The Bone Collector

case without finding out what kind of knot it was. Then he remembered that Polling was a fisherman. Maybe he’d recognize—
    Polling, Rhyme reflected.
    James Polling . . .
    Funny how the captain had insisted Rhyme handle the case. How he’d fought to keep him on it, rather than Peretti—who was the better choice, politically, for Polling. Remembering too how he’d lost his temper at Dellray when the feebie tried to strong-arm the investigation away from the NYPD.
    Now that he thought about it, Polling’s whole involvement in the case was a mystery. Eight twenty-three wasn’t the kind of perp you took on voluntarily—even if you were looking for juicy cases to hang on your collar record. Too many chances to lose vics, too many opportunities for the press—and the brass—to snipe at you for fucking up.
    Polling . . . Recalling how he’d breeze into Rhyme’s bedroom, check out their progress and leave.
    Sure, he was reporting to the mayor and the chief. But—the thought slipped unexpectedly into Rhyme’s mind—was there someone else Polling was reporting back to?
    Someone who wanted to keep tabs on the investigation? The unsub himself?
    But how on earth could Polling have any connection with 823? It seemed—
    And then it struck him.
    Could Polling be the unsub?
    Of course not. It was ridiculous. Laughable. Even apart from motive and means, there was the question of opportunity. The captain had been here, in Rhyme’s room, when some of the kidnappings had occurred. . . .
    Or had he?
    Rhyme looked up at the profile chart.
    Dark clothing and wrinkled cotton slacks. Polling’d been wearing dark sports clothes over the past several days. But so what? So did a lot of—
    Downstairs a door opened and closed.
    “Thom?”
    No answer. The aide wasn’t due back for hours.
    “Lincoln?”
    Oh, no. Hell. He started to dial on the ECU.
    9—1—
    With his chin he bumped the cursor to 2.
    Footsteps on the stairs.
    He tried to redial but he knocked the joystick out of reach in his desperation.
    And Jim Polling walked into the room. Rhyme had counted on the babysitter’s calling upstairs first. But of course a beat cop would let a police captain inside without thinking twice.
    Polling’s dark jacket was unbuttoned and Rhyme got a look at the automatic on his hip. He couldn’t see if it was his issue weapon. But he knew that .32 Colts were on the NYPD list of approved personal weapons.
    “Lincoln,” Polling said. He was clearly uneasy, cautious. His eyes fell to the bleached bit of spinal cord.
    “How you doing, Jim?”
    “Not bad.”
    Polling the outdoorsman. Had the scar on the fingerprint been left by years of casting a fishing line? Or an accident with a hunting knife? Rhyme tried to look but Polling kept his hands jammed into his pockets. Was he holding something in there? A knife?
    Polling certainly knew forensics and crime scenes—he knew how not to leave evidence.
    The ski mask? If Polling was the unsub he’d have to wear the mask of course—because one of the vics might see him later. And the aftershave . . . what if the unsub hadn’t worn the scent at all but had just carried a bottle with him and sprayed some at the scenes to make them believe he wore Brut? So when Polling showed up here, not wearing any, no one would suspect him.
    “You’re alone?” Polling asked.
    “My assistant—”
    “The cop downstairs said he wouldn’t be back for a while.”
    Rhyme hesitated. “That’s right.”
    Polling was slight but strong, sandy-haired. Terry Dobyns’s words came back: Someone helpful, upstanding. A social worker, counselor, politician. Somebody helping other people.
    Like a cop.
    Rhyme wondered now if he was about to die. And tohis shock he realized that he didn’t want to. Not this way, not on somebody else’s terms.
    Polling walked to the bed.
    Yet there was nothing he could do. He was at this man’s complete mercy.
    “Lincoln,” Polling repeated gravely.
    Their eyes met and the feeling of electrical connection went through them. Dry sparks. The captain looked quickly out the window. “You’ve been wondering, haven’t you?”
    “Wondering?”
    “Why I wanted you on the case.”
    “I figured it was my personality.”
    This drew no smile from the captain.
    “Why did you want me, Jim?”
    The captain’s fingers knitted together. Thin but strong. The hands of a fisherman, a sport that, yes, may be genteel but whose purpose is nonetheless to wrench a poor beast from