The Bone Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 1)

"I guess."

"I heard something in your voice."

"I'm fine," she said shortly. "I'm smelling the air. I smell blood. Mold and mildew. And the aftershave again."

"The same as before?"

"Yes."

"Where's it coming from?"

Sniffing the air, Sachs walked in a spiral, the Maypole again, until she came to another wooden post.

"Here. It's strongest right here."

"What's 'here,' Amelia? You're my legs and my eyes, remember."

"One of these wooden columns. Like the kind she was tied to. About fifteen feet away."

"So he might have rested against it. Any prints?"

She sprayed it with ninhydrin and shone the light on it.

"No. But the smell's very strong."

"Sample a portion of the post where it's the strongest. There's a MotoTool in the case. Black. A portable dr

ill. Take a sampling bit--it's like a hollow drill bit--and mount it in the tool. There's something called a chuck. It's a--"

"I own a drill press," she said tersely.

"Oh," Rhyme said.

She drilled a piece of the post out, then flicked sweat from her forehead. "Bag it in plastic?" she asked. He told her yes. She felt faint, lowered her head and caught her breath. No fucking air in here.

"Anything else?" Rhyme asked.

"Nothing that I can see."

"I'm proud of you, Amelia. Come on back and bring your treasures with you."

SIXTEEN

Careful," Rhyme barked.

"I'm an expert at this."

"Is it new or old?"

"Shhh," Thom said.

"Oh, for Christ's sake. The blade, is it old or new?"

"Don't breathe. . . . Ah, there we go. Smooth as a baby's butt."

The procedure was not forensic but cosmetic.

Thom was giving Rhyme his first shave in a week. He had also washed his hair and combed it straight back.