The Skin Collector (28 page)

The impatience of youth.

He looked south and caught sight of the new Trade Tower, or whatever it was going to be called. He’d been working at his first job, crunching code for
a bank, when the attack had happened, 2001. The new structure was impressive, architecturally more interesting than the simple rectangles of its predecessors. Still, nothing could ever match their grandeur, their style.

What a time that was. His first son had been born the day after the attack. Alexander and his wife had abandoned plans to name him after her father and had picked instead Emery,
after the architectural firm Emery Roth & Sons, which along with Minoru Yamasaki had designed the original Trade Towers.

Alexander continued east back toward his apartment, where he’d collect his car and head to work. As he paused for a red light he happened to look back and caught a glimpse of someone behind him, head down. Some guy, young, in dark clothes and stocking cap. A bag or backpack
on his shoulder. Was he the same one who’d been sitting in a coffee shop across the street from the health club?

He following me?

Alexander had lived in the city for fifteen years. He considered New York the safest urban area on earth. But he wasn’t a fool, either. He made his living because of bad guys. When he’d started as a programmer some years ago most of his work had been to hack together
code that made the servers run more smoothly, expanded web traffic and allowed the various operating systems to talk to each other without stuttering. Over the years, though, he’d developed the specialty of security. Commercial hackers, terrorists and punks with too much time on their hands and too many cells in their brains now preyed on banking institutions like his employer with increasingly
bold and brilliant attacks.

That had become Alexander’s specialty, throwing nails in the path of some pretty smart and pretty nasty hackers.

He’d heard of some computer security pros who’d been physically attacked. He sometimes wondered if he was at personal risk. He had no specific knowledge that any hackers knew his name but he also was aware that it was impossible to keep all information
about yourself hidden from someone with enough drive to track you down.

Near his apartment building Alexander paused and, on the pretext of making a phone call, glanced back once more. The man in the cap and coat continued following, head down. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Alexander. Then without a pause the supposed hit hacker walked into a building across the street, an old
one, now a commercial space, with a
For Rent
sign pasted across a dirty window. Maybe he was a Realtor or new tenant. Or a janitor examining a temperamental boiler – it was supposed to be another bone-chilling evening.

Amused at his own wasted concern, Alexander continued on to his building and to the entrance to the parking garage, where they kept the Subaru. The parking space was a luxury –
it alone cost more than his first apartment. But a guaranteed slot in the city that brought the world alternate-side-of-the-street parking? Didn’t get any better than that – except it did: The space was enclosed, so he never had to shovel snow or scrape ice. Extremely enclosed, in fact. The space was in the third sub-basement.

He now waved to the cashier, who called, ‘Hey, Mr Alexander. When’s
it gonna let up? You know what I mean?’ The skinny, gray-complexioned man gazed up at the sky.

He’d said virtually the same thing every day for the past week.

Alexander grinned and shrugged. He descended the spiral ramp of the dim place.

On the bottom floor, the Subie’s floor, as his wife had dubbed the vehicle, Alexander walked under the low ceiling toward where the front of his green car
peeked out. The garage – this floor at least – seemed completely deserted. But he wasn’t feeling uneasy anymore, now that the imaginary killer shadowing him had disappeared into the building across the street. Besides, no mugger – or hacker intent on breaking Alexander’s typing fingers – would dare risk an attack here. The only way in was past the watchful attendant.

You know what I mean? …

As he approached the Subaru he pulled his keys out and hit the unlock button on the fob. The lights flashed. He continued on to the car, thinking of the bike for his son. He was looking forward to riding his own ten-speed with Emery through Central Park this weekend.

He was smiling at the prospective pleasure when a man stepped casually out from behind a wall to Alexander’s right and punched him
in the neck.

‘The hell—?’ Alexander gasped and spun around.

Oh, Christ, Christ … The guy wore gray coveralls like a repairman or utility worker but his face looked like an alien’s – encased in a tight yellowish mask, latex.

Then he saw the hypodermic needle in the gloved, yellow hand.

Alexander touched his neck, which stung.

He’d poked him with something! The first thing he thought was: AIDS.

Some kind of psycho. No, no, no …

Then he thought: Nobody’s going to get away with this crap. Alexander had taken several self-defense courses and a kickboxing class at the gym. Not to mention being racked from the thousands of crunches and curls. He turned to face the guy and planted his feet firmly on the ground, drawing back his right arm, recalling how to hit fast and follow up.

One, two,
feint, hit.

One, two …

But his arm wasn’t behaving. It was heavy. Too heavy even to lift. And he noted the terrible panic, the shock, fading. He didn’t even feel scared at all anymore.

And when the dim light grew dimmer he understood:

No, not tainted blood. Of course not. It was a sedative of some kind the asshole had injected him with. Sure, sure, this
was
the guy who’d been following him.
He’d slipped down here from the building across the street. But how …? Oh, there. There was a small metal access door open. Behind it darkness, like a tunnel or a basement. And the guy’s mission? To kidnap Alexander. To get him to reveal codes or security flaws in his clients’ programs.

‘Ahhhl talll you … whah …’ Alexander was speaking.
Trying
to speak.

Say it! Come on! I’ll tell you what you
want. Just let me go.

‘Lllll. Tllll. You waaaaa …’

The syllables were falling apart.

Then the words were just gurgling from his throat.

He was surprised to find he wasn’t standing any longer but sitting down, paralyzed, staring up at the masked freak. Looking around at his surroundings. The Subie’s tire. A Hershey bar wrapper. An oval of dried dog pee.

The attacker bent down over a backpack.

As the darkness grew, serious darkness now, Alexander squinted, looking at a weird tattoo on the man’s left arm. A snake … no, a centipede. With a human face.

Then he was lying on his back, too weak even to sit up any longer. The attacker roughly tugged Alexander’s wrists behind his back and cuffed them. Rolled him over on his back once more.

But just because this guy had the melted skin mask
and a macabre tattoo didn’t mean he was a psychotic killer. No, he just wanted to get the codes to the Livingston Associates main server. Or the password to crack the Bank of Eastern Nassau’s security lock-out system.

Sure.

Not a wacko.

This was business was all. Only business. They didn’t want to hurt him. They were after data? Fine, he’d give them data. Passcodes? They’d get passcodes.

Only business, right?

But then why was he lifting Alexander’s jacket and shirt and staring at his abdomen intently? And reaching forward and stroking the skin with a rigid, probing finger?

Has to be … only …

Blackness enwrapped him completely.

‘Where are you, Sachs?’

‘Almost there.’ Her voice was echoing through the speaker in Rhyme’s parlor. The criminalist was here with Pulaski and Cooper, while Amelia Sachs was presently streaking across Central Park, one of the traverses, headed east. ‘Hanging up. Gotta drive.’

It turned out there were forty-eight places in Manhattan in which ‘Belvedere’ figured in the name. This had
been the conclusion of yet another team that Lon Sellitto had assembled at One Police Plaza. There’d been the Find-the-Out-of-Print-Book team, now disbanded. Then the current What-the-Fuck-Do-the-Words-the-Second-and-Forty-Mean team, still active.

Now the Which-Belvedere-Is-It team, assembled thanks to skin artist Anne Thomson’s fortuitous eavesdropping.

Four dozen instances of Belvedere in
Manhattan (which seemed to be 11-5’s preferred hunting borough; besides, you can’t search everywhere).

Delis, apartment buildings, transport companies, boutiques, a cab company, a ferry.

An escort service.

A half hour ago, in Rhyme’s parlor, he and Sachs, along with Sellitto, Cooper and Pulaski, had debated which of the Belvederes were the most likely to be connected to the unsub. Of course,
the name might have nothing to do with the next or a future target. It could be where he lived, or near where he lived, or his dry cleaner or where he boarded his cat. Or a business he was curious about. But, being cautious, they assumed it was a kill site and wanted to get tac teams to the most likely ones ASAP.

They’d decided three were good candidates for an attack. One was a deserted warehouse
in the Chelsea area of Manhattan – north of Greenwich Village. It featured an extensive labyrinth of underground passages and storerooms. Perfect for their unsub’s purposes, though Cooper had made the point that it might be a little too deserted. ‘He needs to get a victim from somewhere.’

Rhyme considered this but tapped into some CCTV images there and noted that it had more pedestrian traffic
than you’d think – including even some joggers out on this blustery day.

‘He only needs one,’ Rhyme pointed out.

Sellitto’d called ESU to have a team sent there.

The second Belvedere was an old movie theater on the Upper West Side, the sort of grande dame you used to see on Broadway, the ornate venues where Clark Gable or Marilyn Monroe would open films. It was closed at this hour and, according
to one of Rhyme’s underground diagrams, had a number of basements, just the place for Unsub 11-5 to take his victims. Another ESU team was sent there.

The final possibility was an apartment building on Midtown’s East Side named the Belvedere. A grimy old structure, like the gothic Dakota. It featured both a large basement and an underground parking garage. The detective arranged for a third team
to speed there.

Sachs had said, ‘Smells like that’s the one. I’ll go too.’

Rhyme had noted her eyes, that huntress look, the undeterred focus. Which he found so appealing, and so unnerving, at the same time. Sachs was one of the best crime scene cops Rhyme had ever known. But she was never more alive than when leading a dynamic entry in a tactical scenario.

She’d sprinted out the door, pulling
her jacket on as she went. Sellitto had followed shortly after.

Now Rhyme got a message from Sellitto, also mobile, reporting that a tac team had hit the Belvedere warehouse in Chelsea and found nothing. ESU commander Bo Haumann had left a small surveillance team and divided up the others; one group was heading to the Belvedere Apartments and one to the theater, which was massive; the search
would take some time.

Just after he disconnected, his phone line rang again. ‘Rhyme?’ Sachs’s voice came through the speakers.

‘Just heard from Lon,’ he told her. He explained that the warehouse was a bust. ‘But that means you’re getting some reinforcements. An ESU team’s headed to the apartment building where you are.’

‘Not are, Rhyme,’ she muttered. ‘
Will be
. Traffic’s lousy. And nobody knows
how to drive in this weather. I’m on the sidewalk. Hold on.’ Rhyme heard a crash as presumably her Torino reseated itself on New York City asphalt. He wondered about debilitating damage to the drive train or the axles. ‘At this rate, ten minutes. And it’s just ’cross town. Jesus.’

Rhyme noted another incoming call on his phone.

‘I’ll call you back, Sachs. ESU’s on the other line.’

‘Lincoln,
you there?’ It was Haumann.

‘Yes, Bo. What’s the status?’

‘Tac Team Two’s almost to the Belvedere Apartments. We’ll hit the basement in the building and the garage too. Any more evidence that he’s armed?’ Haumann would be remembering the earlier incident, at the hospital in Marble Hill, where Unsub 11-5 had threatened to shoot Harriet Stanton and Sachs.

‘Nothing further. But assume he is.’

‘I’ll pass it along.’ A pause as Haumann spoke to someone else in his car or ESU van. Rhyme couldn’t hear the exchange. ‘Okay, we’re rolling up silent.’

‘I’ll tell Amelia you’re there. She’ll want to be included in any tactical op. I wouldn’t take any chances. You can’t wait. Go in, dynamic, ASAP.’

‘Sure, Lincoln, we’ll do it.’

Rhyme said, ‘Tell your folks to look out for traps. That’s his new
game. Gloves and respirators.’

‘Roger that. Hold on … Okay, Lincoln?’

‘I’m here.’

‘We’ve got a chopper in place. You want to log in and watch?’

‘Sure.’

The ESU commander gave him the code and a moment later Rhyme, Pulaski and Cooper were staring at the screen. It was a high-def image of two boxy ESU tactical trucks, designation numbers clearly visible on their roofs. Rhyme could see two dozen
troops deploy through the front door of the apartment building and down the exit ramp of the garage. The parking attendant was being led away to safety by one of the officers.

The audio was up too. Rhyme could hear the ESU troops as they made their way through the facilities. ‘
… Southwest corridor, level one, clear … Access door here … no, it’s sealed …
’

Haumann disconnected and Rhyme called
Sachs back. Told her about the conversation.

She sighed. ‘I’m ETA five minutes.’ He could hear the disappointment about missing the entry.

Rhyme’s attention swiveled to the radio feed from the tactical operation.

‘Tac Two A is going in, heading down the stairs to the lower level. Two B is heading down the garage ramp. Hold on … So far, no resistance, no innocents. We’re green. K.’