The Skin Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 11)

1:00 P.M.

CHAPTER 79

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 Jonny Rodd, whoever he was. But he'd uncovered no leads.

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 re

mained 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.