The Skin Collector(Lincoln Rhyme)

Chapter 76





‘Go with it,’ Lincoln Rhyme said. The criminalist was alone in his parlor, talking through the speakerphone as he gazed absently at a website featuring some rather classy antiques and fine arts.

‘Well,’ said the voice, belonging to a captain at the NYPD, presently in police headquarters. The Big Building.

‘Well, what?’ Rhyme snapped. He’d been a captain too; anyway, he never took rank very seriously. Competence and intelligence counted first.

‘It’s a little unorthodox.’

The f*ck does that mean? Rhyme thought. On the other hand, he himself had also been a civil servant in a civil-servant world and he knew that it was sometimes necessary to play a game or two. He appreciated the man’s reluctance.

But he couldn’t condone it.

‘I’m aware of that, Captain. But we need to run with the story. There are lives at risk.’

The captain’s first name was unusual. Dagfield.

Who would name somebody that?

‘Well,’ Dag said defensively. ‘It has to be edited and vetted—’

‘I wrote it. It doesn’t need to be edited. And you can vet. Vet it now. We don’t have much time.’

‘You’re not asking me to vet. You’re asking me to run what you’ve sent me, Lincoln.’

‘You’ve looked it over, you’ve read it. That’s vetting. We need to go with it, Dag. Time’s critical. Very critical.’

A sigh. ‘I’ll have to talk to somebody first.’

Rhyme considered tactical options. There weren’t many.

‘Here’s the situation, Dag. I can’t be fired. I’m an independent consultant that defense attorneys around the country want to hire as much as the NYPD does. Probably more and they pay better. If you don’t run that press release exactly, and I mean exactly, the way I sent it to you, I’ll hang out my shingle for the defense and stop working for the NYPD altogether. And when the commissioner hears that I’ll be working against the department, your job’ll be in the private sector and I mean fast food.’

Not really satisfied with that line. Could have been better. But there it was.

‘You’re threatening me?’

Which hardly required a response.

Ten seconds later: ‘F*ck.’

The slamming phone made a simple, sweet click in Rhyme’s ear.

He eased his wheelchair to the window, to look out over Central Park. He liked the view more in the winter than the summer. Some might have thought this was because people were enjoying summer sports in the fine months, running, tossing Frisbees, pitching softballs – activities forever denied Rhyme. But the reality was that he just liked the view.

Even before the accident Rhyme had never enjoyed that kind of pointless frolic. He thought back to the case involving the Bone Collector, years ago. Then, just after his accident, he’d given up on life, believing he’d never exist in a normal world again. But that case had taught him a truth that had endured: He didn’t want that normal life. Never had, disabled or not. His world was the world of deduction, of logic, of mental riposte and parry, of combat with thought – not with guns or karate blows.

And so looking out at the stark, leaf-stripped vista of Central Park, he felt wholly at home, comforted by the lesson that the Bone Collector had taught him so many years ago.

Rhyme turned back to the computer screen and waded once more into the world of fine arts.

He checked the news and discovered that, yes, Dag had come through. The unvetted, unedited, unchallenged press release had been picked up everywhere.

Rhyme glanced at the clock face on his computer and returned to browsing.

A half hour later his phone rang and he noted the caller ID report: Unknown.

Two rings. Three. He tapped the answer button with his right index finger.

He said, ‘Hello there.’

‘Lincoln,’ said the man he knew as Richard Logan, the Watchmaker. ‘Do you have a moment to talk?’

‘For you, always.’