The Skin Collector

‘No, but it was creative thinking, Lincoln. Just what I’d expect of you.’ Another pause. Rhyme imagined that he was checking his own timepiece. ‘Now I think it’s best to say goodbye, Lincoln. I’ve been on the line a little too long. Sometimes those proxies and phone switches can  be traced, you know. Not that you’d ever try.’ A chuckle. ‘Till we meet again …’

Next week, next month, next year.

The line went dead.

VI

SKIN AND BONE

CHAPTER 79

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 12

1:00 P.M.

Ron Pulaski had assumed the job of scouring the Berkowitz Funeral Home for evidence and witnesses, searching for any clues that might lead to the Watchmaker.

He seemed to take the failure of his undercover mission to heart, though he could hardly be blamed; the Watchmaker had recognized him immediately. He’d seen the young officer as part of his project in New York a few years ago.

Moreover, Rhyme knew, even if it had been a righteous set, the kid was  a pretty bad actor. The best thespians didn’t play characters; they became  them.

Gielgud …

So the young officer had collected trace from the documents at the funeral home that Richard Logan – or whatever his real name might be – had signed and where he’d collected the box containing the ashes of the unidentified homeless man from the city morgue. He’d interviewed everyone who’d been at the parlor when the Watchmaker had, including the relatives of someone named Benjamin Ardell, also known as Jo

Nor were there any among the New York Bureau of Investigation agents, who’d also been scammed by the Watchmaker. The agents hadn’t had much contact with ‘Dave Weller’, other than phone calls. And the mobile he’d contacted them on, diming out Pulaski, was, of course, long gone. Batteries in one sewer, snapped in half handset in another.

Sachs was handling a different portion of the case, tracking down the insiders who’d helped Logan escape, medical workers, an attendant in the New York City morgue and various prison guards. To Rhyme it seemed they’d taken an astronomical risk. If it was discovered that the Watchmaker was alive, then the ring of suspects would be quite small; they were sure to be detected. But, Rhyme supposed, it wasn’t the Watchmaker’s problem if they didn’t hide the bribes he’d paid them or had failed to come up with credible alibis after they’d faked the medical reports and death certificate.

You have to be smart to earn a few million bucks illegally.

One or two had skipped town but it was only a matter of time until they were tracked down. Not a good idea to use your real credit card when you’re on the lam. Natural selection applies to criminal activity, as well as to newts and simians.

Rhyme was handling part of the investigation too, though not the evidentiary part, curiously. The criminalist had made some meticulous plans of his own.

Probably nothing would come of them but he couldn’t afford to pass up any opportunity.

He now gazed out the window, examining the clime – overcast again, white and gray – and he wondered, Where are you? And what are you up to? Why did you break into the Met? And what part of that plot do you need me alive for?

Thom appeared in the doorway. ‘I talked to Rachel. Leave in an hour?’

‘That’ll do,’ Rhyme replied.

The journey he was referring to would take them to the medical center. Lon Sellitto had regained consciousness. Even in his frail state, the detective remained true to his nature. Rachel reported that his reaction upon swimming into a waking state had been to look down at his belly and mutter, smiling, ‘Fuck, I musta lost thirty pounds.’

Only then had he inquired about the Unsub 11 5 case.

But there were still many questions about his recovery. He had been, and would continue to be, treated with chelation drugs, which bind and deactivate toxins. Recovery is better with patients who’ve had chronic exposure, such as industrial workers (or victims of patiently homicidal spouses), but problematic with acute attacks, as in Sellitto’s case. The jury was still out on the detective’s long term improvement. Nerve damage, liver and renal issues were possibilities.

Maybe even permanent paralysis.

Time would tell.

Amelia Sachs walked into the parlor. ‘Lon?’ she asked.

‘Leave here in about an hour.’

‘Should we get flowers?’ she asked.

Rhyme muttered, ‘I’ve arranged for flowers once this week. I’m not doing it again.’

Just at that moment the lab phone rang. Sachs, in a position to view caller ID on a monitor, said quickly, ‘Rhyme. I think it’s going down.’

He wheeled closer.

‘Ah.’

Then punched accept call.

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Rhyme, it’s Jason? Jason Heatherly?’ The u

‘I remember you, Mr Heatherly.’

How could Rhyme not? They’d spoken at length only a week ago.

‘Well, it’s – I don’t know how to explain this – but what you said might happen happened.’

Rhyme and Sachs shared a smile.

‘It’s gone. Impossible but it’s gone. The alarms were set when I left last night. They were set when I got here this morning. Nothing was disturbed. Not a thing out of place. Not. A. Thing. But it’s gone.’

‘Really.’

The ‘it’ the worked up jeweler was referring to was a watch. The Mikhail Semyonovitch Bro

Contrary to what he’d told the Watchmaker, Rhyme had not believed the man had any co

And how better to snare a man whose strength – and weakness – was time and timepieces than by using a rare watch?

Rhyme had found out that a Bro

Rhyme had called Fred Dellray and learned that there was an art dealer under indictment for tax evasion, Jason Heatherly. Dellray got the US attorney to drop a few of the charges if Heatherly cooperated; the feds wanted the Watchmaker back in the slammer as much as Rhyme and the NYPD did.

Heatherly agreed and the watch was delivered to him and put on display in a case in his Upper East Side antiques store/art gallery.

In his conversation with the Watchmaker a week ago Rhyme had brought up the Bone Collector and then casually segued to the Bro

Apparently it was.

Several days after the conversation, Heatherly reported that a man had called, inquiring about any watches the gallery might have for sale – though asking nothing specific about the Bro

Rhyme and a task force had debated how to handle it. The bureau wanted surveillance and a take down team near the gallery, ready to move in as soon as somebody came in to buy or steal the watch. Rhyme said no. The Watchmaker would spot them instantly. They should take a different approach, more subtle.

So FBI and NYPD surveillance experts had installed a miniature tracker in the metal fob of the watch. The device would remain powered down, undetectable by any radio wave sensors, most of the time. Every two days, it would – for a millisecond – beam its location to the ICGSN, the International Consolidated Geopositioning Satellite Network, which blanketed nearly every populated area on earth. Then go quiescent.