The Bone Collector

good as any.
    They were interrupted by two men in gray suits who climbed the stairs and walked into the bedroom as if they lived here.
    “We knocked,” one of them said.
    “We rang the bell,” said the other.
    “No answer.”
    They were in their forties, one taller than the other but both with the same sandy-colored hair. They bore identical smiles and before the Brooklyn drawl destroyed the image Rhyme had thought: Hayseed farm boys. One had an honest-to-God dusting of freckles along the bridge of his pale nose.
    “Gentlemen.”
    Sellitto introduced the Hardy Boys: Detectives Bedding and Saul, the spadework team. Their skill was canvassing—interviewing people who live near a crime scene for wits and leads. It was a fine art but one that Rhyme had never learned, had no desire to. He was content to unearth hard facts and hand them off to officers like these, who, armed with the data, became living lie detectors who could shred perps’ best cover stories. Neither of them seemed to think it was the least bit weird to be reporting to a bedridden civilian.
    Saul, the taller of them, the frecklee, said, “We’ve found thirty-six—”
    “-eight, if you count a couple of crack-heads. Which he doesn’t. I do.”
    “—subjects. Interviewed all of them. Haven’t had much luck.”
    “Most of ’em blind, deaf, amnesiacs. You know, the usual.”
    “No sign of the taxi. Combed the West Side. Zero. Zip.”
    Bedding: “But tell them the good news.”
    “We found a wit.”
    “A witness?” Banks asked eagerly. “Fan-tastic.”
    Rhyme, considerably less enthusiastic, said, “Go on.”
    “’Round the TOD this morning at the train tracks.”
    “He saw a man walk down Eleventh Avenue, turn—”
    “ ‘Suddenly,’ he said,” added no-freckle Bedding.
    “—and go through an alley that led to the train underpass. He just stood there for a while—”
    “Looking down.”
    Rhyme was troubled by this. “That doesn’t sound like our boy. He’s too smart to risk being seen like that.”
    “But—” Saul continued, raising a finger and glancing at his partner.
    “There was only one window in the whole ’hood you could see the place from.”
    “Which is where our wit happened to be standing.”
    “Up early, bless his heart.”
    Before he remembered he was angry with her Rhyme asked, “Well, Amelia, how’s it feel?”
    “I’m sorry?” Her attention returned from the window.
    “To be right,” Rhyme said. “You pegged Eleventh Avenue. Not Thirty-seventh.”
    She didn’t know how to respond but Rhyme turned immediately back to the twins. “Description?”
    “Our wit couldn’t say much.”
    “Was on the sauce. Already.”
    “He said it was a smallish guy. No hair color. Race—”
    “Probably white.”
    “Wearing?” Rhyme asked.
    “Something dark. Best he could say.”
    “And doing what?” Sellitto asked.
    “I quote. ‘He just like stood there, looking down. I thought he gonna jump. You know, in front of a train. Looked at his watch a couple times.’ ”
    “And then finally left. Said he kept looking around. Like he didn’t want to be seen.”
    What had he been doing? Rhyme wondered. Watching the victim die? Or was this before he planted the body, checking to see if the roadbed was deserted?
    Sellitto asked, “Walked or drove?”
    “Walked. We checked every parking lot—”
    “And garage.”
    “—in the neighborhood. But that’s near the convention center so you got parking coming out your ears. There’re so many lots the attendants stand in the street with orange flags and wave cars in.”
    “And ’causa the expo half of them were full by seven. We got a list of about nine hundred tags.”
    Sellitto shook his head. “Follow up on it—”
    “It’s delegated,” said Bedding.
    “—but I betcha this’s one unsub who ain’t putting cars in lots,” the detective continued. “Or getting parking tickets.”
    Rhyme nodded his agreement and asked, “The building at Pearl Street?”
    One, or both, of the twins said, “That’s next on our list. We’re on our way.”
    Rhyme caught Sachs checking her watch, which sat on her white wrist near her ruddy fingers. He instructed Thom to add these new characteristics of the unsub to the profile chart.
    “You want to interview that guy?” Banks asked. “The one by the railroad?”
    “No. I don’t trust witnesses,” Rhyme said bombastically. “I want to get back to work.” He glanced at Mel Cooper. “Hairs, blood, bone,