The Skin Collector

  Undercover cops? He had a feeling they were. They might not have been part of the actual manhunt - were here investigating a drug deal, maybe - but they'd heard the alert, and now believed they had the Underground Man.

  One made a brief call and Billy had a feeling that it had been placed to Lincoln Rhyme. No basis for this, but instinct told him the cop was a friend and colleague of Rhyme's.

  A train was approaching but was still two hundred yards away. The men whispered something to each other and then walked his way, steadying themselves in the wind.

  He'd been so careful, so smart in escaping from the doctors' office building. Was he about to get caught because of a coincidence? Two cops who happened nearby.

  Billy was nowhere near the exit. If he ran, he'd never make it in time. Could he jump?

  No, twenty feet to the traffic-filled street below. He'd break bones.

  Billy decided he'd just have to bluff. He had a city employee ID, which would pass fast examination, but one call to downtown and they'd find out it was fake. He also had legitimate ID, which was, technically, a breach of the Commandments.

  Thou shalt remain unidentifiable.

  But, of course, that wouldn't work. One radio or phone call and they'd find out who he really was.

  He'd have to go on the offense. He'd pretend to ignore the men until they were right next to him and turn, smiling. Then he would shove one, or both, onto the tracks. He could escape in the chaos afterwards.

  A messy plan. Clumsy and dangerous. But, he decided, there was little choice.

  The men were getting closer now. Smiling but Billy didn't trust that expression for a second.

  The train was near now. A hundred feet away, eighty, thirty ...

  He looked for guns on the men's hips, but they hadn't unbuttoned their coats. He glanced toward the exit, judged timing and distance.

  Get ready. The big one. Push him first. Lincoln Rhyme's buddy.

  The train was almost to the platform.

  The taller of the two men, the one who was about to die first, nodded as he caught Billy's eye.

  Wait, wait. Give it ten seconds more. Eight, seven, six ...

  Billy tensed.

  Four, three ...

  The man then smiled. 'Eric?'

  'I'm, uhm, I'm sorry?'

  'Are you Eric Wilson?'

  The train rushed into the station and squealed to a stop.

  'Me? No.'

  'Oh, hey, you look just like the son of a guy I work with. Sorry to bother you.'

  'No problem.' Billy's hands were trembling, his jaw too, and only partly from the cold.

  The men turned and walked away, toward the train, which was now discharging passengers.

  Billy walked onto the subway car, choosing a spot to stand that was close enough to the men to hear their conversation. Yes, he realized, they were just as they seemed to be - businessmen who'd finished some meeting uptown and were heading back to their office on Madison Avenue to write up some reports about how the meeting had gone.

  Brakes released, and with a grind the train started south, rocking, squealing through the switches.

  Soon they were in Manhattan, and diving beneath the surface. The Underground Man was in his world once again.

  It had been a risk, taking the subway, but at least he'd minimized the danger. And apparently won. Rather than take the Number One train or the Number Four - the next one east - or even the B and D, he'd sped the several miles to the Allerton Avenue station, to catch the Number Two train. He'd assumed that someone - well, Lincoln Rhyme of course - might have ordered officers to the closer stations. But even the NYPD didn't have the resources to search everywhere. He'd hoped his brisk pace would put him beyond the reach of a manhunt.

  Apparently this was so.

  As they sped south, Billy reflected: You're not the only one who can anticipate, Captain Rhyme.

  CHAPTER 26

  Mr 11-5 knows what he's doing, Lincoln Rhyme reflected yet again, as he guided his Merits to the evidence examination table, where Mel Cooper and Sachs were examining the evidence from the hospital.

  Despite her exhaustive search of the corridors, the doctors' office building and the 'skin museum', the evidentiary findings from the abortive assault on Harriet Stanton were minimal.

  There were no friction ridges; he'd been clever enough not to actually touch Harriet with his fingers (prints can be lifted off skin). He'd either gripped only her clothing or touched her flesh with his sleeves. And somewhere between fleeing the site of the attack in the basement and his slipping into the specimens room, he'd pulled on latex gloves (not vinyl, which display distinctive wrinkle patterns that can be introduced at trial).

  But unlike the earlier scenes, he'd been taken by surprise, so he didn't have the chance to don booties. Sachs got some good electrostatic footprints.

  Size eleven Bass shoe, though that meant only that he was wearing a size eleven Bass shoe, not that he had size eleven feet.

  The wear pattern of the tread marks, which sometimes could give details about weight and posture, didn't reveal much but, Rhyme reflected, who cared? They knew his weight and posture.

  Sachs rolled the floor around the footprints for trace, just in case. But Mel Cooper reported that the analysis revealed, 'A lot of Inwood marble and more of the cleanser and medical materials that had led us to the hospital in the first place. Some of the cleanser again. Nothing else.'

  She had found some unique trace in the specimens room, identified by the chromatograph/spectrometer as dimethicone, which was used in cosmetics and industrial lubricants and processed foods to prevent caking. Interestingly it was also the primary ingredient in Silly Putty. Rhyme didn't dismiss this fact immediately but after some consideration decided that the novelty toy didn't figure in the unsub's plan.

  'I think he picked dimethicone up when he grabbed Mrs Stanton.' Sachs explained that, as a woman in her fifties, she had worn a fair amount of makeup. Sachs dug out her mobile and called the number Harriet had given her. She answered and, after Sachs gave her an update of the case, got the brand name of the woman's preferred makeup products. Running the manufacturer's website, Sachs learned that dimethicone was in fact one of the ingredients in her foundation.

  Dead end there.

  And no other trace or fibers.

  As she wrote the details up on the whiteboard chart Sachs said, 'One other thing. I saw he had a tattoo on his--' She frowned. 'Yes, his left arm. An animal or some kind of creature. Maybe a dragon. From that thriller book. The Dragon Tattoo. In red.'

  'Right,' Sellitto added, looking at his notebook. 'Harriet Stanton said he had one. She didn't see what it was, though.'

  'Any trace of the poison he intended to use on the vic?' Pulaski asked Cooper.

  'Nothing. No toxins on anything that Amelia collected.'

  'I think we can assume he keeps his love potions sealed up until he's ready to start using them.' Rhyme was wondering again: Why that MO? Poison was a rare murder weapon now. The technique of killing with toxins, popular through the ages, began to fall out of fashion long ago, in the mid-1800s, after the famed English chemist James Marsh invented a test that could detect arsenic in tissue postmortem. Tests for other toxins soon followed. Homicidal husbands and greedy heirs, who'd believed that doctors would rule cause of death coronary or stroke or illness, began ending up in prison or on the gallows after early forensic detectives presented their cases in court.

  Some substances like ethylene glycol - automotive coolant - were still fed to husbands by unhappy wives, and Homeland Security worried about all sorts of toxins as terrorist weapons, ranging from castor beans turned into ricin, to cyanide, to botulinum, which was the deadliest substance in existence (a very mild form of which was used in cosmetic Botox injections); a few kilograms of botulinum could kill every person on earth.

  Yet poisons were cumbersome and detectable and hard to administer, not to mention potentially lethal to the poisoners. Why do you love them so much? Rhyme sile
ntly asked the unsub.

  Mel Cooper interrupted his musings. 'It was a close call at the hospital. Do you think he'll go away?'

  Rhyme grunted.

  'That means no?'

  Sachs interpreted. 'That means no.'

  'The only question,' Rhyme said, 'is where's he going to strike next?' He wheeled to the board. 'The answer's there. Maybe.'

  * * *

  Upper Manhattan Medical Center

  Victim: Harriet Stanton, 53 - Tourist

  - Not hurt

  Unsub 11-5 - See details, prior scene

  - Red tattoo on left arm

  - Russian or Slavic in appearance

  - Light blue eyes

  - No accent

  - Size 11 Bass shoes

  - No friction ridges

  - Spent time in Specimens Room at hospital ('skin museum')

  Trace - No toxin found

  - Dimethicone

  But probably from makeup worn by Harriet Stanton

  * * *

  CHAPTER 27

  Provence2 was crowded.

  As soon as the Times had bestowed its stars, this hole-in-the-wall in Hell's Kitchen had been inundated with folks desperate to cram into the loud, frantic rooms and to sample dishes that were a fusion of two southern cuisines, American and French.

  Fried chicken with capers and ratatouille.

  Les escargots avec grits.

  Improbable. But the dish works ...

  Straddled by a warehouse to the south and a chic steel-and-glass office building to the north, the restaurant was housed in a structure typical of those on the west side of Midtown: a century old, angled floors that snapped and creaked underfoot, and ceilings of hammered tin. Low archways led from one cramped dining room to the next and the walls were sandblasted brick, which did nothing to dim the din.

  Lighting was low, courtesy of yellow bulbs in what seemed to be lamp fixtures as old as the structure itself (though they'd come not from a Victorian-era ironworks on the Hudson but a factory outside Seoul).

  At one of the tables in the back, the conversation ricocheted like an air-hockey puck.

  'He doesn't have a chance. It's ridiculous.'

  'Did you hear about his girlfriend?'

  'She's not his girlfriend.'

  'She is his girlfriend, it was on Facebook.'

  'Anyway I don't even think she's a girl.'

  'Ooo. That's sweet.'

  'When the press finds out, he's toast. Let's get another bottle. The Chablis.'

  Samantha Levine listened to her companions' banter but not with her full attention. For one thing, she wasn't much concerned about local politics. The candidate they were speaking of probably wouldn't win the next election but not because of girlfriends who might or might not pass the physical but because he was bland and petty. You needed the quality of more to be mayor of the city of New York.

  You needed that je ne sais quoi, y'all.

  Apart from that, though, Samantha's thoughts kept returning to her job. Major trouble lately. She'd worked late - close to eight p.m., a half hour ago - then hurried here from her office in the glitzy building next door to join her friends. She tried a memory dump of the concerns she'd lugged with her but in the high-tech world you couldn't really escape from the puzzle and problems you faced every day. Sure, there were advantages: You could wear - as she did now - jeans and sweaters (tank tops in the summer), you made six figures, you could be inked or studded, you could work flex hours, you could bring a pillow couch to your office and use that for your desk.

  Only you had to produce.

  And be one step ahead of the competition.

  And, fuck, there was a lot of competition out there.

  The capital-I Internet. What a place. So much money, so many chances for breathtaking success. And for bottomless fuck-ups.

  The thirty-two-year-old, with a voluptuous figure, ornery brown and purple hair and big doey Japanese anime dark eyes, sipped more white wine and tried to focus past a particularly difficult meeting with her boss not long ago, a meeting that had floated in her thoughts ever since.

  Put. It. Away.

  Finally, she managed to. Spearing and eating a wedge of fried green tomato topped with ground anchovies, she turned her attention back to her friends. Smiling, all of them (except Text Girl), as Raoul - her roommate, yes, just a roommate - was telling a story about her. He was an assistant to a fashion photog who shot for Vogue-wannabe mags, all online. The slim, bearded boss had come to pick up Raoul in the apartment they shared in Chelsea and he'd looked over Samantha's T-shirt and PJ bottoms, sprouting hair tamed with mismatched rubber bands and very, very serious glasses. 'Hmmmm. Can I shoot you?'

  'Oh, you're the one got the contract for the Geek Girl calendar?' Samantha had offered. Raoul now gave his delivery a little extra oomph and the table roared.

  This was a good group. Raoul and James - his best bud - and Louise from Samantha's office and Some Other Woman, who'd arrived on James's arm. Was her name Katrina or Katharine or Karina? Jamie's blonde of the week. Samantha had dubbed her Text Girl.

  The men continued their discussion of politics, as if they had money on the outcome of the election, Louise was now trying to discuss something serious with Samantha and the K woman texted some more.

  'Be back,' Samantha said.

  She rose and started along the antique floor, which was - after the three glasses of anti-stress wine - not as even as it had been when she'd arrived. Easy, girl. You can drink-fall in the Hamptons, you can drink-fall in Cape May. You don't drink-fall in Manhattan.

  Two flirts from the tiny bar. She ignored them, though she ignored one less stridently than the other. It was the fellow sitting by himself at the end. He was a slim guy, pale - only-goes-out-at-night kind of skin. Painter or sculptor or some other artist, she guessed. Handsome, though there might be a weak-chin factor if he looked down. Piercing eyes. They offered one of those glances. Samantha called them 'laps', as in a dog lapping up food.

  She got a chill. Because the look went on a little too long and then got scary.

  He was undressing her, looking over her body.

  She regretted tapping his eyes with hers. And continued quickly to the most challenging route the restaurant offered: the narrow stairway down to the restrooms in the basement.

  Clunk, clunk ...

  She made it.

  Dark and quiet down here, clean, which had surprised her the first time she'd come to the place. The people who'd renovated had spent plenty of time making the dining rooms rough-edged rustic (yeah, we get it: French and American countryside), but the bathrooms were pure SoHo. Slate, recessed lighting, ornamental grasses for decoration. Mapplethorpe on the walls but nothing too weird. No whips, no butts.

  Samantha walked to the W, tried the door.

  Locked. She grimaced. Provence2 wasn't big but no fucking restaurant in the world should have a single-occupancy women's room. Were the owners crazy?

  Creaks overhead, from footsteps on the sprung wood flooring. Muted voices.

  Thinking of the man at the bar.

  What was I doing, looking back at him like that? Jesus. Be a little smarter. Okay? Why flirt? You've got Elliott from work. He isn't a dream boy but he's decent and dependable and watches PBS. Next time he asks, say yes. He has those sweet eyes and he's probably even pretty decent in bed.

  Come on, I've gotta pee. One damn restroom?

  Then, with a different pitch of creak, footsteps were coming down the stairs.

  Clunk, clunk ...

  Samantha's heart thudded. She knew it was the flirter, the dangerous one.

  She saw boots appearing on the steps. Men's ankle boots. Out of the '70s. Weird.

  Her head swiveled. She was at the far end of the corridor. Nowhere to go from here. No exits. What do I do if he rushes me? The decibel level in the restaurant itself was piercing; nobody would hear. I left my cell phone upstairs, I -

  Then: Relax. You're not alone. There was the bimb in the restroom. She'd h
ear a scream.

  Besides, nobody, however horny, would risk a rape in a restaurant corridor.

  More likely it would be just an Awkward Incident. The slim guy coming on too strong, pushing the flirt, growing angry, but ultimately backing off. How many dozens of times had that happened? The worst injury would be branding her a cocktease.

  Which was what happened when women glanced at a guy. Different rules. When men did the glancing, oh, it was all right. With men, oh, that's what they do.

  Would things ever change?

  But then: What if he was a real psycho? With a knife? A slasher. The man's piercing eyes had suggested maybe he was. And there was that murder just the other day - some girl in SoHo killed in the basement.

  Just like here. Hell, I'll hold it--

  Then Samantha barked a laugh.

  The boot-wearer appeared. A fat old guy in a suit and string tie. A tourist from Dallas or Houston. He glanced at her once, nodded a vague greeting and walked into the men's room.

  Then she was turning back to the door of the W.

  Come on, honey. Jesus. You got your slutty makeup on just right? Or are you puking up your fourth Cosmo? Samantha gripped the knob again to remind the inconsiderate occupant that there was a queue.

  The handle turned.

  Hell, she thought. It'd been unlocked all along. She'd probably turned it the wrong way a moment ago.

  How stupid can you be? She pushed inside and swept the light on, letting the door swing shut.

  And saw the man standing behind it. He wore coveralls and a stocking cap. In a flash he locked the door.

  Oh, Jesusjesusjesus ...

  His face was burned! No, distorted, mushed under a latex hood, transparent but yellow. And rubber gloves, the same color, on his hands. On his left arm, a sliver of a red tattoo was visible between the end of the glove and the start of the sleeve. An insect, with pincers, spiny legs, but human eyes.

  'Ahhhh, no, no, no ...'

  She spun about fast, grabbing at the door, but he got to her first, arm around her chest. And she felt a sharp pain as he punched her neck.

  Kicking, starting to scream, but he clapped a thick cloth over her mouth. The sounds were absorbed.

  And then she noticed a small door across from the toilet, two by three feet or so, open onto a blackness - a tunnel or passage to an even deeper basement, below the restaurant.