The Bone Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 1)

"Maybe he didn't leave any this time," Sachs suggested. "Maybe Monelle's the last."

"No," Rhyme said with certainty.

Then behind one of the wooden pillars a flash caught her eye.

"Here's something in the corner . . . Yep. Here they are."

"Shoot it 'fore you touch it."

She took a photograph and then picked up a wad of white cloth with the pencils. "Women's underwear. Wet."

"Semen?"

"I don't know," she said. Wondering if he was going to ask her to smell it.

Rhyme ordered, "Try the PoliLight. Proteins will fluoresce."

She fetched the light, turned it on. It illuminated the cloth but the liquid didn't glow. "No."

"Bag it. In plastic. What else?" he asked eagerly.

"A leaf. Long, thin, pointed at one end."

It had been cut sometime ago and was dry and turning brown.

She heard Rhyme sigh in frustration. "There're about eight thousand varieties of deciduous vegetation in Manhattan," he explained. "Not very helpful. What's underneath the leaf?"

Why does he think there's anything there?

But there was. A scrap of newsprint. Blank on one side, the other was printed with a drawing of the phases of the moon.

"The moon?" Rhyme mused. "Any prints? Spray it with ninhydrin and scan it fast with the light."

A blast of the PoliLight revealed nothing.

"That's all."

Silence for a moment. "What're the clues sitting on?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"You have to know."

"Well, the ground," she answered testily. "Dirt." What else would they be sitting on?

"Is it like all the rest of the dirt around there?"

"Yes." Then she looked closely. Hell, it was different. "Well, not exactly. It's a different color."

Was he always right?

Rhyme instructed, "Bag it. In paper."

As she scooped up the grains he said, "Amelia?"

"Yeah?"

"He's not there," Rhyme said reassuringly.