The Burning Wire

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Is there video security?" Rhyme asked.

  "No."

  "Who handled it?"

  "The doorman. Just the envelope, though. I had a messenger from the office pick it up. He would have touched it too. And I did, of course."

  McDaniel was about to say something but Rhyme beat him to it. "The letter was time sensitive, so whoever left it knew you had a doorman. So that it would get to you immediately."

  McDaniel was nodding. Apparently that would have been his comment. The bright-eyed Kid nodded as well, like a bobble-head dog in the back window of a car.

  After a moment: "I guess that's right." The concern was obvious in her voice. "So that means he knows about me. Maybe knows a lot about me."

  "Do you have a bodyguard?" Sellitto asked.

  "Our security director, at work. Bernie Wahl. You met him, Detective Sachs. He's got four armed guards on staff, each shift. But not at home. I never thought . . ."

  "We'll get somebody from Patrol stationed outside your apartment," Sellitto said. As he made the call, McDaniel asked, "What about family in the area? We should have somebody look out for them."

  Momentary silence from the speaker. Then: "Why?"

  "He might try to use them as leverage."

  "Oh." Jessen's otherwise rugged voice sounded small at the implications, those close to her being hurt. But she explained, "My parents are in Florida."

  Sachs asked, "You have a brother, don't you? Didn't I see his picture on your desk?"

  "My brother? We don't stay in touch much. And he doesn't live here--" Another voice interrupted her. Jessen came back on the line. "Look, I'm sorry, the governor's calling. He's just heard the news."

  With a click she disconnected.

  "So." Sellitto lifted his palms. His eyes grazed McDaniel but then settled on Rhyme. "This makes it all pretty fucking easy."

  "Easy?" asked the Kid.

  "Yeah." Sellitto nodded at the digital clock on a nearby flat-screen monitor. "If we can't negotiate, all we gotta do is find him. In under three hours. Piece of cake."

  Chapter 27

  MEL COOPER AND Rhyme were working on the analysis of the letter. Ron Pulaski had arrived too, a few minutes earlier. Lon Sellitto was speeding downtown to coordinate with ESU, in the event they could either ID a suspect or find his possible target.

  Tucker McDaniel looked over the demand letter as if it were some type of food he'd never encountered. Rhyme supposed this was because handwriting on a piece of paper didn't fall into cloud zone law enforcement. It was the antithesis of high-tech communications. His computers and sophisticated tracing systems were useless against paper and ink.

  Rhyme glanced at the script. He knew from his own training, as well as from working with Parker Kincaid, that handwriting doesn't reveal anything about the personality of the writer, whatever the grocery store checkout-stand books and news pundits suggested. Analysis could be illuminating, of course, if you had another, identified sample to compare it with, so you could determine if the writer of the second document was the same as the one who wrote the first. Parker Kincaid would be doing this now, running a preliminary comparison with known handwriting samples of terror suspects and comparing them with the writing of those Algonquin employees who were on the company list.

  Handwriting and content could also suggest right-or left-handedness, level of education, national and regional upbringing, mental and physical illnesses and intoxication or drug-impaired states.

  But Rhyme's interest in the note was more basic: the source of the paper, source of the ink, the fingerprints and trace embedded in the fibers.

  All of which, after Cooper's diligent analysis, added up to a big fat nothing.

  The sources for both paper stock and ink were generic--they could have come from one of thousands of stores. Andi Jessen's prints were the only ones on the letter and those on the envelope were from the messenger and the doorman; McDaniel's agents had taken samples of their prints and forwarded them to Rhyme.

  Useless, Rhyme reflected bitterly. The only deduction was that the perp was smart. And had a great sense of survival.

  But ten minutes later, they had a breakthrough, of sorts.

  Parker Kincaid was on the line from his document examination office in his house in Fairfax, Virginia.

  "Lincoln."

  "Parker, what've we got?"

  Kincaid said, "First, the handwriting comparison. The control samples from Algonquin itself were pretty sparse, so I couldn't do the complete analysis I would have liked."

  "I understand that."

  "But I've narrowed it down to twelve employees."

  "Twelve. Excellent."

  "Here are the names. Ready?"

  Rhyme glanced at Cooper, who nodded. The tech jotted them down as Kincaid dictated.

  "Now, I can give you a few other things about him. First, he's right-handed. Then I picked some characteristics from the language and word choice."

  "Go ahead."

  At Rhyme's nod, Cooper walked to the profile board.

  "He's a product of high school and probably some college. And it was an American education. There are a few spelling, grammatical and punctuation mistakes but mostly with more difficult words or constructions. I put those down to the stress of what he's doing. He was probably born here. I can't say for sure that he isn't of foreign extraction, but English is his first and, I'm almost positive, only language."

  Cooper wrote this down.

  Kincaid continued, "He's also pretty clever. He doesn't write in the first person and avoids the active voice."

  Rhyme understood. "He never says anything about himself."

  "Exactly."

  "Suggesting there could be others working with him."

  "It's a possibility. Also, there's some variation on ascenders and descenders. You get that when a subject is upset, emotional. They're writing in anger or distress, and broader strokes tend to be emphasized."

  "Good." Rhyme nodded at Cooper, who jotted this too onto the profile board.

  "Thanks, Parker. We'll get to work."

  They disconnected. "Twelve . . ." Rhyme sighed. He looked over the evidence and profile chart, then the names of the suspects. "Don't we have any way to narrow it down faster?" he asked bitterly, watching his clock advance one more minute toward the approaching deadline.

  CRIME SCENE: ALGONQUIN

  SUBSTATION MANHATTAN-10,

  WEST 57TH STREET

  * * *

  --Victim (deceased): Luis Martin, assistant manager in music store.

  --No friction ridge prints on any surface.

  --Shrapnel from molten metal, as a result of the arc flash.

  --0-gauge insulated aluminum strand cable.

  --Bennington Electrical Manufacturing, AM-MV-60, rated up to 60,000v.

  --Cut by hand with hacksaw, new blade, broken tooth.

  --Two "split bolts," 3/4-inch holes in them.

  --Untraceable.

  --Distinctive tool marks on bolts.

  --Brass "bus" bar, fixed to cable with two 1/4-inch bolts.

  --All untraceable.

  --Boot prints.

  --Albertson-Fenwick Model E-20 for electrical work, size 11.

  --Metal grating cut to allow access to substation, distinctive tool marks from bolt cutter.

  --Access door and frame from basement.

  --DNA obtained. Sent out for testing.

  --Greek food, taramasalata.

  --Blond hair, 1 inch long, natural, from someone 50 or under, discovered in coffee shop across the street from substation.

  --Sent out for tox-chem screening.

  --Mineral trace: volcanic ash.

  --Not naturally found in New York area.

  --Exhibits, museums, geology schools?

  --Algonquin Control Center software accessed by internal codes, not outside hackers.

  DEMAND NOTE

  * * *

  --Delivered to Andi Jessen at home.

  --No witnesses.

  -
-Handwritten.

  --Sent to Parker Kincaid for analysis.

  --Generic paper and ink.

  --Untraceable.

  --No friction ridge prints, other than A. Jessen, doorman, messenger.

  --No discernible trace discovered in paper.

  UNSUB PROFILE

  * * *

  --Male.

  --40's.

  --Probably white.

  --Possibly glasses and cap.

  --Possibly with short, blond hair.

  --Dark blue overalls, similar to those worn by Algonquin workers.

  --Knows electrical systems very well.

  --Boot print suggests no physical condition affecting posture or gait.

  --Possibly same person who stole 75 feet of similar Bennington cable and 12 split bolts. More attacks in mind? Access to the warehouse where theft occurred with key.

  --Likely he is Algonquin employee or has contact with one.

  --Terrorist connection? Relation to Justice For [unknown]? Terror group? Individual named Rahman involved? Coded references to monetary disbursements, personnel movements and something "big."

  --Algonquin security breach in Philadelphia might be related.

  --SIGINT hits: code word reference to weapons, "paper and supplies" (guns, explosives?).

  --Personnel include man and woman.

  --Would have studied SCADA--Supervisory Control and Data Acquisition program. And EMP--energy management programs. Algonquin's is Enertrol. Both Unix-based.

  --To create arc flash would probably have been or currently is lineman, troubleman, licensed tradesman, generator construction, master electrician, military.

  --Profile from Parker Kincaid, Re: handwriting: --Right-handed.

  --High school education at least, probably college.

  --American educated.

  --English first and probably only language.

  --Writes with passive voice, to keep from giving away accomplices?

  --Could match one of 12 Algonquin employees.

  --Emotional, angry, distressed writing the letter.

  Chapter 28

  MEL COOPER, IN front of his computer, sat up quickly. "I think I've got one."

  "One what?" Rhyme asked acerbically.

  "A way to narrow down the list." Cooper sat up straighter yet and shoved his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose as he read an email. "The hair. That we got from the coffee shop across from the substation?"

  "No bulb so there's no DNA," Rhyme pointed out abruptly. He was still irritated that the analysis wasn't ready yet.

  "I don't mean that, Lincoln. I've just got the toxchem screening from the hair itself. Vinblastine and prednisone in significant quantities, and traces of etoposide."

  "Cancer patient," Rhyme said, leaning his head forward--his version of Cooper's own posture adjustment. "He's on a chemotherapy regimen."

  "Has to be."

  The young FBI protege of McDaniel's barked a laugh. "How do you know that?" Then to his boss: "That's pretty good."

  "You'd be surprised," Ron Pulaski said.

  Rhyme ignored them both. "Call Algonquin and see if any of the twelve on the list made health claims for cancer treatment in the past five or six months."

  Sachs called Algonquin. Andi Jessen was on the phone--probably with the governor or mayor--and Sachs was transferred to the company's security chief, Bernard Wahl. Through speakerphone, the deep, African-American-inflected voice reassured them that he'd look into it immediately.

  It wasn't quite immediate but it was good enough for Rhyme. Three minutes later Wahl came back on the line.

  "There're six cancer patients on the original list--of the forty-six. But only two on the list of the twelve, the ones whose handwriting could match the demand letter. One of those is a manager in the energy brokerage department. He was supposedly flying into town from a business trip at the time of the attack." Wahl gave the relevant information. Mel Cooper took it down and, at a nod from Rhyme, called the airline to check. Transportation Security had become an unwitting partner in general law enforcement because identification requirements were now so stringent that the whereabouts of people flying could be verified easily.

  "He checks out."

  "What about the other one?"

  "Yessir, well, he's a possibility. Raymond Galt, forty. He's made health claims for leukemia treatment over the past year."

  Rhyme shot a glance to Sachs, who knew instinctively what the look meant. They communicated this way often. She dropped into a chair and began keyboarding.

  "His history?" Rhyme said.

  Wahl answered, "Started with a competitor in the Midwest and then joined Algonquin."

  "Competitor?"

  He paused. "Well, not really competitor, like carmakers are. That's just how we refer to other power companies."

  "What does Galt do for you now?"

  "He's a troubleman," Wahl said.

  Rhyme was staring at the profile on his computer screen. A troubleman would have enough experience to put together an arc flash weapon like the sort at the substation, according to Charlie Sommers. He asked, "Mel, take a look at Galt's file. Would he know SCADA and the energy management program?"

  Cooper opened the man's personnel file. "Doesn't say specifically. Just that he's taken a lot of continuing education courses."

  "Mr. Wahl, is Galt married, single?" Rhyme asked the security chief.

  "Single. Lives in Manhattan. You want his address, sir?"

  "Yes."

  Wahl gave it to them.

  "This is Tucker McDaniel. What about whereabouts, Mr. Wahl?" McDaniel asked urgently.

  "That's the thing. He called in sick two days ago. Nobody knows where he is."

  "Any chance he's done some traveling lately? Maybe to Hawaii or Oregon? Someplace where there's a volcano?"

  "Volcano? Why?"

  Struggling to be patient, Rhyme asked, "Just, has he traveled?"

  "According to his time sheets, no. He's taken a few days' medical--I guess for the cancer treatment--but he hasn't been on a vacation since last year."

  "Could you check with his fellow employees and see if they know about places he goes, friends outside of the company, any groups he's in?"

  "Yessir."

  Thinking of the Greek food connection, Rhyme asked, "And anybody he goes to lunch with regularly."

  "Yessir."

  "Mr. Wahl, what about Galt's next of kin?" McDaniel asked.

  Wahl reported that Galt's father was dead but his mother and a sister lived in Missouri. He recited the names, addresses and phone numbers.

  Rhyme--and McDaniel too--could think of nothing else to ask the security chief. The criminalist thanked him and they disconnected.

  McDaniel instructed his underling to contact the FBI's resident agency in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, and have them start surveillance.

  "Probable cause to get a tap?" the Kid asked.

  "Doubt it. But push for one. Get a pen register, at least."

  "I'm on it."

  "Rhyme," Sachs called.

  He looked up at the screen, which revealed the fruits of Sachs's frantic keyboarding. The DMV picture showed a pale man, gazing unsmiling at the camera. He was blond, hair trimmed short. About an inch long.

  "So," McDaniel said, "we've got a suspect. Good job, Lincoln."

  "We'll congratulate ourselves when he's in custody."

  He then squinted at the DMV information, which confirmed the address. "His place is on the Lower East Side? . . . Not many colleges or museums there. I think the volcanic ash must've come from the place he's going to attack. Maybe the next target. And he'd want a public location, lots of people."

  Lots of victims . . .

  A glance at the clock. It was ten-thirty.

  "Mel, check again with your geology person at HQ. We need to move!"

  "I'm on it."

  McDaniel said, "I'll call a magistrate for a warrant and get a tac team ready to hit Galt's place."

  Rhyme nodded and
called Sellitto, still en route to city hall.

  The detective's voice rattled from the speaker, "I've just blown through about five hundred traffic lights, Linc. I'm thinking if this asshole shuts down the grid and the lights go, we're fucked. No way to--"

  Rhyme cut him off. "Lon, listen, we've got a name. Raymond Galt. He's a troubleman at Algonquin. Not absolute but it looks likely. Mel's going to email you the particulars."

  Cooper, juggling the phone call about the lava search, began typing the relevant information about the suspect into a text.

  "I'll get ESU down there now," Sellitto called.

  "We're sending our tac team," McDaniel said quickly.

  Like schoolkids, Rhyme thought. "Whoever it is, I don't think matters. But the point is now."

  Via speaker conference, the detective and the agent agreed to task-force the raid and each arranged to assemble and deploy teams.

  Rhyme then warned, "We're getting close to the deadline, so he probably won't be there. If not, then I want only my person running the scene at Galt's apartment."

  "No problem," McDaniel said.

  "Me?" Sachs lifted an eyebrow.

  "No. If we get any leads to the next attack, I want you there." He glanced at Pulaski.

  "Me?" Same pronoun, different tone.

  "Get going, Rookie. And remember--"

  "I know," Pulaski said. "Those arc things're five thousand degrees Fahrenheit. I'll be careful."

  Rhyme grunted a laugh. "What I was going to say was: Don't fuck up. . . . Now, move!"

  Chapter 29

  PLENTY OF METAL. Metal everywhere.

  Ron Pulaski glanced at his watch: eleven a.m. Two hours until another attack.

  Metal . . . wonderfully conductive, and possibly connected to wires that ran to one of the invisible sources of juice in the bowels of the lousy apartment building he was standing in.

  Armed with a warrant, the FBI and ESU teams had found--to everyone's disappointment but no one's surprise--that Galt wasn't there. Pulaski then shooed the officers out. And was now surveying the dim apartment, the basement unit in an old decrepit brownstone on the Lower East Side. He and three tactical officers had cleared the place--only the four of them, as Rhyme had ordered, to minimize contamination of the scene.

  The team was now outside and Pulaski was examining the small place by himself. And seeing a lot of metal that could be rigged, the way the battery was rigged in the substation--the trap that had nearly killed Amelia.

  Also picturing the metal disks on the sidewalk, seeing the scars in the concrete and in the body of poor young Luis Martin. And he recalled something else too, something even more troubling: Amelia Sachs's eyes looking spooked. Which they never did. If this electricity crap could scare her . . .