Джеффри Дивер - A Textbook Case

What else could he—?

Textbook.

“Sachs!”

“What?” She stopped the massage and walked around in front of him.

“Textbook. Think about what I’ve been saying for the past couple of days. My textbook.”

The evidence chart reads like the table of contents in my goddamn book….

Sachs was nodding. “It’s like everything he knows about evidence and crime scenes, he learned from your book.”

He pointed to the chart. “There’s a separate chapter for each of those categories of evidence collection and analysis. And I wrote sections about contamination, having too much evidence, and arson as a means to obliterate it. Somebody who bought or borrowed my text is the perp.”

“How many copies did you sell?” Cooper asked. He knew the book well; he was one of the dedicatees.

“About twenty thousand.”

“Not very helpful then.”

Rhyme considered this. “I’m not so sure. People aren’t going to curl up with it on cold winter nights like they would with Harry Potter or one of those vampire books now, are they? The vast bulk of sales would be to law enforcement. But let’s put them aside for the time being — it’s too obvious, too traceable. Somebody with a forensic specialty’d be the first people we’d look at.”

“We’ll drop everything and get in touch with publishers and retailers.”

“How do we factor out law enforcement sales?” Cooper asked.

“Anybody with the government got a discount, so let’s get a list of any customer who paid full price.”

Sachs pointed out, “But like you just said, it could have been borrowed. It could’ve been bought with cash in a store, could’ve been stolen.”

“Maybe, but not many retail outlets carried it. Most sales were online. As for borrowing it, just because something is unlikely is no reason not to pursue it. I don’t think we have much choice, anyway.”

“Time frame for the sales?” Cooper wondered.

“I’d go back a year. The sales spiked after that documentary I did on A&E; a lot of people saw it, Googled me and bought the book.” Rhyme’s head was forward and he felt exhilarated. He was on the hunt and he knew his heart was pounding hard — felt the sensation in his neck and head, of course, not in his numb chest.

“Besides, I’d think emotionally you don’t buy a book to help you plan a killing and then wait two years. This perp’s moving fast.”

“You’re sounding quite psychological, Rhyme,” Sachs said, laughing. “That almost sounds like you’re profiling him.”

A pseudoscience, he felt. But he replied with a shrug, “Who said forensic scientists can’t be aware of human nature? That’s all. Let’s get to work. Who coughed up a hundred and twenty dollars for my words of wisdom, plus shipping and handling?”

In three hours they had a rough list from the publishers, online retailers and professional bookstores. Sixty-four people in the New York area had bought the textbook in the past year, paying full price.

“Ouch,” Cooper muttered. “Sixty-four? That’s a brick wall.”

“Not at all,” Rhyme whispered, looking over the list. “I’d say it’s merely a speed bump.”

Okay, he was a catch.

Vicki Sellick probably wouldn’t’ve thought of him that way by herself. But Joan and Alaki from work had met them for a drink earlier that night and both gave her subtle raised-eyebrows approval ratings. Joanie had whispered, “Go, girl! You hooked a good one.”

Oh, stop…

But, yeah, Vicki now thought, she had.

Her date was courteous, handsome, had a great job and on the two times that he’d stayed over their time together had been… well, fantastic. They made a solid couple, politically in tune (centrist Democrats), athletic, lovers of the out of doors. They’d both been through tough divorces. True, he worked long hours, but so did she, a Wall Street lawyer. And he was older — in his mid-fifties, but looked much younger. Besides, Vicki, thirty-seven, had stopped using age as a definitive criterion for potential partners some years ago, one of her better decisions in the crazy world of dating.

He now steered his Jaguar to the curb in front of her apartment and, without hesitation, took her in his arms, kissing her firmly.

She had wondered if tonight would be the third time he stayed and it probably would have been, except that he had a 6:00 a.m. flight tomorrow on business. His assistant was out of commission for some reason or another so he had to get ready for the meeting all by himself.

But there was nothing wrong with taking things slowly.

She kissed him back even harder.

“I’m back in two days,” he whispered. “See you then?”

“You’re on.” Another kiss sealed the deal.

“I’ll walk you up,” he said, nodding at her townhouse.

But she had to pick up some milk and a few things at the deli up the street, so they kissed a while more.

She whispered, “ ‘Night, James. Call me if you can.”

“Oh, you’ll hear from me,” he said softly, nuzzling her ear. She climbed out of the sports car and he sped off.

Ten minutes later, plastic bags in hand, she returned to her townhouse, a real find she’d been in for some years. She’d lucked into a duplex on the top floors of the four-story building and scraped together enough money to buy it instantly. The living space was a refuge from the chaos and demands of Wall Street law.

Up the stairs to the second floor, then the third.

Hm, the hallway light was out here. Odd, the maintenance in the building was great. Odd. It seemed the light bulb had fallen out and shattered. As she walked up to the fourth floor, where the entrance to her unit was, she fished in her pocket for her phone, thinking about calling him.

No, she’d wait. Get inside, take a shower, have a final glass of wine. She left the phone where it was and got her keys. Maybe—

Then the world went black and an explosion of pain soared through her head and as she pitched forward she felt the keys being lifted from her fingers.

“I think I’ve got it,” Rhyme said, looking over the list of book sales.

Lon Sellitto had joined them and had an arrest team ready to go, if Rhyme’s textbook theory panned out.

The criminalist continued, “A week after the special aired, somebody named James Ferguson, 734 East Sixty-eighth Street, bought a copy of my book. He’s not law enforcement. He ticked the box that said it was for professional research.”

“Ferguson,” Sachs said, “sounds familiar.”

Sellitto said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah! I interviewed him. He’s Simone Randall’s — the second vic’s — boss. He dropped her off in a cab about a half hour before she was attacked.”

“Data mine him, Mel. I want to know if he belongs to a health club. And, Sachs, find out the club that first victim belonged to.”

Sellitto nodded. “Right, good call. The vic’s boyfriend said she dated somebody from the club once, I think.”

In five minutes they had the answer. Both Ferguson and Jane Levine belonged to Lower Manhattan Health and Tennis.

“So, he’s our boy. Classic serial doer. Let’s find him, pick him up,” Sellitto said and reached for his phone.

“Hold on, Lon,” Rhyme said. “It’s not as simple as that.”

And Rhyme did something he never thought he’d ever do: started reading the witness statements, ignoring the evidence charts completely.

I’m dying, Vicki Sellick thought.

Why… why?

But she had no idea who was behind this and so she didn’t know why.

All she knew was that the asshole who’d slugged her over the head and tied her up here was trooping through the townhouse. She heard drawers opening, she heard doors closing.