‘That means it’s from a mass-produced commercial hardcover – not paperback because they’re printed on newsprint. And it’s commercial because more expensive, limited-edition books are printed on low-acid or acid-free paper.

‘Add that to your team’s to-do list, Lon. Find the book. I’m leaning toward nonfiction, the aforementioned years. Possibly true crime. And each chapter devoted to a different subject, since he sliced out only what he needed. Have your people start talking to editors, bookstores, crime book collectors … and true crime writers themselves. How many could there be?’

‘Yeah, yeah, in all the free time they have when they’re not browsing for the trillion quotations featuring the words “the second”.’

‘Oh, and by the way, make it a priority. If our unsub went to enough trouble to find a copy of the book, cut out the pages and carry them around with him, I really want to know what’s in it.’

The big detective was looking at the picture of the tattoo once more. He said to Cooper, ‘Print out a picture of that, willya, Mel? I’ll start hitting those tattoo parlors – is that what they still call ’em? Probably “studio” now. And get me a list of the big ones.’

Rhyme watched Cooper print out the picture then go online with the NYC business licensing agency. He downloaded a list of what seemed to be about thirty tattoo businesses. Cooper handed it to the detective.

‘That many?’ Sellitto grumbled. ‘Wonderful. I just can’t really get outside enough on these fine fall days.’ He tossed the list and the photo of the tattoo into his briefcase. Then pulled on his Burberry and dug his wadded gloves from the pocket. Without a farewell he stalked out of the room. Rhyme once again heard the wind briefly as the door opened and slammed shut.

‘And, rookie, how’re we coming on the marble?’

The young officer turned to a nearby computer. He read through the screen. ‘Still going through blasting permits. They’re blowing up a lot of stuff in the city at the moment.’

‘Keep at it.’

‘You bet. I’ll have some answers soon.’ He turned his gaze to Rhyme. ‘Hopefully.’

‘Hopefully?’ Rhyme frowned.

‘Yep. I’m filled with hope that I don’t get any more damn grammar lessons from you, Lincoln.’

237 Elizabeth Street