her over carefully but what he saw wasn’t a young, anorectic woman, nose too broad, lips too full, with skin like dirty sand. He saw beneath those imperfections the perfect beauty of her structure.

He caressed her temple, stroked it gently. Don’t let it be cracked, please. ...

She coughed and her nostrils flared—the fumes were very strong down here though he hardly noticed them anymore.

“Don’t hurt me again,” she whispered, her head lolling. “Just don’t hurt me. Please.”

He took the knife from his pocket and bent down, cut her underwear off. She looked down at her naked body.

“You want that?” she said breathlessly. “Okay, you can fuck me. Okay.”

The pleasure of the flesh, he thought ... it just doesn’t come close.

He pulled her to her feet and madly she pushed away from him and began stumbling toward a small doorway in the corner of the basement. Not running, not really trying to escape. Just sobbing, reaching out a hand, weaving toward the door.

The bone collector watched her, entranced by her slow, pathetic gait.

The doorway, which had once opened onto a coal chute, now led to a narrow tunnel that connected to the basement of the abandoned building next door.

Esther struggled to the metal door and pulled it open. She climbed inside.

It was no more than a minute later that he heard the wailing scream. Followed by a breathless, wrenching, “God, no, no, no ...” Other words too, lost in her boiling howls of terror.

Then she was coming back through the tunnel, moving faster now, whipping her hands around her, as if she was trying to shake off what she’d just seen.

Come to me, Esther.

Stumbling over the dirt floor, sobbing.

Come to me.

Running straight into his patient, waiting arms, which wrapped around her. He squeezed the woman tight as a lover, felt that marvelous collarbone beneath his fingers, and slowly dragged the frantic woman back toward the tunnel doorway.

TWENTY

THE PHASES OF THE MOON, the leaf, the damp underwear, dirt. Their team was back in Rhyme’s bedroom—all except Polling and Haumann; it was straining NYPD loyalty to bring captains in on what was, no two ways about it, an unauthorized operation.

“You G-C’d the liquid in the underwear, right, Mel?”

“Have to do it again. They shut us down before we got the results.”

He blotted out a sample and injected it into the Chromatograph. As he ran the machine Sachs jockeyed to look at the peaks and valleys of the profile appearing on the screen. Like a stock index. Rhyme realized she was standing close to him, as if she’d edged near when he wasn’t looking. She spoke in a low voice. “I was ...”

“Yes?”

“I was blunter than I meant to be. Before, I mean. I have a temper. I don’t know where I got it from. But I have it.”

“You were right,” Rhyme said.

They easily held each other’s eyes and Rhyme thought of the times he and Blaine had had serious discussions. As they talked they always focused on an object between them—one of the ceramic horses she collected, a book, a nearly empty bottle of Merlot or Chardonnay.

He said, “I work scenes differently than most criminalists. I needed somebody without any preconceived ideas. But I also needed somebody with a mind of her own.”

The contradictory qualities we seek in that elusive perfect lover. Strength and vulnerability, in equal measures.

“When I talked to Commissioner Eckert,” she said, “it was just to get my transfer through. That’s all I wanted. It never occurred to me that word’d get back to the feds and they’d take the case away.”

“I know that.”

“I still let my temper go. I’m sorry for that.”

“Don’t backpedal, Sachs. I need somebody to tell me I’m a jerk when I act like one. Thom does. That’s why I love him.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me, Lincoln,” Thom called from across the room.

Rhyme continued, “Nobody else ever tells me to go to hell. They’re always walking on eggshells. I hate it.”

“It doesn’t seem like there’ve been many people around here to say much of anything to you lately.”

After a moment he said, “That’s true.”

On the screen of the chromatograph-spectrometer the peaks and valleys stopped moving and became one of nature’s infinite signatures. Mel Cooper tapped on the computer keys and read the results. “Water, diesel oil, phosphate, sodium, trace minerals ... No idea what it means.”

What, Rhyme wondered, was the message? The underwear itself? The liquid? He said, “Let’s move on. I want to see the dirt.”

Sachs brought him the bag. It contained pinkish sand, laced with chunks of clay and pebbles.

“Bull’s liver,” he announced. “Rock-and-sand mixture. Found just above the bedrock in Manhattan. Sodium silicate mixed in?”

Cooper ran the Chromatograph. “Yep. Plenty of it.”

“Then we’re looking for a downtown location within fifty yards of the water—” Rhyme laughed at the astonished gaze on Sachs’s face. “It’s not magic, Sachs. I’ve just done my homework, that’s all. Contractors mix sodium silicate with bull’s liver to stabilize the earth when they dig foundations in deep-bedrock areas near the water. That means it’s got to be downtown. Now, let’s take a look at the leaf.”

She held up the bag.

“No clue what it is,” Rhyme said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like that. Not in Manhattan.”

“I’ve got a list of horticulture web sites,” Cooper said, staring at his computer screen. “I’ll do some surfing.”

Rhyme himself had spent some time on-line, cruising the Internet. As it had with books, movies and posters, his interest in the cyberworld had eventually paled. Perhaps because so much of his own world was virtual, the net was, in the end, a forlorn place for Lincoln Rhyme.

Cooper’s screen flicked and danced as he clicked on hyperlinks and disappeared deeper into the web. “I’m downloading some files. Should take ten, twenty minutes.”

Rhyme said, “All right. The rest of the clues Sachs found ... Not the planted ones. The others. They might tell us about where he’s been. Let’s look at our secret weapon, Mel.”

“Secret weapon?” Sachs asked.

“The trace evidence.”

Special Agent Fred Dellray had put together a ten-man entry operation. Two teams plus search and surveillance. The flak-jacketed agents stood in the bushes, sweating madly. Across the street, upstairs in an abandoned brownstone, the S&S team had their Big Ears and video infrareds trained on the perp’s house.

The three snipers, with their big Remingtons strapped, loaded and locked, lay prone on rooftops. Their binoculared spotters crouched beside them like Lamaze coaches.

Dellray—wearing an FBI windbreaker and jeans instead of his Leprechaun-green outfit—listened through his clip-on earphone.

“Surveillance to Command. We’ve got infrared on the basement. Somebody moving down there.”

“What’sa view like?” Dellray asked.

“No view. Windows’re too dirty.”

“He all by his humble self? Maybe got a vic with him?” Knowing somehow that Officer Sachs was probably right; that he’d already ’napped somebody else now.

“Can’t tell. We’ve just got motion and heat.”

Dellray had sent other officers around to the sides of the house. They reported in. “No sign of anyone on the first or second floor. Garage is locked.”

“Snipers?” Dellray asked. “Report.”

“Shooter One to Command. I’ve acquired on front door. Over.”

The others were covering the hallway and a room on the first floor. “Loaded and locked,” they radioed in.

Dellray drew his large automatic.

“Okay, we got paper,” Dellray said. Meaning a warrant. They wouldn’t have to knock. “Lessgo! Teams one and two, deploy, deploy, deploy.”

The first team took out the front door with a battering ram while the second used the slightly more civilized approach of breaking in the back-door window and unlocking the dead bolt. They streamed inside, Dellray following the last of Team One’s officers into the old, filthy house. The smell of rotting flesh was overwhelming and Dellray, no stranger to crime scenes, swallowed hard, struggling to keep from vomiting.

The second team secured the ground floor and then charged up the stairs toward the bedroom while the first sped down the basement stairs, boots thumping loudly on the old wood.

Dellray raced down into the foul-smelling basement. He heard a door being kicked in somewhere below and the shout of, “Don’t move! Federal agents. Freeze, freeze, freeze!”

But when he reached the basement doorway he heard the same agent blurt in a very different tone, “What the hell’s this? Oh, Jesus.”

“Fuck,” another one called. “That’s gross.”

“Shit in a flaming pile,” Dellray spat out, choking, as he stepped inside. Swallowing hard at the vile smell.

The man’s body lay on the floor, leaching black fluid. Throat cut. His dead, glazed eyes stared at the ceiling but his torso seemed to be moving—swelling and shifting. Dellray shuddered; he’d never developed much immunity to the sight of insect infestation. The number of bugs and worms suggested the vic’d been dead for at least three days.

“Why’d we get positive on the infrared?” one agent asked.

Dellray pointed out the rat and mouse teeth marks along the vic’s bloated leg and side. “They’re around here someplace. We interrupted dinner hour.”

“So what happened? One of the vics get him?”

“Watcha talkin’ about?” Dellray snapped.

“Isn’t that him?”

“No, it’s not him,” Dellray exploded, gazing at one particular wound on the corpse.

One of the team was frowning. “Naw, Dellray. This’s the guy. We got mug shots. That’s Pietrs.”

“Of course it’s fucking Pietrs. But he ain’t the unsub. Don’tcha get it?”

“No? What do you mean?”

It was all clear to him now. “Sumvabitch.”

Dellray’s phone chirped and made him jump. He flipped it open, listened for a minute. “She did what? Oh, like I really need this too. ... No, we don’t have the fucking perp in fucking custody.”

He jammed the OFF button, pointed an angry finger at two SWAT agents. “You’re coming with me.”

“What’s up, Dellray?”

“We gonna pay ourselves a visit. And what ain’t we gonna be when we do it?” The agents looked at each other, frowning. But Dellray supplied the answer. “We ain’t gonna be very nice at all.”

Mel Cooper shook the contents of the envelopes out onto newsprint. Examined the dust with an eye loupe. “Well, there’s the brick dust. And some other kind of stone. Marble, I think.”

He put a sample on the slide and examined it under the compound ’scope. “Yep, marble. Rose-colored.”

“Was there any marble at the stockyard tunnel? Where you found the German girl?”

“None,” Sachs responded.

Cooper suggested it might have come from Monelle’s residence hall when Unsub 823 grabbed her.

“No, I know the block the Deutsche Haus is in. It’s just a converted East Village tenement. The best stone you’d find there’d be polished granite. Maybe, just maybe, it’s a fleck of his hidey-hole. Anything notable about it?”

“Chisel marks,” Cooper said, bending over the ’scope.

“Ah, good. How clean?”

“Not very. Ragged.”

“So an old steam stonecutter?”

“Yes, I’d guess.”

“Write, Thom,” Rhyme instructed, nodding at the poster. “There’s marble in his safe house. And it’s old.”

“But why do we care about his safe house?” Banks asked, looking at his watch. “The feds’ll be there by now.”

“You can never have too much information, Banks. Remember that. Now, what else’ve we got?”

“Another bit of the glove. That red leather. And what’s this?” he asked Sachs, holding up a plastic bag containing a plug of wood.

“The sample of the aftershave. Where he brushed up against a post.”

“Should I run an olfactory profile?” Cooper wondered.

“Let me smell it first,” Rhyme said.

Sachs brought the bag over to him. Inside was a tiny disk of wood. She opened it up and he inhaled the air.

“Brut. How could you miss it? Thom, add that our man uses drugstore cologne.”

Cooper announced, “Here’s that other hair.” The technician mounted it in a comparison ’scope. “Very similar to the one we found earlier. Probably the same source. Oh, hell, Lincoln, for you, I’ll say it is the same. Brown.”

“Are the ends cut or fractured naturally?”

“Cut.”

“Good, we’re closing in on hair color,” Rhyme said.

Thom wrote brown just as Sellitto said, “Don’t write that!”

“What?”

“Obviously it’s not brown,” Rhyme continued.

“I thought—”

“It’s anything but brown. Blond, sandy, black, red ...”

The detective explained, “ ‘S’an old trick. You go into an alley behind a barbershop, cop some hairs from the garbage. Drop ’em around the scene.”

“Oh.” Banks filed this somewhere in his enthusiastic brain.

Rhyme said, “Okay. The fiber.”

Cooper mounted it in the polarizing ’scope. As he adjusted knobs he said, “Birefringence of .053.”

Rhyme blurted, “Nylon 6. What’s it look like, Mel?”

“Very coarse. Lobed cross-section. Light gray.”

“Carpet.”

“Right. I’ll check the database.” A moment later he looked up from the computer. “It’s a Hampstead Textile 118B fiber.”

Rhyme exhaled a disgusted sigh.

“What?” Sachs asked.

“The most common trunk liner used by U.S. automakers. Found in over two hundred different makes going back fifteen years. Hopeless ... Mel, is there anything on the fiber? Use the SEM.”

The tech cranked up the scanning electron microscope. The screen burst to life with an eerie blue-green glow. The strand of fiber looked like a huge rope.

“Got something here. Crystals. A lot of ’em. They use titanium dioxide to deluster shiny carpet. That might be it.”

“Gas it. It’s important.”

“There’s not enough here, Lincoln. I’d have to burn the whole fiber.”

“So, burn it.”

Sellitto said delicately, “Borrowing federal evidence is one thing. Destroying it? I don’t know ’bout that, Lincoln. If there’s a trial ...”

“We have to.”

“Oh, man,” Banks said.

Sellitto nodded reluctantly and Cooper mounted the sample. The machine hissed. A moment later the screen flickered and columns appeared. “There, that’s the long-chained polymer molecule. The nylon. But that small wave, that’s something else. Chlorine, detergent ... It’s cleanser.”

“Remember,” Rhyme said, “the German girl said the car smelled clean. Find out what kind it is.”

Cooper ran the information through a brand-name database. “Pfizer Chemicals makes it. It’s sold under the name Tidi-Kleen by Baer Automotive Products in Teterboro.”

“Perfect!” cried Lincoln Rhyme. “I know the company. They sell in bulk to fleets. Mostly rental-car companies. Our unsub’s driving a rental.”

“He wouldn’t be crazy enough to drive a rental car to crime scenes, would he?” Banks asked.

“It’s stolen,” Rhyme muttered, as if the young man had asked what was two plus two. “And it’ll have stolen tags on it. Is Emma still with us?”

“She’s probably home by now.”

“Wake her up and have her start canvassing Hertz, Avis, National, Budget for thefts.”

“Will do,” Sellitto said, though uneasily, perhaps smelling the faint stench of burned federal evidence wafting through the air.

“The footprints?” Sachs asked.

Rhyme looked over the electrostatic impressions she’d lifted.

“Unusual wear on the soles. See the rubbed-down portion on the outsides of each shoe at the ball of the foot?”

“Pigeon-toed?” Thom wondered aloud.

“Possibly but there’s no corresponding heel wear, which you’d expect to see.” Rhyme studied the prints. “What I think is, he’s a reader.”

“A reader?”

“Sit in a chair there,” Rhyme said to Sachs. “And hunch over the table, pretend you’re reading.”

She sat, then looked up. “And?”

“Pretend you’re turning pages.”

She did, several times. Looked up again.

“Keep going. You’re reading War and Peace.”

The pages kept turning, her head was bowed. After a moment, without thinking, she crossed her ankles. The outside edges of her shoes “were the only part that met the floor.

Rhyme pointed this out. “Put that in the profile, Thom. But add a question mark.

“Now let’s look at the friction ridges.”

Sachs said she didn’t have the good fingerprint, the one they’d ID’d the unsub with. “It’s still at the federal building.”

But Rhyme wasn’t interested in that print. It was the other one, the Kromekote Sachs had lifted from the German girl’s skin, he wanted to look at.

“Not scannable,” Cooper announced. “Isn’t even C grade. I wouldn’t give an opinion about this if I had to.”

Rhyme said, “I’m not interested in identity. I’m interested in that line there.” It was crescent-shaped and sat right in the middle of the pad of the finger.

“What is it?” Sachs asked.

“A scar, I think,” Cooper said. “From an old cut. A bad one. Looks like it went all the way to the bone.”

Rhyme thought back to other markings and defects he’d seen on skin over the years. In the days before jobs became mostly paper shuffling and computer key-boarding it was far easier to tell people’s jobs by examining their hands: distorted finger pads from manual typewriters, punctures from sewing machines and cobbler’s needles, indentations and ink stains from stenographers’ and accountants’ pens, paper cuts from printing presses, scars from die cutters, distinctive calluses from various types of manual labor. ...

But a scar like this told them nothing.

Not yet at any rate. Not until they had a suspect whose hands they might examine.

“What else? The knee print. This is good. Give us an idea of what he’s wearing. Hold it up, Sachs. Higher! Baggy slacks. It retained that deep crease there so it’s natural fiber. In this weather, I’ll bet cotton. Not wool. You don’t see silk slacks much nowadays.”

“Lightweight, not denim,” Cooper said.

“Sports clothes,” Rhyme concluded. “Add that to our profile, Thom.”

Cooper looked back at the computer screen and typed some more. “No luck with the leaf. Doesn’t match anything at the Smithsonian.”

Rhyme stretched back into his pillow. How much time would they have? An hour? Two?

The moon. Dirt. Brine ...

He glanced at Sachs who was standing by herself in the corner. Her head was down and her long red hair fell dramatically toward the floor. She was looking into an evidence bag, a frown on her face, lost in concentration. How many times had Rhyme himself stood in the same pose, trying to—

“A newspaper!” she cried, looking up. “Where’s a newspaper?” Her eyes were frantic as she looked from table to table. “Today’s paper?”

“What is it, Sachs?” Rhyme asked.

She grabbed The New York Times from Jerry Banks and leafed quickly through it.

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 501