The Bone Collector

was some kind of scientist at a national laboratory or something.”
    “Is that what Rhyme studied? Science?”
    “Yeah. Went to school at Champaign-Urbana, got a coupla fancy degrees. Chemistry and history. Which I have no idea why. His folks’re gone since I knew him, that’d be, hell, coming on fifteen years now. And he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. He grew up in Illinois. That’s why the name, Lincoln.”
    She wanted to ask if he was, or had been, married but didn’t. She settled for: “Is he really that much of a . . .”
    “You can say it, officer.”
    “A shit?”
    Banks laughed.
    Sellitto said, “My ma had this expression. She said somebody was ‘of a mind.’ Well, that describes Rhyme. He’s of a mind. One time this dumb-ass tech sprayed luminol—that’s a blood reagent—on a fingerprint, instead of ninhydrin. Ruined the print. Rhyme fired him on the spot. Another time a cop took a leak at a scene and flushed the toilet. Man, Rhyme went ballistic, told him to get his ass down to the basement and bring back whatever was in the sewer trap.” Sellitto laughed. “The cop, he had rank, he said, ‘I’m not doing that, I’m a lieutenant.’ And Rhyme said, ‘Got news. You’re a plumber now.’ I could go on and on. Fuck, officer, you doing eighty?”
    They streaked past the Big Building and she thought, achingly, That’s where I oughta be right now. Meeting fellow information officers, sitting through the training session, soaking up the air-conditioning.
    She steered expertly around a taxi that was oozing through a red light.
    Jesus, this is hot. Dust hot, stink hot, gas hot. The ugly hours of the city. Tempers spurted like gray water shooting from hydrants up in Harlem. Two Christmases ago, she and her boyfriend had an abbreviated holiday celebration—from 11:00 p.m. to midnight, the only mutual free time their watches allowed—in the four-degree night. She and Nick, sitting at Rockefeller Center, outside, near the skating rink, drinking coffee and brandy. They’d agreed they’d rather have a week of cold than a single hot August day.
    Finally, streaking down Pearl she spotted Haumann’s command post. Leaving eight-foot skid marks, Sachs put the RRV into a slot between his car and an EMS bus.
    “Damn, you drive good.” Sellitto climbed out. For some reason Sachs was delighted to notice Jerry Banks’s sweaty fingerprints remained prominently on the window when he pushed the rear door open.
    EMS officers and Patrol uniforms were everywhere, fifty or sixty of them. And more were on their way. It seemed as if the entire attention of Police Plaza wasfocused on downtown New York. Sachs found herself thinking idly that if anybody wanted to try an assassination or to take over Gracie Mansion or a consulate, this’d be the time to do it.
    Haumann trotted up to the station wagon. He said to Sellitto, “We’re doing door-to-door, seeing about construction along Pearl. Nobody knows anything about asbestos work and nobody’s heard any calls for help.”
    Sachs started to climb out but Haumann said, “No, officer. Your orders’re to stay here with the CS vehicle.”
    She got out anyway.
    “Yessir. Who exactly said that?”
    “Detective Rhyme. I just talked to him. You’re supposed to call in to Central when you’re at the CP.”
    Haumann was walking away. Sellitto and Banks hurried toward the command post.
    “Detective Sellitto,” Sachs called.
    He turned. She said, “Excuse me, detective. The thing is, who’s my watch commander? Who’m I reporting to?”
    He said shortly, “You’re reporting to Rhyme.”
    She laughed. “But I can’t be reporting to him.”
    Sellitto gazed at her blankly.
    “I mean, aren’t there liability issues or something? Jurisdiction? He’s a civilian. I need somebody, a shield, to report to.”
    Sellitto said evenly, “Officer, listen up. We’re all reporting to Lincoln Rhyme. I don’t care whether he’s a civilian or he’s the chief or he’s the fucking Caped Crusader. Got that?”
    “But—”
    “You wanna complain, do it in writing and do it tomorrow.”
    And he was gone. Sachs stared after him for a moment then returned to the front seat of the wagon and called in to Central that she was 10-84 at the scene. Awaiting instructions.
    She laughed grimly as the woman reported, “Ten-four, Portable 5885. Be advised. Detective Rhyme will be in touch shortly, K.”
    Detective Rhyme.
    “Ten-four, K,” Sachs responded and looked in