The Bone Collector

here.”
    “Oh, yes there is, Amelia. There’s his address and his phone number and his description and his hopes and aspirations. They’re all around you.”
    She was furious at his professor’s tone and remained silent.
    “You have the flashlight?”
    “I’ve got my issue halogen—”
    “No,” he grumbled. “Issue lights are too narrow. You need the twelve-volt broad beam.”
    “Well, I didn’t bring it,” she snapped. “Should I go back and get it?”
    “No time. Check out the pipes.”
    She searched for ten minutes, climbing up to the ceiling, and with the powerful light she illuminated spots that perhaps hadn’t been lit in fifty years. “No, I don’t see a thing.”
    “Go back to the door. Hurry.”
    She hesitated and returned.
    “Okay, I’m here.”
    “Now. Close your eyes. What do you smell?”
    “Smell? Did you say smell?” Was he crazy?
    “Always smell the air at a crime scene. It can tell you a hundred things.”
    She kept her eyes wide and breathed in. She said, “Well, I don’t know what I smell.”
    “That’s not an acceptable answer.”
    She exhaled in exasperation and hoped the hiss was coming through his telephone loud and clear. She jammed her lids closed, inhaled, fought the nausea again.“Mold, mustiness. The smell of hot water from the steam.”
    “You don’t know where it’s from. Just describe it.”
    “Hot water. The woman’s perfume.”
    “Are you sure it’s hers?”
    “Well, no.”
    “Are you wearing any?”
    “No.”
    “How ’bout aftershave? The medic? The ESU officer?”
    “I don’t think so. No.”
    “Describe it.”
    “Dry. Like gin.”
    “Take a guess, man’s aftershave or woman’s perfume.”
    What had Nick worn? Arrid Extra Dry.
    “I don’t know,” she said. “Man’s.”
    “Walk to the body.”
    She glanced once at the pipe then down to the floor.
    “I—”
    “Do it,” Lincoln Rhyme said.
    She did. The peeling skin was like black-and-red birch.
    “Smell her neck.”
    “It’s all . . . I mean, there isn’t much skin left.”
    “I’m sorry, Amelia, but you have to do it. We have to see if it’s her perfume.”
    She did, inhaled. Gagged, nearly vomited.
    I’m going to puke, she thought. Just like Nick and me that night at Pancho’s, done in by those damn frozen daiquiris. Two hard-ass cops, swigging down sissy drinks with blue plastic swordfish swimming in them.
    “Do you smell the perfume?”
    Here it comes . . . Gagging again.
    No. No! She closed her eyes, concentrated on her aching joints. The most painful one—her knee. And, miraculously, the wave of nausea passed. “It’s not her perfume.”
    “Good. So maybe our boy’s vain enough to wear a lot of aftershave. That could be a social-class indicator. Or maybe he wants to cover up some other smell hemight’ve left. Garlic, cigars, fish, whisky. We’ll have to see. Now, Amelia, listen carefully.”
    “What?”
    “I want you to be him.”
    Oh. Psychoshit. Just what I need.
    “I really don’t think we have time for this.”
    “There’s never enough time in crime scene work,” Rhyme continued soothingly. “But that doesn’t stop us. Just get into his head. You’ve been thinking the way we think. I want you to think the way he does.”
    “Well, how do I do that?”
    “Use your imagination. That’s why God gave us one. Now, you’re him. You’ve got her cuffed and gagged. You take her into the room there. You cuff her to the pipe. You scare her. You’re enjoying this.”
    “How do you know he’s enjoying it?”
    “ You’re enjoying it. Not him. How do I know? Because nobody goes to this much trouble to do something they don’t enjoy. Now, you know your way around. You’ve been here before.”
    “Why d’you think that?”
    “You had to check it out earlier—to find a deserted place with a feeder pipe from the steam system. And to get the clues he left by the train tracks.”
    Sachs was mesmerized by his fluid, low voice. She forgot completely that his body was destroyed. “Oh. Right.”
    “You take the steam-pipe cover off. What are you thinking?”
    “I don’t know. That I want to get it over with. Get out.”
    But the words were hardly out of her mouth before she thought: Wrong. And she wasn’t surprised when she heard Rhyme’s tongue click in her headset. “Do you really?” he asked.
    “No. I want to make it last.”
    “Yes! I think that’s exactly what you want. You’re thinking about what the steam will do to her.