"She married?"
"Naw. A face and bod like that, you'da thought some good-lookin' hunk woulda snagged her by now. But she doesn't even date. We heard she was going with somebody a few years ago but she never talks about it." He lowered his voice. "Lipstick lesbos's what the rumor is. But I don't know from that--my social life's picking up women at the laundromat on Saturday night. Hey, it works. What can I say?"
You'll have to learn to give up the dead. . . .
Rhyme was thinking about the look on her face when he'd said that to her. What was that all about? Then he grew angry with himself for spending any time thinking about her. And took a good slug of Scotch.
The doorbell rang, then footsteps on the stairs. Rhyme and Sellitto glanced toward the doorway. The sound was from the boots of a tall man, wearing city-issue jodhpurs and a blue helmet. One of NYPD's elite mounted police. He handed a bulky envelope to Sellitto and returned down the stairs.
The detective opened it. "Lookit what we got here." He poured the contents onto the table. Rhyme glanced up with irritation. Three or four dozen plastic evidence bags, all labeled. Each contained a patch of cellophane from the packages of veal shanks they'd sent ESU to buy.
"A note from Haumann." He read: " 'To: L. Rhyme. L. Sellitto. From: B. Haumann, TSRF.' "
"What's 'at?" Cooper asked. The police department is a nest of initials and acronyms. RMP--remote mobile patrol--is a squad car. IED--improvised explosive device--is a bomb. But TSRF was a new one. Rhyme shrugged.
Sellitto continued to read, chuckling. " 'Tactical Supermarket Response Force. Re: Veal shanks. Citywide search discovered forty-six subjects, all of which were apprehended and neutralized with minimal force. We read them their rights and have transported same to detention facility in the kitchen of Officer T. P. Giancarlo's mother. Upon completion of interrogation, a half-dozen suspects will be transferred to your custody. Heat at 350 for thirty minutes.' "
Rhyme laughed. Then sipped more Scotch, savoring the flavor. This was one thing he'd miss, the smoky breath of the liquor. (Though in the peace of senseless sleep, how could you miss anything? Just like evidence, take away the baseline standard and you have nothing to judge the loss against; you're safe for all eternity.)
Cooper fanned out some of the samples. "Forty-six samples of the cello. One from each chain and the major independents."
Rhyme gazed at the samples. The odds were good for class identification. Individuation of cellophane'd be a bitch--the scrap found on the veal bone clue wouldn't of course exactly match one of these. But, because parent companies buy identical supplies for all their stores, you might learn in which chain 823 bought the veal and narrow down the neighborhoods he might live in. Maybe he should call the Bureau's physical-evidence team and--
No,
no. Remember: it's their fucking case now.
Rhyme commanded Cooper, "Bundle them up and ship them to our federal brethren."
Rhyme tried shutting down his computer and hit the wrong button with his sometimes ornery ring finger. The speakerphone came on with a loud wail of squelch.
"Shit," Rhyme muttered darkly. "Fucking machinery."
Uneasy with Rhyme's sudden anger, Sellitto glanced at his glass and joked, "Hell, Linc, Scotch this good's supposed to make you mellow."
"Got news," Thom replied sourly. "He is mellow."
He parked close to the huge drainpipe.
Climbing from the cab he could smell the fetid water, slimy and ripe. They were in a cul-de-sac leading to the wide runoff pipe that ran from the West Side Highway down to the Hudson River. No one could see them here.
The bone collector walked to the back of the cab, enjoying the sight of his elderly captive. Just like he'd enjoyed staring at the girl he'd tied in front of the steam pipe. And the wiggling hand by the railroad tracks early this morning.
Gazing at the frightened eyes. The man was thinner than he'd thought. Grayer. Hair disheveled.
Old in the flesh but young in the bone . . .
The man cowered away from him, arms folded defensively across his narrow chest.
Opening the door, the bone collector pressed his pistol against the man's breastbone.
"Please," his captive whispered, his voice quavering. "I don't have much money but you can have it all. We can go to an ATM. I'll--"
"Get out."
"Please don't hurt me."
The bone collector gestured with his head. The frail man looked around miserably then scooted forward. He stood beside the car, cowering, his arms still crossed, shivering despite the relentless heat.