Rhyme pointed this out. “Put that in the profile, Thom. But add a question mark.
“Now let’s look at the friction ridges.”
Sachs said she didn’t have the good fingerprint, the one they’d ID’d the unsub with. “It’s still at the federal building.”
But Rhyme wasn’t interested in that print. It was the other one, the Kromekote Sachs had lifted from the German girl’s skin, he wanted to look at.
“Not scannable,” Cooper announced. “Isn’t even C grade. I wouldn’t give an opinion about this if I had to.”
Rhyme said, “I’m not interested in identity. I’m interested in that line there.” It was crescent-shaped and sat right in the middle of the pad of the finger.
“What is it?” Sachs asked.
“A scar, I think,” Cooper said. “From an old cut. A bad one. Looks like it went all the way to the bone.”
Rhyme thought back to other markings and defects he’d seen on skin over the years. In the days before jobs became mostly paper shuffling and computer key-boarding it was far easier to tell people’s jobs by examining their hands: distorted finger pads from manual typewriters, punctures from sewing machines and cobbler’s needles, indentations and ink stains from stenographers’ and accountants’ pens, paper cuts from printing presses, scars from die cutters, distinctive calluses from various types of manual labor…
But a scar like this told them nothing.
Not yet at any rate. Not until they had a suspect whose hands they might examine.
“What else? The knee print. This is good. Give us an idea of what he’s wearing. Hold it up, Sachs. Higher! Baggy slacks. It retained that deep crease there so it’s natural fiber. In this weather, I’ll bet cotton. Not wool. You don’t see silk slacks much nowadays.”
“Lightweight, not denim,” Cooper said.
“Sports clothes,” Rhyme concluded. “Add that to our profile, Thom.”
Cooper looked back at the computer screen and typed some more. “No luck with the leaf. Doesn’t match anything at the Smithsonian.”
Rhyme stretched back into his pillow. How much time would they have? An hour? Two?
The moon. Dirt. Brine…
He glanced at Sachs who was standing by herself in the corner. Her head was down and her long red hair fell dramatically toward the floor. She was looking into an evidence bag, a frown on her face, lost in concentration. How many times had Rhyme himself stood in the same pose, trying to -
“A newspaper!” she cried, looking up. “Where’s a newspaper?” Her eyes were frantic as she looked from table to table. “Today’s paper?”
“What is it, Sachs?” Rhyme asked.
She grabbed The New York Times from Jerry Banks and leafed quickly through it.
“That liquid… in the underwear,” she said to Rhyme. “Could it be salt water?”
“Salt water?” Cooper pored over the GC-MS chart. “Of course! Water and sodium and other minerals. And the oil, phosphates. It’s polluted seawater.”
Her eyes met Rhyme’s and they said simultaneously, “High tide!”
She held up the paper, open to the weather map. It contained a phases-of-the-moon diagram identical to the one found at the scene. Below it was a tidal chart. “High tide’s in forty minutes.”
Rhyme’s face curled in disgust. He was never angrier than when he was angry with himself. “He’s going to drown the vic. They’re under a pier downtown.” He looked hopelessly at the map of Manhattan, with its miles of shoreline. “Sachs, time to play race-car driver again. You and Banks go west. Lon, why don’t you take the East Side? Around the South Street Seaport. And Mel, figure out what the hell that leaf is!”
A fluke of wave slapped his sagging head.
William Everett opened his eyes and snorted the shivery water from his nose. It was icy cold and he felt his questionable heart stutter as it struggled to send warming blood through his body.
He almost fainted again, like when the son of a bitch’d broken his finger. Then he floated back to waking, his thoughts on his late wife – and for some reason, on their travels. They’d been to Giza. And to Guatemala. Nepal. Teheran (one week before the embassy takeover).
Their Southeast China Airlines plane had lost one of two engines an hour out of Beijing and Evelyn had lowered her head, the crash position, preparing to die and staring at an article in the in-flight magazine. It warned that drinking hot tea right after a meal was dangerous for you. She told him about it afterwards, at the Raffles bar in Singapore, and they’d laughed hysterically until tears came to their eyes.
Thinking of the kidnapper’s cold eyes. His teeth, the bulky gloves.
Now, in this horrid wet tomb the unbearable pain rolled up his arm and into his jaw.
Broken finger or heart attack? he wondered.
Maybe a little of both.
Everett closed his eyes until the pain subsided. He looked around him. The chamber where he was handcuffed was beneath a rotting pier. A lip of wood dipped from the edge toward the churning water, which was about six inches below the bottom of the rim. Lights from boats on the river and the industrial sites of Jersey reflected through the narrow slit. The water was up to his neck now and although the roof of the pier was several feet above his head the cuffs were extended as far as they’d go.
The pain swept up from his finger again and Everett’s head roared with the agony and dipped toward the water as he passed out. A noseful of water and the racking cough that followed revived him.
Then the moon tugged the plane of water slightly higher and with a sodden gulp the chamber was sealed off from the river outside. The room went dark. He was aware of the sounds of groaning waves and his own moaning from the pain.
He knew he was dead, knew he couldn’t keep his head above the greasy surface for more than a few minutes. He closed his eyes, pressed his face against the slick, black column.
TWENTY-ONE
“ALL THE WAY DOWNTOWN, SACHS,” Rhyme’s voice clattered from the radio.
She punched the accelerator of the RRV, red lights flashing, as they screamed downtown along the West Side Highway. Ice-cool, she goosed the wagon up to eighty.
“Okay, whoa,” said Jerry Banks.
Counting down. Twenty-third Street, Twentieth, the skidding jog at the Fourteenth Street garbage-barge dock. As they roared through the Village, the meatpacking district, a semi pulled out of a side street directly into her path. Instead of braking she nudged the wagon over the center curb like a steeple-chaser, drawing breathless oaths from Banks and a wail from the air horn of the big White, which jackknifed spectacularly.
“Oops,” said Amelia Sachs and swung back into the southbound lane. To Rhyme she added, “Say again. Missed that.”
Rhyme’s tinny voice popped through her earphones. “Downtown is all I can tell you. Until we figure out what the leaf means.”
“We’re coming up on Battery Park City.”
“Twenty-five minutes to high tide,” Banks called.
Maybe Dellray’s team could get the exact location out of him. They could drag Mr. 823 into an alley somewhere with a bag of apples. Nick had told her that was the way they talked perps into “cooperating.” Whack ’em in the gut with a bag of fruit. Really painful. No marks. When she was growing up she wouldn’t have thought cops did that. Now she knew different.
Banks tapped her shoulder. “There. A bunch of old piers.”
UNSUB 823 (page 1 of 4)
Appearance
Caucasian male, slight build
•Dark clothing
•Old gloves, reddish kidskin
Residence
•Prob. has safe house
•Located near:B’way & 82nd,
•ShopRite B’way &96th,
• Anderson Foods
Vehicle
•Yellow Cab
Other
•knows CS proc.
•possibly has record
•knows FR prints
•gun =.32 Colt
UNSUB 823 (page 2 of 4)
Appearance
•Aftershave; to cover up other scent?