The Skin Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 11)

'That's right.'

Gordon asked, 'How'd he get her, I mean, how'd she stay still for that long?'

'Knocked her out with drugs. But it didn't take him very long. We think he did that tat in about fifteen minutes.'

'Fifteen?' Gordon asked, astonished.

'That's unusual?'

Beaufort said, 'Unusual? Church, man. I don't know anybody could lay a work like that in fifteen. It'd take an hour, at least.'

'Yep,' Gordon offered.

Beaufort nodded to the front of the shop. 'Got a half-nekkid man. Better git.'

Sellitto nodded thanks. He asked Gordon, 'Well, looking at that, is there anything you can tell me about the guy did it?'

Gordon leaned forward and examined the photos of the inking on Chloe Moore's body. His brows V'ed together. 'It's not all that clear. Do you have anything closer up? Or in better definition?'

'We can get it.'

'I could come to the station. Heh. Always wanted to do that.'

'We're working out of a consultant's office. We-- Hold on.' Sellitto's phone was humming. He looked at the screen, read the text. Interesting. Responded briefly.

He turned to Gordon. 'I've gotta be someplace but get over here.' Sellitto wrote down Rhyme's name and address. 'That's the consultant's place. I've gotta stop by headquarters then I'll meet you there.'

'Okay. Like when?'

'Like ASAP.'

'Sure. Hey, you want a Glock or something?'

'What?' Sellitto screwed up his face.

'I'll ink you for free. A gun, a skull. Hey, how about an NYPD badge?'

'No skulls, no badges.' He jabbed his finger at the card, containing the Central Park address. 'All I need is you to show up.'

'ASAP.'

'You got it, dude.'

CHAPTER 12

'How're we doing, rookie?'

Sitting on a stool in Rhyme's parlor, Ron Pulaski was hunched over the computer keyboard. He was narrowing down the locations in the city from which the Inwood marble trace might have come. 'Moving slow. It's not just blasting for foundations. There's a lot of demolition going on in the city too. And it's November. In this weather. Who would've thought? I--'

A mobile phone buzzed. The young officer fished into his pocket and removed the unit. It was the prepaid.

The Watchmaker undercover assignment was heating up. Rhyme was encouraged that somebody had called the officer so quickly.

And what would the substance of the conversation be?

He heard some pleasantries. Then: 'Yes, about the remains. Richard Logan. Right.' He wandered off to the corner. Rhyme could hear no more.

But he noted Pulaski's grave expression - a pun that Rhyme decided not to share, given that this assignment seemed to be weighing on the man.