A Textbook Case

he’s got some trace or other clue on him that could lead us to his identity or to the next victim he’s got in mind.”
    “Right,” Lon Sellitto said. “And?”
    Rhyme was peering at the charts. “So what did he use the most of to contaminate the scene?”
    Sachs said, “Trash—”
    “No, that was a general smokescreen. It just happened to be there. Something specific, I’m looking for.”
    Cooper shoved his Harry Potter glasses higher on his nose as he read the charts. He offered, “Fibers, hair, general trace—”
    “Yes, but those are givens at every crime scene. I want to know what’s
special
?”
    “What’s the most unique, you mean?” Sellitto offered.
    “No, I don’t mean that, Lon,” Rhyme said sourly. “Because something is either unique or not. You don’t have varying degrees of one-ness.”
    “Haven’t had a grammar lesson from you lately, Lincoln. I was wondering if you’d quit the schoolmarm union.”
    Drawing a smile from Thom, who was delivering coffee and pastries.
    Sachs was studying the chart. She said, “Dirt and… vegetation.”
    Rhyme squinted. “Yes, good. That could be it. He knew he picked up some trace either where the perp lives or works, or where he’s been scoping out another victim, and he had to cover that up.”
    “Which means,” Sachs said, “a garden, park or yard?”
    “I’d say, yes. Soil and the greenery. That could hold the clue. It cuts the search down a bit…. We should start there. Then anything else?” Rhyme reviewed the chart again. “The detergent and cleansers--why’d he sprinkle or pour so many of those in the scene? We need to start working our way through those, too.” Rhyme looked around. “That kid, Marko? Why isn’t he here?”
    Sachs said, “He called. He had something he had to do back in Queens, HQ. But he’d still like to help us out if we need him. You want me to call him?”
    “I do, Sachs. Fast!”
    # # #
    An exhausting time.
    A business trip with her boss to California and back in under twenty-four hours.
    Productive, necessary, but stressful.
    They were now cabbing it into the city from JFK, where their flight had landed at 6:00 p.m. She was exhausted, a bit tipsy from the two glasses of wine and mildly resenting the three hours that you lost flying east.
    Her boss, late forties, tanned and trim, now slipped his iPhone away—he’d been making a date for tomorrow—and then turned to her with a laugh. “Did you hear them? They really used the word ‘unpack.’ ”
    As in “unpack it for us,” meaning presumably explain to the network the story they’d come to pitch.
    “Since when did ‘explain’ fall off the A-list of words?”
    Simone smiled. “And the net executive? She said the concept was definitely ‘seismic.’ You know, you need a translator app in Hollywood.”
    Her boss laughed and Simone eyed him obliquely. A great guy. Funny, smart, in great shape thanks to a health club regimen that bordered on the religious. He was also extremely talented, which meant extremely successful.
    Oh, and single, too.
    He sure was a big helping of temptation, you bet, but Simone, despite being in her mid-thirties and sans boyfriend at the moment, had successfully corralled the baby and the lonely hormones; she could look at her boss objectively. The man’s obsessive craving for detail and perfection, his intensity would drive her crazy if they were partners. Work was everything. He lived his life as if he were planning out a production. That was it: life as storyboard, preproduction, production and post. This was undoubtedly a reason his marriage hadn’t worked out and why he tended to go out with somebody for only a month or two at the most.
    Good luck, James, she thought. I wish you the best.
    Not that he’d ever actually asked you out, Simone reflected wryly.
    The cab now approached her neighborhood—Greenwich Village. For Simone, there was no other place to live in New York City. It was, truly, a village. A neighborhood.
    The cab dropped her at Tenth Street. “Hm,” her boss said, looking out the window at two men, constructed like bodybuilders, kissing passionately as they stood on the steps of the building next to hers.
    He said, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” The famous line from
Seinfeld
.
    Simone smiled, then looked at the main kisser. What a waste.
    Then she said good night to her boss and stepped out of the cab, grabbed her suitcase from the trunk. She paused to let a stocky