Jeffery Deaver - The Bone Collector

In his heretofore secret room three more bodies were discovered in this very condition. The splayed hands and agog faces of the poor victims attest that they were indeed alive when Schneider piled the last shovelful of dirt upon their tormented crowns.

It was these dark designs that prompted the journalists of the day to christen Schneider with the name by which he was forever after known: – “The Bone Collector.”

He drove on, his mind returning to the woman in the trunk, Esther Weinraub. Her thin elbow, her collarbone delicate as a bird’s wing. He sped the cab forward, even risked running two red lights. He couldn’t wait much longer.

“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.