Jeffery Deaver - The Bone Collector

“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.

“That liquid… in the underwear,” she said to Rhyme. “Could it be salt water?”

“Salt water?” Cooper pored over the GC-MS chart. “Of course! Water and sodium and other minerals. And the oil, phosphates. It’s polluted seawater.”

Her eyes met Rhyme’s and they said simultaneously, “High tide!”

She held up the paper, open to the weather map. It contained a phases-of-the-moon diagram identical to the one found at the scene. Below it was a tidal chart. “High tide’s in forty minutes.”

Rhyme’s face curled in disgust. He was never angrier than when he was angry with himself. “He’s going to drown the vic. They’re under a pier downtown.” He looked hopelessly at the map of Manhattan, with its miles of shoreline. “Sachs, time to play race-car driver again. You and Banks go west. Lon, why don’t you take the East Side? Around the South Street Seaport. And Mel, figure out what the hell that leaf is!”