Jeffery Deaver - The Bone Collector

Residence

•Prob. has safe house

•Located near:

•B’way &82nd,

•ShopRite •Greenwich & Bank,

Vehicle

•Yellow Cab

•Recent model sedan

•Lt. gray, silver, beige

Other

•knows CS proc.

•possibly has record

•knows FR prints

•gun =.32 Colt

•Ties vics w/ unusual knots

UNSUB 823 (page 2 of 3)

Appearance

•Ski mask? Navy blue?

•Gloves are dark

•Aftershave = Brut

•Hair color not brown

•Deep scar, index finger

Residence

•ShopRite • 8th Ave. & 24th,

•ShopRite Houston & Lafayette,

•ShopRite

•Old building, pink marble

•At least 100 years old, prob. mansion or institutional

Vehicle

•Rental car: prob. stolen

•Hertz, silver Taurus, this year’s model

Other

•“Old” appeals to him

•Called one vic “Hanna”

•Knows basic German

•Underground appeals to him

•Dual personalities

UNSUB 823 (page 3 of 3)

Appearance

•Casual clothes

•Gloves faded? Stained?

Residence

•ShopRite Houston & Lafayette,

•ShopRite

•Old building, pink marble

•At least 100 years old, prob. mansion or institutional

Vehicle

•Rental car: prob. stolen

•Hertz, silver Taurus, this year’s model

Other

•Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor

•Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot?

•Listened as he broke vic’s finger

•Left snake as slap at investigators

The wall clock’s pale numbers glowed: 5:45 a.m. His eyes returned to the poster. He couldn’t see it clearly, just a ghostly pattern of pure white against a lesser white. But there was enough light from the dawn sky to make out most of the words.

· Dual personalities

· Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor

· Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot?

· Listened as he broke vic’s finger

· Left snake as slap at investigators

The falcons were waking. He was aware of a flutter at the window. Rhyme’s eyes skipped over the chart again. In his office at IRD he’d nailed up a dozen erasable marker boards and on them he’d keep a tally of the characteristics of the unsubs in major cases. He remembered: pacing, staring at them, wondering about the people they described.

Molecules of paint, mud, pollen, leaf…

· Old building, pink marble

Thinking about a clever jewel thief he and Lon had collared ten years ago. At Central Booking the perp had coyly said they’d never find the loot from the prior jobs but if they’d consider a plea he’d tell them where he’d hidden it. Rhyme had responded, “Well, we have been having some trouble figuring out where it is.”

“I’m sure you have,” the snide crook said.

“See,” Rhyme continued, “we’ve narrowed it down to the stone wall in the coal bin of a Colonial farmhouse on the Connecticut River. About five miles north of Long Island Sound. I just can’t tell whether the house is on the east bank or the west bank of the river.”

When the story made the rounds the phrase everybody used to describe the expression on the perp’s face was: You had to fucking be there.

Maybe it is magic, Sachs, he thought.

· At least 100 years” old, prob. mansion or institutional

He scanned the poster once again and closed his eyes, leaning back into his glorious pillow. It was then that he felt the jolt. Almost like a slap on his face. The shock rose to his scalp like spreading fire. Eyes wide, locked onto the poster.

· “Old” appeals to him

“Sachs!” he cried. “Wake up!”

She stirred and sat up. “What? What’s…?”

Old, old, old…

“I made a mistake,” he said tersely. “There’s a problem.”

She thought at first it was something medical and she leapt from the couch, reaching for Thom’s medical bag.

“No, the clues, Sachs, the clues … I got it wrong.” His breathing was rapid and he ground his teeth together as he thought.

She pulled her clothes on, sat back, her fingers disappearing automatically into her scalp, scratching. “What, Rhyme? What is it?”

“The church. It might not be in Harlem.” He repeated, “I made a mistake.”

Just like with the perp who killed Colin Stanton’s family. In criminalistics you can nail down a hundred clues perfectly and it’s the one you miss that gets people killed.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Quarter to six, a little after. Get the newspaper. The church-services schedule.”

Sachs found the paper, thumbed through it. Then looked up. “What’re you thinking?”

“Eight twenty-three’s obsessed with what’s old. If he’s after an old black church then he might not mean uptown. Philip Payton started the Afro-American Realty Company in Harlem in 1900. There were two other black settlements in the city. Downtown where the courthouses are now and San Juan Hill. They’re mostly white now but… Oh, what the hell was I thinking of?”

“Where’s San Juan Hill?”

“Just north of Hell’s Kitchen. On the West Side. It was named in honor of all the black soldiers who fought in the Spanish-American War.”

She read through the paper.

“Downtown churches,” she said. “Well, in Battery Park there’s the Seamen’s Institute. A chapel there. They have services. Trinity. Saint Paul’s.”

“That wasn’t the black area. Farther north and east.”

“A Presbyterian church in Chinatown.”

“Any Baptist. Evangelical?”

“No, nothing in that area at all. There’s – Oh, hell.” With resignation in her eyes she sighed. “Oh, no.”

Rhyme understood. “Sunrise service!”

She was nodding. “Holy Tabernacle Baptist… Oh, Rhyme, there’s a gospel service starting at six. Fifty-ninth and Eleventh Avenue.”

“That’s San Juan Hill! Call them!”

She grabbed the phone and dialed the number. She stood, head down, fiercely plucking an eyebrow and shaking her head. “Answer, answer… Hell. It’s a recording. The minister must be out of his office.” She said into the receiver, “This is the New York Police Department. We have reason to believe there’s a firebomb in your church. Evacuate as fast as possible.” She hung up, pulled her shoes on.

“Go, Sachs. You’ve got to get there. Now!”

“Me?”

“We’re closer than the nearest precinct. You can be there in ten minutes.”

She jogged toward the door, slinging her utility belt around her waist.

“I’ll call the precinct,” he yelled as she leapt down the stairs, hair a red cloud around her head. “And Sachs, if you ever wanted to drive fast, do it now.”

The RRV wagon skidded into 81st Street, speeding west.

Sachs burst into the intersection at Broadway, skidded hard and whacked a New York Post vending machine, sending it through Zabar’s window before she brought the wagon under control. She remembered all the crime scene equipment in the back. Rear-heavy vehicle, she thought; don’t corner at fifty.

Then down Broadway. Brake at the intersections. Check left. Check right. Clear. Punch it!

She peeled off on Ninth Avenue at Lincoln Center and headed south. I’m only -

Oh, hell!

A mad stop on screaming tires.

The street was closed.

A row of blue sawhorses blocked Ninth for a street fair later that morning. A banner proclaimed, Crafts and Delicacies of all Nations. Hand in hand, we are all one.