The Bone Collector

Rhyme asked.
    “Yep. That’s what the owner thought was funny. Some of those insects—”
    “Forget five inches, some of ’em were eight. Easy.”
    “—are worth three or four hundred. But all the perp boosted was the snake and some bones.”
    “Any particular ones?” Rhyme asked.
    “An assortment. Like your Whitman’s Sampler.”
    “His words, not ours.”
    “Mostly little ones. Hand and foot. And a rib, maybe two.”
    “The guy wasn’t sure.”
    “Any CS report?”
    “For ’jacked bones? Noooope.”
    The Hardy Boys departed once more, heading down-town to the last scene to start canvassing the neighborhood.
    Rhyme wondered about the snake. Was it giving them a location? Did it relate to the First Methodist fire? If rattlers had been indigenous to Manhattan, urban development had long ago played Saint Patrick and purged the island of them. Was he making a play on the word snake or rattler?
    Then Rhyme suddenly believed he understood. “The snake’s for us.”
    “Us?” Banks laughed.
    “It’s a slap in the face.”
    “Whose face?”
    “Everybody who’s looking for him. I think it’s a practical joke.”
    “I wasn’t laughing very hard,” Sachs said.
    “Your expression was pretty funny.” Banks grinned.
    “I think we’re better than he expected and he’s not happy about it. He’s mad and he’s taking it out on us. Thom, add that to our profile, if you would. He’s mocking us.”
    Sellitto’s phone rang. He opened it and answered. “Emma darlin’. Whatcha got?” He nodded as he jotted notes. Then looked up and announced, “Rental-car thefts. Two Avises disappeared from their location in the Bronx in the past week, one in Midtown. They’re out ’cause the colors’re wrong: red, green and white. No Nationals. Four Hertz were ’jacked. Three in Manhattan—one from their downtown East Side location, from Midtown and from the Upper West Side. There were two green and—this could be it—one tan. But a silver Ford got boosted from White Plains. That’s my vote.”
    “Agree,” Rhyme announced. “White Plains.”
    “How do you know?” Sachs asked. “Monelle said it could’ve been either beige or silver.”
    “Because our boy’s in the city,” Rhyme explained, “and if he’s going to boost something as obvious as a car he’ll do it as far away from his safe house as he can. It’s a Ford, you said?”
    Sellitto asked Emma the question, then looked up. “Taurus. This year’s model. Dark-gray interior. Tag’s irrelevant.”
    Rhyme nodded. “The first thing he changed, the plates. Thank her and tell her to get some sleep. But not to wander too far from the phone.”
    “Got something here, Lincoln,” Mel Cooper called.
    “What’s that?”
    “The glop. I’m running it through the database of brand names now.” He stared at the screen. “Cross-referencing . . . Let’s see, the most likely match is Kink-Away. It’s a retail hair straightener.”
    “Politically incorrect but helpful. That puts us up in Harlem, wouldn’t you think? Narrows down the churches considerably.” Banks was looking through the religious-service directories of all three metro newspapers. “I count twenty-two.”
    “When’s the earliest service?”
    “Three have services at eight. Six at nine. One at nine-thirty. The rest at ten or eleven.”
    “He’ll go for one of the first services. He’s already giving us hours to find the place.”
    Sellitto said, “I’ve got Haumann getting the ESU boys together again.”
    “How ’bout Dellray?” Sachs said. She pictured the forlorn agent by himself on the street corner outside.
    “What about him?” Sellitto muttered.
    “Aw, let’s cut him in. He wants a piece of this guy bad.”
    “Perkins said he was supposed to help,” Banks offered.
    “You really want him?” Sellitto asked, frowning.
    Sachs was nodding. “Sure.”
    Rhyme agreed. “Okay, he can run the fed S&S teams. I want a team on each church right away. All entrances. But they should stay way back. I don’t want to spook him. Maybe we can nail him in the act.”
    Sellitto took a phone call. He looked up, eyes closed. “Jesus.”
    “Oh, no,” Rhyme muttered.
    The detective wiped his sweating face and nodded. “Central got a 9-1-1 from the night manager at this place? The Midtown Residence Hotel? Woman and her little girl called him from La Guardia, said they were just about to get a cab. That was a while ago; they never showed up. With all the news about the