The Skin Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 11)

True, curiously, the triangular pattern did look like the famous mountain.

'You want me to fill it in, just let me know. Or I could do something else. Oh, dude, I know. I could add a bird.' He nodded toward the window. 'One of those hawks or whatever they are. Flying over the mountains.'

Rhyme laughed. What a crazy thought. Then his eyes strayed to the peregrine falcons. There was something intriguing about the idea.

'Trauma to the skin is contraindicated for someone in his condition.' Thom was in the doorway, arms crossed.

Gordon nodded. 'Guess that means no.'

'No.'

He looked around the room. 'Well, anybody else?'

'My mother would kill me,' near-middle-aged Mel Cooper said.

'My wife,' Pulaski said.

Amelia Sachs only shook her head.

Thom said, 'I'll stick with the one I have.'

'What?' Sachs asked, laughing. But the aide said nothing more.

'Okay, but you've got my number. Good luck, dudes.'

Then the man was gone.

The team was looking at the images of the tattoos once more. Lon Sellitto wasn't picking up so Sachs called Major Cases and had the team at headquarters add '17th' to the list of numbers they were searching for.

Just after she'd disconnected, her phone hummed again and she answered. Rhyme saw immediately that she stiffened. She asked breathlessly, 'What? You have somebody on the way?'

She slammed the disconnect button and looked at Rhyme, eyes wide. 'That was a sergeant at the Eight-Four. A neighbor just called in a nine one one, intruder outside Pam's apartment. White male in a stocking cap and short gray coat. Seemed to be wearing a mask. Yellow. Jesus.'

Sachs flipped open her phone and hit a speed-dial button.

CHAPTER 40

Answer!

Please answer! Sachs gripped her mobile hard and shivered in hopeless rage when Pam's voice mail came on.

'If you're at home, Pam, get out of your house! Now! Go to the Eighty-Fourth Precinct. Gold Street. I think the perp in our case is at your place.'

Her eyes met Rhyme's, his face equally troubled, and she jammed her finger onto the redial button.

Rhyme asked, 'Is she working? Or at school?'

'I don't know. She works odd hours. And's in school part-time this semester.'

Ron Pulaski called, 'There should be a unit there in seven, eight minutes.'

But the question: Is it too late?

The hollow buzzing of the phone filled the speaker.

Goddamn it. Voice mail once more.

No, no ...