"Here, it's coming in now," an agent called.
Dellray barked, "I want open lines to New York, Jersey and Connecticut DMVs. And Corrections and Parole. INS too. Tell 'em to stand by for an incoming ID request. Put everything else on hold."
Agents peeled off and began making phone calls.
The computer screen filled.
She couldn't believe that Dellray actually crossed his stickish fingers.
Utter silence throughout the room.
"Got him!" the agent at the keyboard shouted.
"Ain't no unsub anymore," Dellray sang melodically, bending over the screen. "Listen up, people. We gotta name: Victor Pietrs. Born here, 1948. His parents were from Belgrade. So, we got a Serbian connection. ID brought to us courtesy of New York D of C. Convictions for drugs, assault, one with a deadly. Two sentences served. Okay, listen to this--psychiatric history, committed three times on involuntary orders. Intake at Bellevue and Manhattan Psychiatric. Last release date three years ago. LKA Washington Heights."
He looked up. "Who's got the phone companies?"
Several agents raised their hands.
"Make the calls," Dellray ordered.
An interminable five minutes.
"Not there. No current New York Telephone listing."
"Nothing in Jersey," another agent echoed.
"Negative, Connecticut."
"Fuck-all," Dellray muttered. "Mix the names up. Try variations. An' lookit phone-service accounts canceled in the past year for nonpayment."
For several minutes voices rose and fell like the tide.
Dellray paced manically and Sachs understood why his frame was so scrawny.
Suddenly an agent shouted, "Found him!"
Everyone turned to look.
"I'm on with NY DMV," another agent called. "They've got him. It's coming through now. . . . He's a cabbie. Got a hack license."
"Why don' that s'prise me," Dellray muttered. "Shoulda thoughta that. Where's home sweet home?"
"Morningside Heights. A block from the river." The agent wrote down the address and held it aloft as Dellray swept past and took it. "Know the neighborhood. Pretty deserted. Lotta druggies."
Another agent typed the address into his computer terminal. "Okay, checking deeds . . . Property's an old house. A bank's got title. He must be renting."
"You want HRT?" one agent called across the bustling room. "I got Quantico on the line."
"No time," Dellray announced. "Use the field office SWAT. Get 'em suited up."
Sachs asked, "And what about the next victim?"
"What next victim?"
"He's already taken somebody. He knows we've had the clues for an hour or two. He'd've planted the vic awhile ago. He had to."
"No reports of anybody missing," the agent said. "And if he did snatch 'em they're probably at his house."
"No, they wouldn't be."
"Why not?"
"They'd pick up too much PE," she said. "Lincoln Rhyme said he has a safe house."
"Well, then we'll get him to tell us where they are."
Another agent said, "We can be real persuasive."
"Let's move it," Dellray called. "Yo, ever'body, let's thank Officer Amelia Sachs here. She's the one found that print and lifted it."
She was blushing. Could feel it, hated it. But she couldn't help herself. As she glanced down she noticed strange lines on her shoes. Squinting, she realized she was still wearing the rubber bands.
When she looked up she saw a room full of unsmiling federal agents checking weapons and heading for the door as they glanced at her. The same way, she thought, lumberjacks look at logs.
NINETEEN
In 1911 a tragedy of massive dimension befell our fair city.
On March 25, hundreds of industrious young women were hard at work in a garment factory, one of the many, known notoriously as "sweat-shops", in Greenwich Village in downtown Manhattan.
So enamored of profits were the owners of this company that they denied the poor girls in their employ even the rudimentary facilities that slaves might enjoy. They believed the laborers could not be trusted to make expeditious visits to the rest-room facilities and so kept the doors to the cutting and sewing rooms under lock and key.
The bone collector was driving back to his building. He passed a squad car but he kept his eyes forward and the constables never noticed him.
On the day in question a fire started on the eighth floor of the building and within minutes swept through the factory, from which the young employees tried to flee. They were unable to escape, however, owing to the chained state of the door. Many died on the spot and many more, some horribly afire, leapt into the air a hundred feet above the cobblestones and died from the collision with unyielding Mother Earth.
There numbered 146 victims of the Triangle Shirtwaist fire. The police, however, were confounded by the inability to locate one of the victims, a young woman, Esther Weinraub, whom several witnesses had seen leap in desperation from the eighth floor window. None of the other girls who similarly leapt survived the fall. Was it possible that she, miraculously, had? For when the bodies were laid out in the street for bereaved family member to identify, poor Miss Weinraub's was not to be found.
Reports began to circulate of a ghoul, a man seen carting off a large bundle from the scene of the fire. So incensed were the constables that someone might violate the sacred remains of an innocent young woman that they put on a still search for the man.
After several weeks, their diligent efforts bore fruit. Two residents of Greenwich Village reported seeing a man leaving the scene of the fire and carrying a heavy bundle "like a carpet" over his shoulder. The constables picked up his trail and tracked him to the West Side of the city, where they interviewed neighbors and learned that the man fit the description of James Schneider, who was still at large.
They narrowed their search to a decrepit abode in an alley in Hell's Kitchen, not far from the 60th Street stockyards. As they entered the alleyway they were greeted with a revolting stench. . . .
He was now driving past the very site of the Triangle fire itself--maybe he'd even been subconsciously prompted to come here. The Asch Building--the ironic name of the structure that had housed the doomed factory--was gone and the site was now a part of NYU. Then and now . . . The bone collector would not have been surprised to see white-bloused working girls, trailing sparks and faint smoke, tumbling gracefully to their deaths, falling around him like snow.
Upon breaking into Schneider's habitation, the authorities found a sight that sent even the most seasoned of them reeling with horror. The body of wretched Esther Weinraub--(or what remained of it)--was found in the basement. Schneider was bent on completing the work of the tragic fire and was slowly removing the woman's flesh through means too shocking to recount here.
A search of this loathsome place revealed a secret room, off the basement, filled with bones that had been stripped clean of flesh.
Beneath Schneider's bed, a constable found a diary, in which the madman chronicled his history of evil. "Bone"--(Schneider wrote)--"is the ultimate core of a human being. It alters not, deceives not, yields not. Once the facade of our intemperate ways of the flesh, the flawsof the lesser Races, and the weaker gender, are burnt or boiled away, we are--all of us--noble bone. Bone does not lie. It is immortal."
The lunatic writings set forth a chronicle of gruesome experimentation as he sought to ascertain the most effective way of cleansing his victims of their flesh. He tried boiling the bodies, burning them, rendering with lye, staking them out for animals, and immersing them in water.
But one method above all he favored for this macabre sport. "It is best, I have concluded"--(his diary continues)--"simply to bury the body in rich earth and let Nature do the tedious work. This is the most time-consuming method but the least likely to arouse suspicion as the odors are kept to a minimum. I prefer to inter the individuals while still alive, though why that might be I cannot say with any certainty."
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.
"ETA, four minutes," the driver called.
For some reason Dellray's thoughts flipped to Lincoln Rhyme. He regretted he'd been such a shit when he took over the ca
se. But there hadn't been much choice. Sellitto was a bulldog and Polling was a psycho--though Dellray could handle them. Rhyme was the one who made him uneasy. Sharp as a razor (hell, it had been his team that found Pietrs's print, even if they didn't jump on it as fast as they should've). In the old days, before his accident, you couldn't beat Rhyme if he didn't want to get beat. And you couldn't fool him either.
Now, Rhyme was a busted toy. It was a sad thing what could happen to a man, how you could die and still be alive. Dellray had walked into his room--his bedroom, no less--and hit him hard. Harder than he needed to.
Maybe he'd call. He could--
"Show time," the driver called, and Dellray forgot all about Lincoln Rhyme.
The vans turned onto the street where Pietrs lived. Most of the other streets they'd passed had been filled with sweating residents, clutching beer bottles and cigarettes, hoping for a breath or two of cool air. But this one was dark, empty.
The vans cruised slowly to a stop. Two dozen agents climbed out, in black tactical outfits, carrying their H&Ks equipped with muzzle lights and laser sights. Two homeless men stared at them; one quickly hid his bottle of Colt 44 malt liquor under his shirt.
Dellray gazed at a window in Pietrs's building; it gave off a faint yellow glow.
The driver backed the first van into a shadowy parking space and whispered to Dellray, "It's Perkins." Tapping his headset. "He's got the director on the horn. They want to know who's leading the assault."
"I am," snapped the Chameleon. He turned to his team. "I want surveillance across the street and in the alleys. Snipers, there, there and there. An' I want ever'body in place fi' minutes ago. Are we all together on that?"
Down the stairs, the old wood creaking.
His arm around her, he guided the woman, half-conscious from the blow to her head, into the basement. At the foot of the stairs, he shoved her to the dirt floor and gazed down at her.
Esther . . .
Her eyes rose to meet his. Hopeless, begging. He didn't notice. All he saw was her body. He began to remove her clothing, the purple jogging outfit. It was unthinkable that a woman would actually go outside in this day and age wearing what was no more than, well, undergarments. He hadn't thought that Esther Weinraub was a whore. She'd been a working girl, stitching shirts, five for a penny.