The tac officer on the radio took a sip of something, slurping, and said, "How late is Big Boy?"
The Dominican was not only high up in the crews but tipped the scales at three hundred plus.
"Half an hour." Reilly looked at his watch. "Forty minutes."
"He ain't gonna show," the tac cop muttered. He was now chewing.
The gangbanger's absence probably wasn't cold feet, Reilly guessed. Drug suppliers at the Dominican's level are just very, very busy.
"You sure the unknown with him isn't with the DR crew?"
Reilly laughed. "Not unless times're so hard they're hiring choirboys. White ones. And times ain't that hard."
"Any idea who?"
"Nup. Descrip is blond, six feet, fucking piss-me-off skinny." Reilly scanned the guy's face close up. "You know, he's looking funny."
"What'sat mean?" the take-down guy said, between bites.
Fuck that. I want my calzone.
"Nervous."
"He made you, Sarge?"
"I'm sitting in a fucking plumbing van on a street in Brooklyn that's filled with plumbing supply stores. The camera lens is about the size of your cat's dick."
"I don't have a cat."
"No, he didn't make me. Just, he doesn't want to be with our boy."
"Who would?"
Good point. Alphonse Gravita--aka Alpho, but more popularly Alpo, woof woof--was a shining piece of non-work. The germ of a dealer had been lucky enough to miss getting busted but he had his eye on moving up, expanding his street business from the mini mart he hung out in in Ocean Hill to Bed-Stuy and Brownsville.
"Hold on." Reilly sat up straighter.
"The DR guy there?"
"Negative. But Alpo and his buddy... wait, something's happening."
"What?" The chewing had stopped.
"Looks like a transaction... Pull out." The latter spoken to the perfumed cop sitting beside him.
Bad choice of words, he decided. Or good. But she missed the innuendo.
The officer zoomed out to get a broader shot, to catch everything that Alpo and the blond man were doing. Alpo was looking around and fishing in his pocket. The blond kid was too. Then palm met palm.
"Okay, got an exchange."
"What was it?"
"Shit. Fair number of bills. But couldn't see the product. Could you see?"
"No, sir," the surveillance woman answered. Gardenia came to mind, the perfume, though Reilly had no clue what gardenias smelled--or looked--like.
The tactical cop radioed, "Your call, Sarge."
Reilly debated. They'd just seen an illegal drug transaction. They could come home with two heads. But it might make sense to collar White Boy alone, outside, and keep Alpo in play. They'd have at least one collar to their credit if they couldn't go back to the 73 with the DR scumbag in metal. The kid might also have intel about the Dominican. They could squeeze the nervous guy until he gave up plenty.
Or just let this one pass--obviously the deal wasn't that big. The blond kid could walk away and they'd hope Big Boy showed up.
Tactical: "They're still there, just sitting there?"
"Right."
"We move in?"
"No, don't want to lose the Alpo connection to our DR friends. Maybe take the other guy if he leaves. Until then wait."
"The DR guy's fifty minutes late."
Reilly made a decision.
"Okay, I'll tell you what we're gonna do. But answer the question: You order me that calzone?"
Lincoln Rhyme was saying, "We know he's going to hit somebody again. I want a memo out to every precinct and FDNY station. Any accident involving a product, seeming accident, I want to hear about it. Stat. Immediately. ASAP. Whatever cliche you want to use."
Mel Cooper said he'd take care of that and drew his phone the way he would the small revolver he wore almost quaintly on his hip.
Sachs received a text and glanced at her phone. "The smart controller company. They want to talk."
"Or," Archer said, "tell us in person how uncooperative they intend to be."
When it came to investigative work, she was quite the fast learner, Rhyme reflected and he shouted for Thom to set up a Skype call.
Soon the distinctive heartbeat of the app's ringtone pulsed through the room and a moment later the screen came to life.
It wasn't much of a wagon circling. Only two people from CIR Micro were on the screen and one of them, Rhyme easily deduced, was Vinay Parth Chaudhary himself, looking both South Asian and authoritarian. He wore a collarless shirt and stylish metal-framed glasses.
The other was a sallow-faced, solid man in his fifties. The lawyer, presumably. He was in a suit, no tie.
They sat in an antiseptic office: a bare table, on which were two monitors, bookending the pair. On the wall behind them was a slash of maroon and blue paint. Rhyme at first thought it was a painting but saw that, no, it was directly on the wall. A stylized rendering of the company's logo.
"I'm Amelia Sachs, detective with the NYPD. We spoke earlier. This is Lincoln Rhyme, a forensic consultant who's assisting on our case." It was just the two of them. As earlier, Rhyme had decided that the company might be less cooperative with more people present, even if the outfit wasn't any longer a target of litigation.
"I'm Vinay Chaudhary, president and CEO. This is Stanley Frost, our chief general counsel." His voice was pleasant, calm. Hardly any inflection. He didn't appear threatened. But Rhyme supposed that men who are worth forty billion dollars rarely are.
"This is about a crime involving our products?" Frost asked.
"That's right. Your DataWise Five Thousand smart controller. An individual here in New York City intentionally sent a signal to one of those devices that was installed in a Midwest Conveyance escalator. It activated the access panel at the top. It opened. A man fell in and was killed."
Chaudhary: "I heard about the accident, of course. But I didn't know it was intentional. How terrible. I do have to say, we told Midwest to use the DataWise solely for uploading diagnostic and maintenance data and for emergency shutoff. Not to allow access."
"We have correspondence to show that," Frost the lawyer said.
The CEO continued, "And the Midwest Conveyance controllers were installed several years ago. We've sent the company forty, forty-five security patches since then. They would've kept the hacker out. If they didn't install them promptly then there's nothing we can do."
Rhyme said, "This isn't about your liability. It's the hacker we're after, not you."
"Your name again, please?" Chaudhary asked.
"Lincoln Rhyme."
"I believe I've heard of you. The newspapers, or a TV show."
"Possibly. Now, this suspect learned how to get inside the controller from somebody who'd blogged about it."
Chaudhary was nodding. "You're probably thinking of the Social Engineering Second-ly blog."
"Yes, we are."
"Well, the blogger used an early model and he intentionally didn't download and install the security patches. If he had, he never would have gotten the DataWise to malfunction. But he didn't say that in his blog, of course. It's much more sensational to suggest that any thirteen-year-old can run an exploit. Gets you a lot more hits on your blog when you raise the battle flag of privacy breaches and malfunctions. The DataWise has far fewer vulnerabilities than ninety percent of the systems out there."
Frost added, "We have a white-hat firm we work with--ethical hackers. You know the term?"
"We can figure it out," Sachs said.
"Which spends all day looking for ways to hack into the DataWise servers our clients use. Any hint of an exploit, we send out a patch. If that blogger had done that he never would have gotten inside. What does he have to say about it?"
Sachs said, "I'm afraid our suspect killed him after he learned how to hack into the system."
"No!" Chaudhary actually gasped.
"It's true."
"Well, I'm certainly very sorry about it. Terrible."
/> Rhyme continued, "The subject we're after has a list of products that use your controller and people and companies who bought those things. A very long list."
"It's been a good few years."
The lawyer turned to the CEO, saying nothing, but perhaps sending a signal to avoid hinting at the company's net worth, even though this wasn't about its potential liability.
Chaudhary said, an aside, "It's okay. I want to help."
Rhyme pressed on. "And we have reason to believe that he's going to do this again. Kill someone else."
The man frowned. "On purpose? Why on earth?"
Sachs said, "Domestic terrorist, you could say. He has a grudge against consumerism. Maybe capitalism in general. He's sent some email rants to various news organizations. You can find stories about them, I'm sure. He calls himself the People's Guardian."
Chaudhary said, "But... is he psychotic?"
"We don't know what he is," Rhyme said impatiently. "Now, why we're calling. I'd like to know a few things. First, is it possible to trace where he's physically located when he takes over control of a product? And it seems he'll be nearby, so he can see the incident and decide exactly when to activate the controller. And, another question, is it possible to trace his identity?"
Chaudhary answered: "Technically, tracing, yes. But again that's the province of each manufacturer--the webcam maker, the stove maker, the car companies. We couldn't do it from our facilities. We simply make the controller hardware and write the script--the software in the controllers. He'd be hacking into the system through our customers' cloud servers.
"Then, if you knew in advance which appliance or device--I mean, the actual unit itself--he was targeting, the manufacturing company could trace his location. And even if you could he'd be using proxies to log into the cloud. You'd have to identify those. Finally, you'd have only seconds to find out before he logged out and powered down after the hack. As for identity, undoubtedly he's too smart not to use burner phones, unregistered pads or computers and anonymous proxies or virtual private networks. That's Hacking One Oh One."
This was more discouraging than he'd hoped. Rhyme then said, "All right. One other thing: Is there some security measure you can take to stop him getting access?"
"Surely. What I was saying a moment ago: The manufacturers of the embedded products--the stoves, HVAC systems, medical equipment, escalators--just need to install the security patches we send them. I know from his blog how that fellow--what was his name?"
"Todd Williams."
"How he ran the exploit. Yes, there was a vulnerability. We patched it within a day of learning it and sent out the updates. That was a month ago. Maybe more."
"Why wouldn't Midwest Conveyance have installed them?"
"Sometimes companies don't update out of laziness, sometimes business factors. Updating requires a reboot and often some tinkering with the code. That takes the whole cloud offline for a while. Their customers aren't happy with any disruption of service. Once people get used to a convenience it's impossible to take it away from them. Turning lights off remotely if you forgot, when you left the house on vacation? Keeping an eye on the babysitter in real time? Ten years ago, when that wasn't an option, you never thought twice about not being able to. But now? Everyone who has a smart product expects it to keep performing. If it doesn't they'll go elsewhere."
"You said it wouldn't take long."
Chaudhary smiled. "The study of the psychology of consumers is a fascinating topic. Disappointments are remembered. Loyalties shift in milliseconds. Now, Mr. Rhyme and Detective..."
"Sachs."
"I have a meeting I need to attend. But before that we'll send all our customers another link to the security patches with a memo reminding them they have to install those patches. People's lives could be at stake."
"Thanks," Sachs said.
"Good luck to you. If we can help, please let us know."
The webcam closed. And Rhyme and Sachs reconvened the team, reporting on what Chaudhary had said.
Which, while it might stymie some of Unsub 40's future attacks, was essentially of no help whatsoever in tracking him down.
Rhyme glanced at the whiteboard he, Archer and Whitmore had created for the Midwest Conveyance case. "I want to consolidate our charts, Sachs. See what evidence we've got."
Rather than actually transport the Unsub 40 whiteboards from Sachs's war room at One PP to the parlor here, she asked an assistant at Major Cases to take phone pictures and email them. They arrived in seconds.
Sachs now transcribed the details of the crime scenes onto the whiteboard. And added what they'd learned from Williams's computer. The team reviewed them.
Rhyme watched Sachs staring at the chart, her right index finger and thumb spinning her blue-stone ring compulsively. Shaking her head, she muttered, "We're still waiting for the sawdust, the varnish and the DNA and friction ridges from the napkins. CS in Queens never got back to us." A glance toward him, a cool glance, as if this speedbump was his fault. Which, he guessed, it partly was, thanks to the Cooper kidnapping.
"Let me see the micro pictures of the sawdust," Rhyme said.
Sachs went online, into the secure CSU database, typed in the case file and conjured up the images.
Rhyme looked them over. "I'd say mahogany. Mel?"
After a fast examination the tech said, "Ninety-nine percent sure. Yes."
"Ah, Sachs, you were right. Mea culpa for stealing him out from under your nose." He'd meant this as a joke but she didn't respond. Rhyme continued, "And you're right about sanding. The particles aren't from sawing. Suggests fine woodworking." She wrote this down. And Rhyme added, "No idea about the varnish. There's no database. We'll just have to see what the analysts can come up with. What's the story with the napkins?"
Sachs explained about the White Castle lead. "I don't know why the hell it's taking so long to run DNA and enhanced friction ridge." She snagged her phone and called the crime scene operation in Queens, had a brief conversation. Disconnected.
A scowl. "It's taking so long because they lost them."
"What?" Cooper asked.
"Somebody in the evidence room lost the napkins. They got tagged wrong, seems. A clerk's looking."
It could be, Rhyme knew, an imposing quest. The evidence room was not one room at all but a number of them, which contained hundreds of thousands of items of evidence. Looking for a needle in a stack of needles, Rhyme had once heard.
"Well, fire whoever dropped the ball on that one," he snapped.
He scanned the chart again, noting the new entries. Unsub 40 was either very lucky or very careful. The evidence gave no clear direction either as to where he lived or worked or to where he might be going to strike next, assuming he'd picked up some of the trace while assessing a future victim.
CRIME SCENE: 151 CLINTON PLACE, MANHATTAN, CONSTRUCTION SITE, ADJACENT TO 40deg NORTH (NIGHTCLUB)
- Offenses: Homicide, Assault.
- Victim: Todd Williams, 29, writer, blogger, social topics.
- COD: Blunt force trauma, probably ball-peen hammer (no brand determined).
- Motive: Robbery.
- Credit/debit cards not yet used.
- Evidence:
- No friction ridges.
- Blade of grass.
- Trace:
- Phenol.
- Motor oil.
- Profile of suspect (Unknown Subject 40).
- Wore checkered jacket (green), Braves baseball cap.
- White male.
- Tall (6'2" to 6'4").
- Slim (140-150 lbs.).
- Long feet and fingers.
- No visual of face.
CRIME SCENE: HEIGHTS VIEW MALL, BROOKLYN
- Offense: Homicide, escape from apprehension.
- Victim: Greg Frommer, 44, clerk with Pretty Lady Shoes in mall.
- Store clerk, left Patterson Systems as Director of Marketing. Will attempt to show he would have returned to a similar or other higher-income job.
- COD: Loss of blood, internal organ trauma.
- Means of death:
- Unsub 40 hacked into CIR DataWise5000 controller and opened door remotely.
- Discussion with CIR executives.
- Tracing the signal: only each manufacturer could do that. Difficult.
- Probably impossible to identify him.
- Danger of hacking could be minimized by companies' installing security patches. CIR is sending out warning to do so.
- Evidence:
- DNA, no CODIS match.
- No friction ridges sufficient for ID.
- Shoeprint, likely unsub's, size 13 Reebok Daily Cushion 2.0.
- Soil sample, likely from unsub, containing crystalline aluminosilicate clays: montmorillonite, illite, vermiculite, chlorite, kaolinite. Additionally, organic colloids. Substance is probably humus. Not native to this portion of Brooklyn.
- Dinitroaniline (used in dyes, pesticides, explosives).
- Ammonium nitrate (fertilizer, explosives)
- With oil from Clinton Place scene: Possibly constructing bomb?
- Additional phenol (precursor in making plastics, like polycarbonates, resins and nylon, aspirin, embalming fluid, cosmetics, ingrown toenail cures; unsub has large feet, so--nail problems?)
- Talc, mineral oil/paraffinum liquidum/huile minerale, zinc stearate, stearic acid, lanolin/lanoline, cetyl alcohol, triethanolamine, PEG-12 laurate, mineral spirits, methylparaben, propylparaben, titanium dioxide.
- Makeup? No brand determination. Analysis to return.
- Shaving of metal, microscopic, steel, probably from sharpening knife.
- Sawdust. Type of wood to be determined. From sanding, not sawing.
- Organochlorine and benzoic acid. Toxic. (insecticides, weaponized poisons?)
- Acetone, ether, cyclohexane, natural gum, cellulose (probably varnish).
- Manufacturer to be determined.
- White Castle napkins missing at Crime Scene HQ.
- Cause of action in civil suit for Greg Frommer's death.
- Wrongful death/personal injury tort suit.
- Strict products liability.
- Negligence.
- Breach of implied warranty.
- Damages: compensatory, pain and suffering, punitive.
- Defendant: Unsub 40.
- Facts relevant to accident:
- Access panel opened, victim fell into gears. Opened about 16 inches.
- Access panel weighed 42 pounds, sharp teeth on front contributed to death/injury.