The Skin Collector (51 page)

‘More or less.’

‘Must have been pricey.’

‘Twenty million cash total.’

‘And the funeral home
charade? With you as Weller. Why that?’

‘I knew you’d send somebody to see who was collecting the ashes. I had to make you believe in your heart that the Watchmaker was dead. The best way to do that was to have the family’s indignant lawyer come to town to collect his ashes … and report your undercover officer to the authorities. That was a wonderful turn. Didn’t anticipate that.’

Rhyme then
said, ‘But one thing I don’t understand: Lon Sellitto.
You
poisoned him, of course. You borrowed a fireman’s outfit at the site of the Belvedere Apartment attack and gave him the laced coffee.’

‘You figured that out too?’

‘Arsenic is metalloid poison. Billy used only plant-based toxins.’

‘Hm. Missed that.
Mea culpa.
Tell me, Lincoln, were you one of those boys who read children’s puzzle books
and could always spot what was wrong with this picture?’

Yes, he had been, and, yes, he could.

Rhyme added, ‘And you slipped the doctored painkillers into Amelia Sachs’s purse.’

A dense pause. ‘You found those?’

The minute Rhyme had deduced the Watchmaker was still alive and was probably behind Lon’s attack, he’d told Sachs, Pulaski and Cooper to be on the lookout for any attacks. She’d recalled
that someone had sat near her in a coffeehouse where she’d been meeting with a witness in the Metropolitan Museum case. She’d found a second bottle of painkillers in the bag.

Rhyme asked, ‘Arsenic as well? The results aren’t back yet.’

‘I’ll tell you, since you’ve figured it out. Antimony.’

Lincoln Rhyme said, ‘See, that’s what I don’t follow: trying to kill Lon and Amelia and blame the deaths
on the Stantons? It was
you
dressed up like Billy Haven at the scenes? Looking at her through the manhole cover on Elizabeth Street? Outside the restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen? In the building near the Belvedere?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why …?’ His voice faded. The thoughts were coming fast, exploding like firecrackers. ‘Unless …’

‘Catching on, are you, Lincoln?’

‘Twenty million dollars,’ he whispered.
‘To buy your freedom. There is no way the Stantons and the AFFC could have gotten you that much money to bribe the guards and medics. No, no – they’re a shoestring operation at best. Someone
else
financed your escape. Yes! Somebody who needed you for another job. You used the AFFC as a cover for something else.’

‘Ah, that’s my Lincoln,’ said the Watchmaker.

The voice was condescending and a
moment’s anger burst. But then the thought landed and he laughed out loud. ‘Lon. Lon Sellitto!
He
was the whole point of this. You needed him killed or out of commission, and you used the AFFC as a scapegoat.’

‘Exactly,’ the man whispered. And the tone of his voice taunted: Keep going.

‘The case he’d been working on. Of course. The break-in at the Metropolitan museum. He was getting close to
finding out what it was all about and your employer needed to stop him.’ He considered other facts. ‘And Amelia too. Because she’d taken over the Met case … But you’re admitting it all now,’ Rhyme said slowly, troubled. ‘Why?’

‘I think I’ll let it go at that, Lincoln. Probably not good to say much more. But I will tell you that nobody is at risk anymore. Amelia’s safe. The only reason to poison
her or Ron or your brilliant nerdy assistant, Mel Cooper, would be to shift the blame to the AFFC. And obviously that’s pointless now. Besides, I’ve changed tack.’

Rhyme pictured the man shrugging.

‘You’re safe too, of course. You always have been.’

Always have been?

Rhyme gave a laugh. ‘The anonymous phone call about somebody’s breaking into my town house through the back door. When Billy
snuck in to poison my whisky. That was you.’

‘I was keeping tabs on him. The night he went to your town house, I was following. He wasn’t supposed to kill you, hurt you in any way. When he changed into a workman’s uniform and got a needle ready, I knew what he was up to.’

This made no sense at all.

Until a moment later another deduction. Rhyme whispered, ‘You need me for something. You need
me alive. Why? To investigate a crime, of course. Yes, yes. But which one? One committed recently?’ What open major cases were there? Rhyme wondered. Then realized. ‘Or one that’s
going
to happen? Next week?’

‘Or next month or next year,’ the Watchmaker offered, sounding amused.

‘The Metropolitan museum break-in? Or something else?’

No word.

‘Why me?’

A pause. ‘I’ll just say that the plan
I’ve put together needs you.’

‘And it needs me to be aware of it,’ Rhyme shot back. ‘So my knowing is a gear or a spring or a flywheel in your timepiece.’

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.

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.

Rhyme had called Fred Dellray and learned that there was an art dealer under indictment for tax evasion, Jason Heatherly. Dellray
got the US attorney to drop a few of the charges if Heatherly cooperated; the feds wanted the Watchmaker back in the slammer as much as Rhyme and the NYPD did.

Heatherly agreed and the watch was delivered to him and put on display in a case in his Upper East Side antiques store/art gallery.

In his conversation with the Watchmaker a week ago Rhyme had brought up the Bone Collector and then casually
segued to the Bronnikov watch, mentioning that it was in a gallery in Manhattan. He’d tried to be nonchalant and hoped his delivery was more fluid than Ron Pulaski’s.

Apparently it was.

Several days after the conversation, Heatherly reported that a man had called, inquiring about any watches the gallery might have for sale – though asking nothing specific about the Bronnikov. Heatherly had told
him the inventory, including a mention of the bone watch, and the man had thanked him and hung up. Caller ID was
Unknown
.

Rhyme and a task force had debated how to handle it. The bureau wanted surveillance and a take-down team near the gallery, ready to move in as soon as somebody came in to buy or steal the watch. Rhyme said no. The Watchmaker would spot them instantly. They should take a different
approach, more subtle.

So FBI and NYPD surveillance experts had installed a miniature tracker in the metal fob of the watch. The device would remain powered down, undetectable by any radio wave sensors, most of the time. Every two days, it would – for a millisecond – beam its location to the ICGSN, the International Consolidated Geopositioning Satellite Network, which blanketed nearly every populated
area on earth. Then go quiescent.