“Depends,” Rhyme countered. “You bearing gifts?”
“Ah got presents galore,” the agent said, waving a folder emblazoned with the familiar disk of the FBI emblem.
“You ever knock, Dellray?” Sellitto asked.
“Got outa the habit, you know.”
“Come on in,” Rhyme said. “What’ve you got?”
“Dunno for sure. Doesn’t make any sense to this boy. But then, whatta I know?”
Dellray read from the report for a moment then said, “We had Tony Farco at PERT – said ‘Hey’ to you by the way, Lincoln – analyze that bit of PE you found. Turns out it’s gold leaf. Probably sixty to eighty years old. He found a few cellulose fibers attached so he thinks it’s from a book.”
“Of course! Gold topstain from a page,” Rhyme said.
“Now he also found some particles of ink on it. He said, I’m quotin’ the boy now: ‘It’s not inconsistent with the type of ink the New York Public Library uses to stamp the ends of their books.’ Don’t he talk funny?”
“A library book,” Rhyme mused.
Amelia Sachs said, “A red-leather-bound library book.”
Rhyme stared at her. “Right!” he shouted. “That’s what the bits of red leather’re from. Not the glove. It’s a book he carries around with him. Could be his bible.”
“Bible?” Dellray asked. “You thinkin’ he’s some kinda religious nutzo?”
“Not the Bible, Fred. Call the library again, Banks. Maybe that’s how he wore down his shoes – in the reading room. I know, it’s a long shot. But we don’t have a lot of options here. I want a list of all the antiquarian books stolen from Manhattan locations in the past year.”
“Will do.” The young man rubbed a shaving scar as he called the mayor at home and bluntly asked hizzoner to contact the director of the public library and tell them what they needed.
A half hour later the fax machine buzzed and spewed out two pages. Thom ripped the transmission out of the machine. “Whoa, readers sure have sticky fingers in this city,” he said as he brought it to Rhyme.
Eighty-four books fifty years old or older had disappeared from the public library branches in the past twelve months, thirty-five of them in Manhattan.
Rhyme scanned the list. Dickens, Austen, Hemingway, Dreiser… Books about music, philosophy, wine, literary criticism, fairy tales. Their value was surprisingly low. Twenty, thirty dollars. He supposed that none of them were first editions but perhaps the thieves hadn’t known that.
He continued to scan the list.
Nothing, nothing. Maybe -
And then he saw it.
Crime in Old New York, by Richard Wille Stephans, published by Bountiful Press in 1919. Its value was listed at sixty-five dollars, and it had been stolen from the Delancey Street branch of the New York Public Library nine months earlier. It was described as five by seven inches in size, bound in red kidskin, with marbleized endpapers, gilded edges.
“I want a copy of it. I don’t care how. Get somebody to the Library of Congress if you have to.”
Dellray said, “I’ll take care of that one.”
Grocery stores, gasoline, the library…
Rhyme had to make a decision. There were three hundred searchers available – cops and state troopers and federal agents – but they’d be spread microscopically thin if they had to search both the West and East sides of downtown New York.
Gazing at the profile chart.
Is your house in the West Village? Rhyme silently asked 823. Did you buy the gas and steal the book on the East Side to fox us? Or is that your real neighborhood? How clever are you? No, no, the question’s not how clever you are but how clever you think you are. How confident were you that we’d never find those minuscule bits of yourself that M. Locard assures us you’d leave behind?
Finally Rhyme ordered, “Go with the Lower East. Forget the Village. Get everybody down there. All of Bo’s troops, all of yours, Fred. Here’s what you’re looking for: A large Federal-style building, close to two hundred years old, rose-colored marble front, brownstone sides and back. May have been a mansion or a public building at one time. With a garage or carriage house attached. A Taurus sedan and a Yellow Cab coming and going for the past few weeks. More often in the last few days.”
Rhyme glanced at Sachs.
Giving up the dead…
Sellitto and Dellray made their calls.
Sachs said to Rhyme, “I’m going too.”
“I hadn’t expected anything else.”
When the door had closed downstairs he whispered, “Godspeed, Sachs. Godspeed.”
THIRTY-ONE
THREE SQUAD CARS CRUISED SLOWLY through the streets of the Lower East Side. Two constables in each. Eyes searching.
And a moment later two black broughams appeared… two sedans, he meant. Unmarked, but their telltale searchlights next to the left side-view mirrors left no doubt who they were.
He’d known they were narrowing the search, of course, and that it was only a matter of time until they found his house. But he was shocked that they were this close. And he was particularly upset to see the cops get out and examine a silver Taurus parked on Canal Street.
How the hell had they found out about his carriage? He’d known that stealing a car was a huge risk but he thought it would take Hertz days to notice the missing vehicle. And even if they did he was sure the constables would never connect him with the theft. Oh, they were good.
One of the mean-eyed cops happened to glance at his cab.
Staring forward, the bone collector turned slowly onto Houston Street, lost himself in a crowd of other cabs. A half hour later, he’d ditched the taxi and the Hertz Taurus and had returned on foot to the mansion.
Young Maggie looked up at him.
She was scared, yes, but she’d stopped crying. He wondered if he should just keep her. Take himself a daughter. Raise her. The idea glowed within him for a moment or two then it faded.
No, there’d be too many questions. Also, there was something eerie about the way the girl was looking at him. She seemed older than her years. She’d always remember what he’d done. Oh, for a while she might think it had been a dream. But then someday the truth would come out. It always did. Repress what you will, someday the truth comes out.
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 Greenwich & Bank,
Vehicle
•Yellow Cab
•Recent model sedan
•Lt. gray, silver, beige
Other
•knows CS proc.
•possibly has record
•knows FR prints
•gun =.32 Colt
•Ties vics w/ unusual knots
•“Old” appeals to him
UNSUB 823 (page 2 of 4)
Appearance
•Aftershave; to cover up other scent?
•Ski mask? Navy blue?
Residence
•ShopRite
• 8th Ave. & 24th,
Vehicle
•Rental car: prob. stolen
Other
•Called one vic “Hanna”
•Knows basic German
•Underground appeals to him
•Dual personalities
UNSUB 823 (page 3 of 4)
Appearance
•Gloves are dark
•Aftershave = Brut
Residence
•ShopRite •Houston & Lafayette,
•Old building, pink marble
Vehicle
•Hertz, silver Taurus, this year’s model
Other
•Maybe priest, soc. worker, counselor
•Unusual wear on shoes, reads a lot?
•Listened as he broke vic’s finger
•Left snake as slap at investigators
UNSUB 823 (page 4 of 4)
Appearance