The Skin Collector(Lincoln Rhyme)

Chapter 12





‘How’re we doing, rookie?’

Sitting on a stool in Rhyme’s parlor, Ron Pulaski was hunched over the computer keyboard. He was narrowing down the locations in the city from which the Inwood marble trace might have come. ‘Moving slow. It’s not just blasting for foundations. There’s a lot of demolition going on in the city too. And it’s November. In this weather. Who would’ve thought? I—’

A mobile phone buzzed. The young officer fished into his pocket and removed the unit. It was the prepaid.

The Watchmaker undercover assignment was heating up. Rhyme was encouraged that somebody had called the officer so quickly.

And what would the substance of the conversation be?

He heard some pleasantries. Then: ‘Yes, about the remains. Richard Logan. Right.’ He wandered off to the corner. Rhyme could hear no more.

But he noted Pulaski’s grave expression – a pun that Rhyme decided not to share, given that this assignment seemed to be weighing on the man.

After two or three minutes Pulaski disconnected and jotted notes.

‘And?’ Rhyme asked.

Pulaski said, ‘They transferred Logan’s body to the Berkowitz Funeral Home.’

‘Where?’ Rhyme asked. It sounded familiar.

‘Not far from here. Upper Broadway.’

‘A memorial service?’

‘No, just somebody’s coming to pick up his ashes on Thursday.’

Without looking up from the large computer monitor, Rhyme muttered, ‘Nothing from the FBI on sources for the poisons and not a goddamn thing about “the second”. Though I suppose we can’t be too optimistic about that. Who?’

Neither Pulaski nor Cooper responded. Sachs too was silent.

‘Well?’ Rhyme called.

‘Well what?’ From Cooper.

‘I’m asking Pulaski. Who’ll be where? To pick up Logan’s ashes? Did you ask the funeral director who’d be there?’


‘No.’

‘Well, why not?’

‘Because,’ the patrol officer replied, ‘it’d seem suspicious, don’t you think, Lincoln? What if it’s the Watchmaker’s silent partner coming to pay his last respects and the director casually mentions that somebody was curious who’s going to be there – which isn’t really a question you’d ask—’

‘All right. Made your point.’

‘A good point,’ Cooper said.

A fair point.

Then Rhyme was thinking again about the message of the tattoo on Chloe Moore’s body. He doubted that ‘the second’ was part of a findable quotation at all. Maybe it was something that the unsub had spontaneously chosen and couldn’t be tracked down. And maybe there was no meaning at all behind it.

A distraction, a misdirection.

Smoke and mirrors …

But if you do mean something, what could it be? Why are you playing your thoughts out like fishing line?

‘I don’t know,’ Cooper said.

Apparently Rhyme had spoken the query to the cryptic perp aloud.

‘Damn message,’ he muttered.

Everyone in the room looked at it once more.

‘… the second, the second …’

‘Anagram?’ the tech suggested.

Rhyme scanned the letters. Nothing significant appeared by rearranging them. ‘Anyway, I have a feeling the message is mysterious enough. He doesn’t need to play Scrabble with us. So, rookie, you’ll be going undercover to the funeral home. You okay with that?’

‘Sure.’

Spoken too quickly, Rhyme reflected. He knew this reluctance about the job had nothing to do with physical risk. Even if the late Watchmaker’s mantle had been inherited by an associate, and he was the one collecting the ashes, he wasn’t going to pull out a gun in a funeral parlor and start a shootout with an undercover cop. No, it was a fear of inadequacy that plagued the young officer, all thanks to the head injury he’d suffered some years ago. Pulaski was great in searching crime scenes. He was good, for a non-scientist, in the lab. But when he had to deal with people and make fast decisions, uncertainties and hesitations arose. ‘We’ll talk about what to wear, how to act, who to be, later.’

Pulaski nodded, slipped away the phone, which he’d been kneading nervously in his hand, and returned to the Inwood marble job.

Rhyme now eased his Merits wheelchair close to the examination table on which rested evidence from the Chloe Moore murder in SoHo. Then he lifted his gaze to the monitor above it, the one displaying the photos Sachs had taken at the scene, glowing in difficult, high-definition glory. He studied the dead woman’s face, the flecks of spittle, the rictus, the vomit, the wide, glazed eyes. The expression reflected her last moments on earth. The deadly toxin extracted from a water hemlock would have induced fierce seizures and excruciating abdominal pain.

Why poison? Rhyme wondered again.

And why a tattoo gun as a means of slipping it into her body?

‘Hell,’ Sachs muttered, leaning away from her own work-station. She was helping Pulaski trace commercial blasting permits. ‘The computer’s down again. Happened twice in the past twenty minutes. Just like the phones earlier.’

‘Not just here,’ Thom said. ‘Outages all over the city. Slow download times. A real pain. About a dozen neighborhoods’ve been affected.’

Rhyme snapped, ‘Great. Just what we need.’ You couldn’t run a criminal investigation now without computers, from DMV to encrypted police and national security agency databases to Google. If the stream was choked off, cases ground to a halt. And you never thought about how dependent you were on those invisible bits and bytes until the flow of data choked to a stop.

Sachs announced, ‘Okay, it’s back now.’

But the concerns about the World Wide Web were sidelined when Lon Sellitto, tugging off his coat, burst into Rhyme’s parlor. He tossed the Burberry onto a chair, piled his gloves atop the garment and pulled something out of his briefcase.

Rhyme looked at him, frowning.

Sellitto said defensively, ‘I’ll mop the f*cking floor, Linc.’

‘I don’t care about the floor. Why would I care about the floor? I want to know what you have in your hand.’

Sellitto wiped sweat. His internal thermometer was unaffected, apparently, by the coldest, nastiest November in the past twenty-five years. ‘First off, I found a tattoo artist who’s going to help and he’s on his way. Or he better be. TT Gordon. You should see the mustache.’

‘Lon.’

‘Now this.’ He held up a book. ‘Those guys at HQ? They tracked down where that scrap of paper came from.’

Rhyme’s heart beat faster – a sensation that most people would feel in their chest but that for him, of course, registered simply as an upped pulsing in his neck and head, the only sensate parts of his body.

ies

that his greatest skill was his ability to anticipate

‘How’d they do it, Lon?’ Sachs asked.

Sellitto continued, ‘You know Marty Belson, Major Cases.’

‘Oh, the brainiac.’

‘Right. Loves his puzzles. Does Sudoku in his sleep.’ Sellitto explained to Rhyme: ‘Works financial crimes mostly. Anyway, he figured out the top letters were part of the title, you know how books have the author’s name at the top of one side and the title at the top of the facing page?’

‘We know. Keep going.’

‘He was playing with what words end in “ies”?’

Rhyme said, ‘A word on the reverse page was “body”, so that’s an option, pluralized. We speculated it was a crime book. Or given the corpse theme, maybe Enemies.’

‘Nope. Cities. The full title is Serial Cities. That was on the short list of about six that Marty came up with. He called all the major book publishers in town – there aren’t as many as there used to be – and read them the passages. One editor recognized it. He said his company’d published it a long time ago. Serial Cities. It’s out of print now but he even knew the chapter that the passage was from. Number Seven. Had a copy messengered to us.’

Excellent! Rhyme asked, ‘And what’s this special chapter about?’

Sellitto wiped more sweat. ‘You, Linc. It’s all about you.’