The Bone Collector by Jeffery Deaver

there was no time to think about it now. As the doctor’s footsteps receded down the stairs Rhyme shouted in a booming baritone, “Thom? Thom!”
    “What?” the young man’s voice called.
    “Call Lon. Get him back here. Now!”
    Rhyme glanced at the clock. It was after noon. They had less than three hours.

FOUR
    T he crime scene was staged,” Lincoln Rhyme said.
    Lon Sellitto had tossed his jacket off, revealing a savagely wrinkled shirt. He now leaned back, arms crossed, against a table strewn with papers and books.
    Jerry Banks was back too and his pale-blue eyes were on Rhyme’s; the bed and its control panel no longer interested him.
    Sellitto frowned. “But what story’s the unsub tryin’ to sell us?”
    At crime scenes, especially homicides, perps often monkeyed with PE to lead investigators astray. Some were clever about it but most weren’t. Like the husband who beat his wife to death then tried to make it look like a robbery—though he only thought to steal her jewelry, leaving his gold bracelets and diamond pinkie ring on his dresser.
    “That’s what’s so interesting,” Rhyme continued. “It’s not about what happened, Lon. It’s what’s going to happen.”
    Sellitto the skeptic asked, “What makes you think so?”
    “The scraps of paper. They mean three o’clock today.”
    “Today?”
    “Look!” Nodding toward the report, an impatient jerk of his head.
    “That one scrap says three p.m.,” Banks pointed out. “But the other’s a page number. Why do you think it means today?”
    “It’s not a page number.” Rhyme lifted an eyebrow. They still didn’t get it. “Logic! The only reason to leaveclues was to tell us something. If that’s the case then 823 has to be something more than just a page number because there’s no clue as to what book it’s from. Well, if it’s not a page number what is it?”
    Silence.
    Exasperated, Rhyme snapped, “It’s a date! Eight twenty-three. August twenty-third. Something’s going to happen at three p.m. today. Now, the ball of fiber? It’s asbestos.”
    “Asbestos?” Sellitto asked.
    “In the report? The formula? It’s hornblende. Silicon dioxide. That is asbestos. Why Peretti sent it to the FBI is beyond me. So. We have asbestos on a railbed where there shouldn’t be any. And we’ve got an iron bolt with decaying oxidation on the head but none on the threads. That means it’s been bolted someplace for a long time and just recently removed.”
    “Maybe it was overturned in the dirt,” Banks offered. “When he was digging the grave?”
    Rhyme said, “No. In Midtown the bedrock’s close to the surface, which means so are the aquifers. All the soil from Thirty-fourth Street up to Harlem contains enough moisture to oxidize iron within a few days. It’d be completely rusted, not just the head, if it’d been buried. No, it was unbolted from someplace, carried to the scene and left there. And that sand . . . Come on, what’s white sand doing on a train roadbed in Midtown Manhattan? The soil composition there is loam, silt, granite, hardpan and soft clay.”
    Banks started to speak but Rhyme cut him off abruptly. “And what were these things doing all clustered together? Oh, he’s telling us something, our unsub. You bet he is. Banks, what about the access door?”
    “You were right,” the young man said. “They found one about a hundred feet north of the grave. Broken open from the inside. You were also right about the prints. Zip. And no tire tracks or trace evidence either.”
    A lock of dirty asbestos, a bolt, a torn newspaper . . .
    “The scene?” Rhyme asked. “Intact?”
    “Released.”
    Lincoln Rhyme, the crip with the killer lungs, exhaled a loud hiss of air, disgusted. “Who made that mistake?”
    “I don’t know,” Sellitto said lamely. “Watch commander probably.”
    It was Peretti, Rhyme understood. “Then you’re stuck with what you’ve got.”
    Whatever clues as to who the kidnapper was and what he