The Bone Collector

pier just north of Battery Park City.”
    “I just heard from Lon, on the East Side. He hasn’t found anything.”
    “It’s hopeless,” she said. “There’re a dozen piers. Then the whole promenade . . . And the fireboat house and ferry docks and the pier at Battery Park . . . We need ESU.”
    “We don’t have ESU, Sachs. They’re not on our side anymore.”
    Twenty minutes to high tide.
    Her eyes darted along the waterfront. Her shoulders sagged with helplessness. Hand on her weapon, she sprinted to the river, Jerry Banks not far behind.
    * * *  
    “Get me something on that leaf, Mel. A guess, anything. Wing it.”
    Fidgeting, Cooper looked from the microscope to the computer screen.
    Eight thousand varieties of leafy plants in Manhattan.
    “It doesn’t fit the cell structure of anything. ”
    “It’s old,” Rhyme said. “How old?”
    Cooper looked at the leaf again. “Mummified. I’d put it at a hundred years, little less maybe.”
    “What’s gone extinct in the last hundred years?”
    “Plants don’t go extinct in an ecosystem like Manhattan. They always show up again.”
    A ping in Rhyme’s mind. He was close to remembering something. He both loved and hated this feeling. He might grab the thought like a slow pop-up fly. Or it might vanish completely, leaving him with only the sting of lost inspiration.
    Sixteen minutes to high tide.
    What was the thought? He grappled with it, closed his eyes . . .
    Pier, he was thinking. The vic’s under a pier.
    What about it? Think!
    Pier . . . ships . . . unloading . . . cargo.
    Unloading cargo!
    His eyes snapped open. “Mel, is it a crop?”
    “Oh, hell. I’ve been looking at general-horticulture pages, not cultivated crops.” He typed for what seemed like hours.
    “Well?”
    “Hold on, hold on. Here’s a list of the encoded binaries.” He scanned it. “Alfalfa, barley, beets, corn, oats, tobacco . . .”
    “Tobacco! Try that.”
    Cooper double clicked his mouse and the image slowly unfurled on the screen.
    “That’s it!”
    “The World Trade Towers,” Rhyme announced. “The land from there north used to be tobacco plantations. Thom, the research for my book—I want the map from the 1740s. And that modern map Bo Haumann was using for the asbestos-cleanup sites. Put them up there on the wall, next to each other.”
    The aide found the old map in Rhyme’s files. He taped them both onto the wall near his bed. Crudely drawn, the older map showed the northern part of the settled city—a cluster on the lower portion of the isle—covered with plantations. There were three commercial wharves along the river, which was then called not the Hudson but the West River. Rhyme glanced at the recent map of the city. The farmland was gone of course, as were the original wharves, but the contemporary map showed an abandoned wharf in the exact location of one of the tobacco exporter’s old piers.
    Rhyme strained forward, struggling to see the street name it was near. He was about to shout for Thom to come hold the map closer when, from downstairs, he heard a loud snap and the door crashed inward. Glass shattered.
    Thom started down the stairs.
    “I want to see him.” The terse voice filled the hallway.
    “Just a—” the aide began.
    “No. Not in a minute, not in a hour. But right. Fucking. Now.”
    “Mel,” Rhyme whispered, “ditch the evidence, shut the systems down.”
    “But—”
    “Do it!”
    Rhyme shook his head violently, dislodging the headset microphone. It fell onto the side of the Clinitron. Footsteps pounded up the stairs.
    Thom did the best he could to stall but the visitors were three federal agents and two of the three were holding large guns. Slowly they backed him up the stairs.
    Bless him, Mel Cooper pulled apart a compound microscope in five seconds flat and was calmly replacing the components with meticulous care as the FBI crested the stairs and stormed into Rhyme’s room. The evidence bags were stuffed under a table and covered with National Geographics.
    “Ah, Dellray,” Rhyme asked. “Find our unsub, did you?”
    “Why didn’t you tell us?”
    “Tell you what?”
    “That the fingerprint was bogus.”
    “No one asked me.”
    “Bogus?” Cooper asked, mystified.
    “Well, it was a real print,” Rhyme said, as if it were obvious. “But it wasn’t the unsub’s. Our boy needed a taxi to catch his fish with. So he met—what was his name?”
    “Victor Pietrs,” Dellray muttered and