A laugh. ‘How well put. It’s so refreshing to talk to somebody who gets it … But now I should be going, Lincoln.’
‘One last question?’
‘Of course. Answering may be a different matter.’
‘You told Billy to find that book, Serial Cities.’
‘That’s right. I needed to make sure he and the Stantons appreciated how good you were — and how much you and Amelia had learned about the militias and their tactics.’
Rhyme said ruefully, ‘You had no particular interest in the Bone Collector? I got that wrong.’
‘I guess you did.’
A laugh and Rhyme said, ‘So the connection I found between the Bone Collector and you wasn’t there at all?’
A pause.
‘You found a connection between us?’ The Watchmaker sounded curious.
‘There’s a famous watch on display here in Manhattan. It’s made entirely out of bone. Some Russian, I think. I wondered if stealing that was on your agenda.’
‘There’s a Mikhail Semyonovitch Bronnikov in town?’
‘I think that was it. And you didn’t know?’
The Watchmaker said, ‘I’ve been rather … preoccupied lately. But I’m familiar with the piece. It’s quite astonishing. Mid-1860s. And you’re right: made entirely of bone, one hundred percent.’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t make sense for you to risk getting caught — and waste the time, so to speak — trying to break into a Manhattan antiques store to steal a watch.’
‘No, but it was creative thinking, Lincoln. Just what I’d expect of you.’ Another pause. Rhyme imagined that he was checking his own timepiece. ‘Now I think it’s best to say goodbye, Lincoln. I’ve been on the line a little too long. Sometimes those proxies and phone switches can be traced, you know. Not that you’d ever try.’ A chuckle. ‘Till we meet again …’
Next week, next month, next year.
The line went dead.
VI
SKIN AND BONE
CHAPTER 79
Ron Pulaski had assumed the job of scouring the Berkowitz Funeral Home for evidence and witnesses, searching for any clues that might lead to the Watchmaker.
He seemed to take the failure of his undercover mission to heart, though he could hardly be blamed; the Watchmaker had recognized him immediately. He’d seen the young officer as part of his project in New York a few years ago.
Moreover, Rhyme knew, even if it had been a righteous set, the kid was a pretty bad actor. The best thespians didn’t play characters; they became them.
Gielgud …
So the young officer had collected trace from the documents at the funeral home that Richard Logan — or whatever his real name might be — had signed and where he’d collected the box containing the ashes of the unidentified homeless man from the city morgue. He’d interviewed everyone who’d been at the parlor when the Watchmaker had, including the relatives of someone named Benjamin Ardell, also known as Jonny Rodd, whoever he was. But he’d uncovered no leads.
Nor were there any among the New York Bureau of Investigation agents, who’d also been scammed by the Watchmaker. The agents hadn’t had much contact with ‘Dave Weller’, other than phone calls. And the mobile he’d contacted them on, diming out Pulaski, was, of course, long gone. Batteries in one sewer, snapped-in-half handset in another.
Sachs was handling a different portion of the case, tracking down the insiders who’d helped Logan escape, medical workers, an attendant in the New York City morgue and various prison guards. To Rhyme it seemed they’d taken an astronomical risk. If it was discovered that the Watchmaker was alive, then the ring of suspects would be quite small; they were sure to be detected. But, Rhyme supposed, it wasn’t the Watchmaker’s problem if they didn’t hide the bribes he’d paid them or had failed to come up with credible alibis after they’d faked the medical reports and death certificate.
You have to be smart to earn a few million bucks illegally.
One or two had skipped town but it was only a matter of time until they were tracked down. Not a good idea to use your real credit card when you’re on the lam. Natural selection applies to criminal activity, as well as to newts and simians.
Rhyme was handling part of the investigation too, though not the evidentiary part, curiously. The criminalist had made some meticulous plans of his own.
Probably nothing would come of them but he couldn’t afford to pass up any opportunity.
He now gazed out the window, examining the clime — overcast again, white and gray — and he wondered, Where are you? And what are you up to? Why did you break into the Met? And what part of that plot do you need me alive for?
Thom appeared in the doorway. ‘I talked to Rachel. Leave in an hour?’
‘That’ll do,’ Rhyme replied.
The journey he was referring to would take them to the medical center. Lon Sellitto had regained consciousness. Even in his frail state, the detective remained true to his nature. Rachel reported that his reaction upon swimming into a waking state had been to look down at his belly and mutter, smiling, ‘Fuck, I musta lost thirty pounds.’
Only then had he inquired about the Unsub 11-5 case.
But there were still many questions about his recovery. He had been, and would continue to be, treated with chelation drugs, which bind and deactivate toxins. Recovery is better with patients who’ve had chronic exposure, such as industrial workers (or victims of patiently homicidal spouses), but problematic with acute attacks, as in Sellitto’s case. The jury was still out on the detective’s long-term improvement. Nerve damage, liver and renal issues were possibilities.
Maybe even permanent paralysis.
Time would tell.
Amelia Sachs walked into the parlor. ‘Lon?’ she asked.
‘Leave here in about an hour.’
‘Should we get flowers?’ she asked.
Rhyme muttered, ‘I’ve arranged for flowers once this week. I’m not doing it again.’
Just at that moment the lab phone rang. Sachs, in a position to view caller ID on a monitor, said quickly, ‘Rhyme. I think it’s going down.’
He wheeled closer.
‘Ah.’
Then punched accept call.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Rhyme, it’s Jason? Jason Heatherly?’ The unnecessarily interrogative words were fast, the voice flummoxed. ‘I’m—’
‘I remember you, Mr Heatherly.’
How could Rhyme not? They’d spoken at length only a week ago.
‘Well, it’s — I don’t know how to explain this — but what you said might happen happened.’
Rhyme and Sachs shared a smile.
‘It’s gone. Impossible but it’s gone. The alarms were set when I left last night. They were set when I got here this morning. Nothing was disturbed. Not a thing out of place. Not. A. Thing. But it’s gone.’
‘Really.’
The ‘it’ the worked-up jeweler was referring to was a watch. The Mikhail Semyonovitch Bronnikov timepiece made entirely of bone.
Contrary to what he’d told the Watchmaker, Rhyme had not believed the man had any connection with the Bone Collector whatsoever. He’d told the Watchmaker that simply to dangle bait.
And how better to snare a man whose strength — and weakness — was time and timepieces than by using a rare watch?
Rhyme had found out that a Bronnikov, one of the few in existence, was in London, though not for sale. But he’d charmed the owner into changing his mind (charm plus twenty thousand dollars, that is) and spent another ten thousand to fly the watch to New York. Ron Pulaski had been the courier.