The Bone Collector Read Online Free PDF Page A

debilitating contractures and kept the blood flowing. For someone whose muscularactivities had been limited to his shoulders, head and left ring finger for three and a half years, Lincoln Rhyme wasn’t in such bad shape.
    The young detective looked away from the complicated black ECU control sitting by Rhyme’s finger, hard-wired to another controller, sprouting conduit and cables, which ran to the computer and a wall panel.
    A quad’s life is wires, a therapist had told Rhyme a long time ago. The rich ones, at least. The lucky ones.
    Sellitto said, “There was a murder early this morning on the West Side.”
    “We’ve had reports of some homeless men and women disappearing over the past month,” Banks said. “At first we thought it might be one of them. But it wasn’t,” he added dramatically. “The vic was one of those people last night.”
    Rhyme trained a blank expression on the young man with the dotted face. “Those people? ”
    “He doesn’t watch the news,” Thom said. “If you’re talking about the kidnapping he hasn’t heard.”
    “You don’t watch the news?” Sellitto laughed. “You’re the SOB read four papers a day and recorded the local news to watch when he got home. Blaine told me you called her Katie Couric one night when you were making love.”
    “I only read literature now,” Rhyme said pompously, and falsely.
    Thom added, “ ‘Literature is news that stays news.’ ”
    Rhyme ignored him.
    Sellitto said, “Man and woman coming back from business on the Coast. Got into a Yellow Cab at JFK. Never made it home.”
    “There was a report about eleven-thirty. This cab was driving down the BQE in Queens. White male and female passenger in the back seat. Looked like they were trying to break a window out. Pounding on the glass. Nobody got tags or medallion.”
    “This witness—who saw the cab. Any look at the driver?”
    “No.”
    “The woman passenger?”
    “No sign of her.”
    Eleven forty-one. Rhyme was furious with Dr. William Berger. “Nasty business,” he muttered absently.
    Sellitto exhaled long and loud.
    “Go on, go on,” Rhyme said.
    “He was wearing her ring,” Banks said.
    “ Who was wearing what? ”
    “The vic. They found this morning. He was wearing the woman’s ring. The other passenger’s.”
    “You’re sure it was hers?”
    “Had her initials inside.”
    “So you’ve got an unsub,” Rhyme continued, “who wants you to know he’s got the woman and she’s still alive.”
    “What’s an unsub?” Thom asked.
    When Rhyme ignored him Sellitto said, “Unknown subject.”
    “But you know how he got it to fit?” Banks asked, a little wide-eyed for Rhyme’s taste. “Her ring?”
    “I give up.”
    “Cut the skin off the guy’s finger. All of it. Down to the bone.”
    Rhyme gave a faint smile. “Ah, he’s a smart one, isn’t he?”
    “Why’s that smart?”
    “To make sure nobody came by and took the ring. It was bloody, right?”
    “A mess.”
    “Hard to see the ring in the first place. Then AIDS, hepatitis. Even if somebody noticed, a lot of folks’d take a pass on that trophy. What’s her name, Lon?”
    The older detective nodded to his partner, who flipped open his watchbook.
    “Tammie Jean Colfax. She goes by T.J. Twenty-eight. Works for Morgan Stanley.”
    Rhyme observed that Banks too wore a ring. A school ring of some sort. The boy was too polished to be just a high-school and academy grad. No whiff of army about him. Wouldn’t be surprised if the jewelry bore the name Yale. A homicide detective? What was the world coming to?
    The young cop cupped his coffee in hands that shook sporadically. With a minuscule gesture of his own ring finger on the Everest & Jennings ECU panel, to which his left hand was strapped, Rhyme clicked through several settings, turning the AC down. He tended not to waste controls on things like heating and air-conditioning; he reserved it for necessities like lights, the computer and his page-turning