Free The Bone Collector by Jeffery Deaver Page A

the railroad tracks.”
    “That’s right, I took the call.” When she spoke, she spoke to Thom.
    “I’m here, officer,” Rhyme reminded sternly, barely controlling his temper. “Over here.” It infuriated him when people talked to him through others, through healthy people.
    Her head swiveled quickly and he saw the lesson had been learned. “Yessir,” she said, a soft tone in her voice but ice in her eyes.
    “I’m decommissioned. Just call me Lincoln.”
    “Would you just get it over with, please?”
    “How’s that?” he asked.
    “The reason why you brought me here. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. If you want a written apology I’ll do it. Only, I’m late for my new assignment and I haven’t had a chance to call my commander.”
    “Apology?” Rhyme asked.
    “The thing is, I didn’t have any real crime scene experience. I was sort of flying by the seat of my pants.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Stopping the trains and closing Eleventh Avenue. It was my fault the senator missed his speech in New Jersey and that some of the senior UN people didn’t make it in from Newark Airport in time for their meetings.”
    Rhyme was chuckling. “Do you know who I am?”
    “Well, I’ve heard of you of course. I thought you . . .”
    “Were dead?” Rhyme asked.
    “No. I didn’t mean that.” Though she had. She continued quickly, “We all used your book in the academy. But we don’t hear about you. Personally, I mean . . .” She looked up at the wall and said stiffly, “In my judgment, as first officer, I thought it was best to stop the train and close the street to protect the scene. And that’s what I did. Sir.”
    “Call me Lincoln. And you’re . . .”
    “I—”
    “Your first name?”
    “Amelia.”
    “Amelia. After the aviatrix?”
    “Nosir. A family name.”
    “Amelia, I don’t want an apology. You were right and Vince Peretti was wrong.”
    Sellitto stirred at this indiscretion but Lincoln Rhyme didn’t care. He was, after all, one of the few people in the world who could stay flat on his ass when the president of the United States himself walked into the room. He continued, “Peretti worked the scene like the mayor was looking over his shoulder and that’s the A-number-one way to screw it up. He had too many people, he was dead wrong to let the trains and traffic move and he should never have released the scene as early as he did. If we’d kept the tracks secure, who knows, we might’ve just found a credit card receipt with a name on it. Or a big beautiful thumbprint.”
    “That may be,” Sellitto said delicately. “But let’s just keep it to ourselves.” Giving silent orders, his eyes swiveling toward Sachs and Cooper and young Jerry Banks.
    Rhyme snorted an irreverent laugh. Then turned back to Sachs, whom he caught, like Banks that morning, staring at his legs and body under the apricot-colored blanket. He said to her, “I asked you here to work the next crime scene for us.”
    “What?” No speaking through interpreters this time.
    “Work for us,” he said shortly. “The next crime scene.”
    “But”—she laughed—“I’m not IRD. I’m Patrol. I’ve never done CS work.”
    “This is an unusual case. As Detective Sellitto himself’ll tell you. It’s real weird. Right, Lon? True, if it was a classic scene, I wouldn’t want you. But we need a fresh pair of eyes on this one.”
    She glanced at Sellitto, who said nothing. “I just . . . I’d be no good at it. I’m sure.”
    “All right,” Rhyme said patiently. “The truth?”
    She nodded.
    “I need somebody who’s got the balls to stop a trainin its tracks to protect a scene and to put up with the heat afterwards.”
    “Thank you for the opportunity, sir. Lincoln. But—”
    Rhyme said shortly, “Lon.”
    “Officer,” the detective grunted to Sachs, “you’re not being given any options here. You’ve been assigned to this case to assist at the crime scene.”
    “Sir, I have