The Skin Collector (Lincoln Rhyme 11)

Sachs walked the grid, collecting trace near the body and distant samples of dirt and trace too, for control. She studied the ground. 'Booties again. No tread marks.'

'He's wearing new shoes,' Rhyme said. 'He'll've pitched the others, the famous Bass size elevens. They're in the sewer in the Bronx by now.'

As she walked the grid, she noticed something against one of the far walls. At first she thought it was a rat lying on its side. The lump wasn't moving so she speculated that the creature chewed a bit of Samantha's flesh, ingested the poison and crawled away to die.

But as she got closer she noted that, no, it was a purse.

'Got her handbag.'

'Good. Maybe there'll be trace on that.'

She collected it and dropped the leather purse into an evidence bag.

This and all of the other samples of trace, also bagged in plastic or paper, she added to a milk crate.

Sachs wanded with the alternative light source - Samantha's body, the ground of the octagon, the tunnels. Again, Unsub 11-5 had punched and probed her flesh. She noted from the bootie prints that the unsub had walked up and down the tunnel several times to and from the debris pile, which seemed curious, and she told Rhyme. Maybe because he'd heard intruders, he suggested. Or maybe he'd left some of his gear at the mouth. She took pictures and finally returned to the access door, muttering thanks once more to no one in particular that there was nothing claustrophobic about this search.

Once on the outside again, she handed off to the other CS techs, who had finished with the secondary scenes. Detective Jean Eagleston reported the not-surprising news that any of the perp's movements around the train tracks and the entrance to the tunnel from the outside were obliterated by the rain and sleet.

Aside from what presumably had been a brief struggle in the women's room, there were no signs that he'd touched anything. There were no tool marks in the screws he'd removed to gain access to the bathroom. And no footprints either, except those of dozens of street shoes - from the people who'd used the toilet.

The sleet beat an irritating drum tap on the hood she wore and she told Rhyme she was disconnecting the video camera for fear the moisture would short out the expensive, high-def system.

She returned to her car, where she filled out chain-of-custody cards for each item collected, working under the trunk lid to keep the cards and evidence bags dry. Stripping off the Tyvek suit, she slipped it into a burn bag in the crime scene van and returned to the street, pulling on her leather jacket.

Sachs noticed Nancy Simpson, the detective, speaking to Bo Haumann. The other officers who'd gone off in pursuit of the fish were straggling back.

Haumann rubbed his grizzled crew cut as Sachs walked up. 'Nothing. Nobody saw him. But--' He glanced up at the inhospitable skies. 'Not a lot of people out tonight.'

She nodded then headed over to Lon Sellitto, who was talking to a group of people about Samantha's age. She told him about the pursuit - of the unsub or an innocent voyeur - the unsuccessful pursuit. He took the news with a grunt, then they both turned to the others, who were, the detective reported, Samantha's fellow diners. She'd deduced this earlier from their expressions.

'I'm sorry for your loss,' Sachs said. One woman's face was streaked with tears - a co-worker. The other woman, a blonde, looked put out and uneasy. Sachs guessed she had coke in her purse. Let it go.

The two men were angry and resolute. None of these had been Samantha's lover, it seemed. But one was her roommate; the greatest sorrow within the four resided in his eyes.

She and Sellitto both asked questions, learning the unsurprising news that Samantha Levine had no enemies that they'd ever heard of. She was a businesswoman and had never been in trouble with the law. No problems with former boyfriends.

Another random death. In some ways this was the most tragic of all crimes: the happenstance victim.

And in many ways the most difficult to solve.

It was then that a man in an expensive suit - no overcoat - came hurrying up to them, oblivious to the sleet and cold. He was in his fifties, tanned, hair carefully cut. He wasn't tall but was quite handsome and well proportioned.

'Mr Clevenger!' one of the women cried and hugged him. Samantha's co-worker. He gripped her hard and greeted the others in Samantha's party with a somber nod.

'Louise! Is it true? I just heard. I just got a call. Is she, Samantha? Is she gone?' He stepped back and the woman he'd been embracing said, 'Yes, I can't believe it. She's ... I mean, she's dead.'

The newcomer turned to Sachs, who asked, 'So you knew Ms Levine?'

'Yes, yes. She works for me. She was ... I was talking to her a few hours ago. We had a meeting ... just a few hours ago.' He nodded at the glossy building beside the restaurant. 'There. I'm Todd Clevenger.' He handed her a card. International Fiber Optic Networks. He was the company's president and CEO.

Sellitto asked, 'Was there any reason anybody would want to hurt her? Anything about her job that was sensitive? That might've exposed her to threats?'

'Can't imagine it. All we do is lay fiber optic for broadband Internet ... just communications. Anyway, she never said anything, like she was in danger. I can't imagine. She was the sweetest person in the world. Smart. Really smart.'

The woman named Louise said to Sachs, 'I was thinking about something. There was that woman killed the other day. In SoHo. Is this the same psycho?'

'I can't really comment. It's an ongoing investigation.'