"Jesus." A fierce grimace that might've sent R.C.'s cheeks into a cramp. "Just tell me what you want."
"That's the spirit, son." A picture of William Brent appeared.
Dellray watched his face closely and a flash of recognition popped into R.C.'s eyes before it dissolved. He asked the kid instantly, "What'd he pay you?"
The blink of a pause told Dellray both that Brent had paid him and that the amount he was about to say would be considerably less than what really changed hands.
"One large."
Damn. Brent was being pretty fucking generous with Dellray's money.
R.C. said, with a bit of whine, "It wasn't drugs, man. I'm not into that."
"Course you are. But I don't care. He was here about information. And now . . . now . . . now. I need to know what he asked and what you told him." Dellray limbered up his lengthy fingers again.
"Okay, I'll tell you. Bill--he said his name was Bill." R.C. pointed at the picture.
"Bill is as good as any. Keep going, friend."
"He heard somebody was staying here in the 'hood. Some guy who'd come to town recent, was driving a white van, carrying a piece. A big fucking forty-five. He clipped somebody."
Dellray gave nothing away. "Who'd he kill? And why?"
"He didn't know."
"Name?"
"Didn't have one."
The agent didn't need a polygraph. R.C. was doing just fine with the dharmic quality of honesty.
"Come on, R.C., my friend, what else about him? White van, just came to town, big forty-five. Clipped somebody for reasons unknown."
"Maybe kidnapped 'em before he killed 'em . . . Was somebody you didn't fuck with."
That kind of went without saying.
R.C. continued, "So this Bill or whoever heard I was connected, you know. Hooked into the wire, you know."
"The wire."
"Yeah. Not what that asshole's using to kill people. I mean the word on the street."
"Oh, that's what you mean," Dellray said but R.C. floated below irony.
"And you are connected, aren't you, son? You know all 'bout the hood, right? You're the Ethel Mertz of the Lower East Side."
"Who?"
"Keep going."
"Okay, well, like, I had heard something. I like to know who's around, what kind of shit could be going down. Anyway, I'd heard about this guy, was just like Bill said. And I sent him over to where he's staying. That's it. That's all."
Dellray believed him. "Gimme the address."
He did, a decrepit street not far away. "It's the basement apartment."
"Okay, s'all I need for now."
"You . . ."
"I won't tell Daddy anything. Don'tcha worry. 'Less you're fucking with me."
"I'm not, no, Fred, really."
When Dellray was at the door, R.C. called, "It wasn't what you think."
The agent turned.
"It really was 'cause you smelt bad. That's why we weren't going to serve you. Not because you're black."
Five minutes later Dellray was approaching the block R.C. had told him about. He'd debated calling in backup, but decided not to quite yet. Working street required finesse, not sirens and takedown teams. Or Tucker McDaniel. Dellray loped through the streets, dodging the dense crowds. Thinking, as he often did, It's the middle of the day. What the hell do these people do for work? Then he turned two corners and eased into an alley, so he could approach the apartment in question from the back.
He looked quickly up the dim, rot-smelling canyon.
Not far away was a white guy in a cap and baggy shirt, sweeping cobblestones. Dellray counted addresses; he was directly behind the place where R.C. had sent William Brent.
Okay, this's weird, the agent thought. He started forward through the alley. The sweeper turned his mirrored sunglasses his way and then went back to sweeping. Dellray stopped near him, frowning and looking around. Trying to make sense of this.
Finally the sweeper asked, "The fuck're you doing?"
"Well, I'll tell you," Dellray offered. "One thing I'm doing is looking at an NYPD undercover cop who, for some fucked-up reason, is trying to blend by sweeping cobblestones in a 'hood where they stopped sweeping cobblestones, oh, about a hundred and thirty years ago." Dellray displayed his ID.
"Dellray? I heard of you." Then defensively the cop said, "I'm just doing what they told me. It's a stakeout."
"Stakeout? Why? What is this place?"
"You don't know?"
Dellray rolled his eyes.
When the cop told him, Dellray froze. But only momentarily. A few seconds later he was ripping away his smelly undercover costume and dumping it in a waste bin. As he started sprinting for the subway, he noted the cop's startled reaction, and supposed it could have come from one of two things: the striptease act itself, or the fact that underneath the disgusting outfit he was wearing a kelly green velour tracksuit. He supposed it was a little of both.
Chapter 67
"RODOLFO, TELL ME."
"We may have good news soon, Lincoln. Arturo Diaz's men have followed Mr. Watchmaker into Gustavo Madero. It's a delegacion in the north of the city--you would say borough, like your Bronx. Much of it is not so nice and Arturo believes that's where the associates helping him are."
"But do you know where he is?"
"They think so. They've found the car he escaped in--they were no more than three or four minutes behind but could not get through the traffic to stop his car. He's been spotted in a large apartment building near the center of the delegacion. It's being sealed off. We will do a complete search. I will call back with more information soon."
Rhyme disconnected the call, and struggled to keep his impatience and concern at bay. He would believe that the Watchmaker had actually been arrested when he saw the man arraigned in a New York court.
He wasn't encouraged when he called Kathryn Dance to tell her the latest and she replied, "Gustavo Madero? It's a lousy neighborhood, Lincoln," she said. "I was down in Mexico City for an extradition. We drove through the area. I was really glad the car didn't break down, even with two armed federal officers next to me. It's a rabbit warren. Easy to hide in. But the good news is that the residents absolutely won't want the police there. If Luna moves a busload of riot cops in, the locals'll give up an American pretty fast."
He said he'd keep her posted and disconnected. The fatigue and fogginess from the dysreflexia attack ebbed in once more and he rested his head on the back of the Storm Arrow.
Come on, stay sharp! he commanded, refusing to accept anything less than 110 percent from himself, just as he did from everybody else. But he wasn't feeling that measure, not at all.
Then he glanced up to see Ron Pulaski at the evidence table and thoughts of the Watchmaker faded. The young officer was moving pretty slowly. Rhyme regarded him with concern. The jolt of the Taser had been pretty powerful, apparently.
But that concern was accompanied by another emotion, one he'd been feeling for the past hour: guilt. It had been exclusively Rhyme's fault that Pulaski--and Sachs too--had come as close as they had to being electrocuted by Galt's trap at the school. Sachs had downplayed the incident. Pulaski too. Laughing, he'd said, "She Tased me, bro," which apparently was some kind of joke, drawing a smile from Mel Cooper, but Rhyme didn't get it. Nor was he in a mood that was at all humorous. He was confused and disoriented . . . and not just from the medical emergency. He was having trouble shaking his sense of failure from letting down Sachs and the rookie.
He forced himself to focus on the evidence that'd been collected from the school. Some bags of trace, some electronics. And most important, the generator. Lincoln Rhyme loved big, bulky pieces of equipment. To move them took a lot of physical contact and that meant such objects picked up significant prints, fibers, hair, sweat and skin cells, as well as other trace. The generator was attached to a wheeled cart, but it would still have taken some grappling to get it into place.
Ron Pulaski got a phone call. He glanced at Rhyme and then headed into
the corner of the room to take it. Despite his groggy demeanor, his face began to brighten. He disconnected and stood for a moment, looking out the window. Though he didn't know the substance of the conversation, Rhyme wasn't surprised to see the young man walk toward him with a confessional cast to his eyes.
"I have to tell you something, Lincoln." His glance took in Lon Sellitto too.
"Yeah?" Rhyme asked distractedly, offering a word that would have earned the young officer a glare, if he'd used it.
"I kind of wasn't honest with you earlier."
"Kind of?"
"Okay, I wasn't."
"What about?"
Scanning the evidence boards and the profile of Ray Galt, he said, "The DNA results? I know I didn't need to get them. I used that as an excuse. I went to see Stan Palmer."
"Who?"
"The man in the hospital, the one I ran into in the alley."
Rhyme was impatient. The evidence beckoned. But this was important, it seemed; he nodded, then asked, "He's okay?"
"They still don't know. But what I'm saying is, first, I'm sorry I didn't tell the truth. I was going to but it just seemed, I don't know, unprofessional."
"It was."
"But there's more. See, when I was at the hospital I asked the nurse for his social security number. And personal information. Guess what? He was a con. Did three years in Attica. Got a long sheet."
"Really?" Sachs asked.
"Yep . . . I mean, yes. And there's active paper on him."
"He's wanted," Rhyme mused.
"Warrants for what?" Sellitto asked.
"Assault, receiving stolen, burglary."
The rumpled cop barked a laugh. "You backed into a collar. Like, literally." He laughed again and looked at Rhyme, who didn't join in the fun.
The criminalist said, "So that's why you're so chipper?"
"I'm not happy I hurt him. It was still a screwup."
"But if you had to run over somebody, it's better him than a father of four."
"Well, yeah," Pulaski said.
Rhyme had more to say on the subject, but this wasn't the time or place. "The important thing is you're not distracted anymore, right?"
"No."
"Good. Now, if we've got the soap opera out of the way, maybe we can all get back to work." He looked at the digital clock: 3 p.m. Rhyme felt the time pressure humming like, well, electricity in a high-tension wire. They had the perp's identity and his address. But they had no solid leads to his whereabouts.
It was then that the doorbell rang.
Thom appeared a moment later with Tucker McDaniel, minus his underling. Rhyme knew immediately what he was going to say. Everybody in the room probably did.
"Another demand?" Rhyme asked.
"Yes. And he's really upped the ante this time."
Chapter 68
"WHAT'S THE DEADLINE?" Sellitto asked.
"Six-thirty tonight."
"Gives us a little over three hours. What's he want?"
"This demand's even crazier than the first two. Can I use a computer?"
Rhyme nodded toward it.
The ASAC typed and in a moment the letter appeared on the screen. Rhyme's vision was blurred. He blinked into clarity and leaned toward the monitor.
To Algonquin Consolidated Power and Light and CEO Andi Jessen: At about 6 p.m. yesterday, a remote control switch routed current from a spot network distribution system at an office building at 235 W. 54th Street totaling 13,800 volts to the floor of the elevator which had a return line connected through the control panel in the car. When the car stopped before it got to the ground floor a passenger touched the panel to hit the alarm button, the circuit was closed and individuals inside died.
Twice I've asked you to show good faith by reducing output of supply. And twice you have refused. If you'd done what I reasonably requested you would never have brought such suffering into the lives of the people you call your customers. You wantonly disregarded my requests and somebody else paid the price for that.
In 1931 when Thomas A. Edison died, his coworkers respectfully requested that all the power in the city be shut off for sixty seconds to mark the passing of the man who had created the grid and brought light to millions. The city declined.
I am now making the same request--not out of respect for the man who CREATED the grid but for the people who are being DESTROYED because of it--those who are made sick from the power lines and from the pollution from burning coal and from radiation, those who lose their houses from the earthquakes caused by geothermal drilling and damming our natural rivers, those cheated by companies like Enron, the list is endless.
Only unlike 1931 I am insisting you shut down the entire Northeastern Interconnection for one day. Beginning at 6:30 p.m. today.
If you do this people will see that they do not need to use as much power as they do. They will see that it is their greed and gluttony that motivates them, which you are happy to play into. Why? For PROFITS of course.
If you ignore me this time, the consequences will be far, far greater than the small incidents of yesterday and the day before, the loss of life far worse.
--R. Galt
McDaniel said, "Absurd. There'll be civil chaos, riots, looting. The governor and president are adamant. No caving in."
"Where's the letter?" Rhyme asked.
"What you're seeing there. It was an email."
"Who'd he send it to?"
"Andi Jessen--personally. And the company itself. Their security office email account."
"Traceable?"
"No. Used a proxy in Europe . . . He's going for a mass attack, it seems." McDaniel looked up. "Washington's involved now in a big way. Those senators--the ones working with the President on renewable energy--are coming to town early. They're going to meet with the mayor. The assistant director of the Bureau's coming in too. Gary Noble's coordinating everything. We've got even more agents and troops out on the streets. And the chief has mobilized a thousand more NYPD officers." He rubbed his eyes. "Lincoln, we've got the manpower and the firepower, but we need to know some idea of where to look for the next attack. What've you got? We need something concrete."
McDaniel was reminding Rhyme he'd let the criminalist take the case with the assurance that his condition wouldn't slow the investigation.
From entrance to exit . . .
Rhyme had gotten what he wanted--the investigation. And yet he hadn't found the man. In fact, the very condition that he'd assured McDaniel wasn't a problem had nearly gotten Sachs and Pulaski killed, along with a dozen ESU officers.
He gazed back to the agent's smooth face and predator's eyes and said evenly, "What I've got is more evidence to look at."
McDaniel hesitated then waved his hand in an ambiguous gesture. "All right. Go ahead."
Rhyme had already turned away to Cooper with a nod toward the digital recorder on which had been recorded the sounds of the "victim" moaning. "Audio analysis."
With gloved hands, the tech plugged the unit into his computer and typed. A moment later, reading the sine curves on the screen, he said, "The volume and signal quality suggest it was recorded from a TV program. Cable."
"Brand of the recorder?"
"Sanoya. Chinese." He typed some commands and then studied a new database. "Sold in about ten thousand stores in the country. No serial number."
"Anything more?"
"No prints on it or other trace, except more taramasalata."
"The generator?"
Cooper and Sachs went over it carefully, while Tucker McDaniel made phone calls and fidgeted in the corner. The generator turned out to be a Power Plus model, made by the Williams-Jonas Manufacturing Company, in New Jersey.
"Where'd this one come from?" Rhyme asked.
"Let's find out," Sachs said.
Two phone calls later--to the local sales office of the manufacturer and the general contractor that the company referred them to--revealed that it had been stolen from a job site in Manhattan. There were no leads in the
theft, according to the local precinct. The construction project had no security cameras.
"Got some trace that's curious," Cooper announced. He ran it through the GC/MS. The machine hummed away.
"Getting something . . ." Cooper was bending forward over the screen. "Hmm."
This would normally have drawn an acerbic "What does that mean?" glance from Rhyme. But he still felt tired and shaken from the attack. He waited patiently for the tech to explain.
Finally: "Don't think I've seen it before. A significant amount of quartz and some ammonium chloride. Ratio's about ten to one."
Rhyme knew the answer instantly. "Copper cleaner."
"Copper wires?" Pulaski suggested. "Galt is cleaning them?"
"Good idea, Rookie. But I'm not sure." He didn't think electricians cleaned wires. Besides, he explained, "Mostly it's used for cleaning copper on buildings. What else, Mel?"
"Some stone dust you don't usually see in Manhattan. Architectural terra-cotta." Cooper was now looking into the eyepieces of a microscope. He added, "And some granules that look like white marble."
Rhyme blurted, "The police riots of fifty-seven. That's eighteen fifty-seven."
"What?" McDaniel asked.
"A few years ago. The Delgado case?"
"Oh, sure," Sachs said.
Sellitto asked, "Did we work it?"
Rhyme's grimace conveyed his message: It didn't matter who worked a case. Or when. Crime scene officers--hell, every officer on the force--had to be aware of all major cases in the city, present and past. The more you put into the brain, the more likely you were to make connections that solved your crime.
Homework . . .
He explained: A few years ago Steven Delgado, a paranoid schizophrenic, planned a series of murders to mimic deaths that occurred during the infamous New York City Police Riots of 1857. The madman picked the same locale as the carnage 150 years earlier: City Hall Park. He was captured after his first kill because Rhyme had traced him to an apartment on the Upper West Side, where he'd left trace that included copper cleaner, terra-cotta residue from the Woolworth building and white marble dust from the city courthouse, which was undergoing renovations, then as now.
"You think he's going to hit City Hall?" McDaniel asked urgently, the phone in his hand drooping.
"I think there's a connection. That's all I can say. Put it on the board and we'll think about it. What else do you have from the generator?"
"More hair," Cooper announced, holding up a pair of tweezers. "Blond, about nine inches long." He slipped it under the microscope and slid the specimen tray up and down slowly. "Not dyed. Natural blond. No color degradation and not desiccated. I'd say it's from somebody younger than fifty. Also refraction variation on one end. I could run it through the chromatograph, but I'm ninety percent sure it's--"