This is an especially suspenseful thriller made more so by the personal angst of the main character, Lincoln Rhyme. A quadriplegic, forensic ex-detective for the New York City Police Department, Rhyme is brought out of retirement by the police department to assist them in the apprehension of an apparently psychopathic killer who is loose on the streets of New York.
The forays into bits of arcane New York history, as well as the sleuthing done almost entirely through the application of forensics and deductive reasoning, make for a very interesting read. While at times it seems that no one could be as uncannily accurate as Rhyme in deciphering the meaning of the physical evidence, this contrivance does serve to move the plot along. With the story line so engrossing and the crime scenes horrific, as well as ingenious, it is the kind of book that is hard to put down, because you simply cannot wait to see what happens. The surprise ending is the icing on the cake.
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March 02, 2004
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Excerpt from The Bone Collector by Jeffery Deaver
Friday, 10:30 p.m., to Saturday, 3:30 p.m.
She wanted only to sleep.
The plane had touched down two hours late and there'd been a marathon wait for the luggage. And then the car service had messed up; the limo'd left an hour ago. So now they were waiting for a cab.
She stood in the line of passengers, her lean body listing against the weight of her laptop computer. John rattled on about interest rates and new ways of restructuring the deal but all she could think was: Friday night, 10:30. I wanna pull on my sweats and hit the hay.
Gazing at the endless stream of Yellow Cabs. Something about the color and the similarity of the cars reminded her of insects. And she shivered with the creepy-crawly feeling she remembered from her childhood in the mountains when she and her brother'd find a gut-killed badger or kick over a red-ant nest and gaze at the wet mass of squirming bodies and legs.
T.J. Colfax shuffled forward as the cab pulled up and squealed to a stop.
The cabbie popped the trunk but stayed in the car. They had to load their own luggage, which ticked John off. He was used to people doing things for him. Tammie Jean didn't care; she was still occasionally surprised to find that she had a secretary to type and file for her. She tossed her suitcase in, closed the trunk and climbed inside.
John got in after her, slammed the door and mopped his pudgy face and balding scalp as if the effort of pitching his suit-bag in the trunk had exhausted him.
"First stop East Seventy-second," John muttered through the divider.
"Then the Upper West Side," T.J. added. The Plexiglas between the front and back seats was badly scuffed and she could hardly see the driver.
The cab shot away from the curb and was soon cruising down the expressway toward Manhattan.