The Burning Wire (15 page)

Chapter 23

THE CITY CAME
alive at this time of night.

Nine p.m. was like a green flag for a car race.

The dead time in New York wasn't night; it was when the city was spiritually numb, ironically when it was at its busiest: rush hour, mid-morning and -afternoon. Only now were people shedding the workaday numbness, refocusing, coming alive.

Making all-important decisions: which bar, which friends, which shirt? Bra, no bra?

Condoms? . . .

And then out onto the street.

Fred Dellray now loped through the cool spring air, sensing the energy rise like what was humming through the electrical cables beneath his feet. He didn't drive much, didn't own a car, but what he was feeling now was akin to punching the accelerator and burning gas in a frenzy, as the power flung you toward your fate.

Two blocks from the subway, three, four . . .

And something else burned. The $100,000 in his pocket.

As he moved along the sidewalk Fred Dellray couldn't help but thinking, Have I ruined it all? Yes, I'm doing the morally right thing. I'd risk my career, I'd risk jail, if this thin thread of a lead ultimately revealed the perp, whether it was Justice For or anyone else. Anything to save the lives of citizens. Of course, the $100,000 was nothing to the entity he'd taken it from. And the cash might, thanks to bureaucratic myopia, never be missed. But even if it wasn't, and even if William Brent's lead blossomed and they were successful in stopping more attacks, would Dellray's malfeasance gnaw at him, the guilt growing larger and larger like a spiky tumor?

Would he fall into such guilt that his life would be altered forever, turned gray, turned worthless?

Change . . .

He was close to turning around and returning to the federal building, putting the money back.

But, no. He was doing the right thing. And he'd live with the consequences, whatever they were.

But, goddamn, William, you better come through for me.

Dellray now crossed the street in the Village and wandered right up to William Brent, who blinked in faint surprise, as if he'd believed Dellray wouldn't come. They stood together. This wasn't a set--an undercover operation--and it wasn't a recruiting session. It was just two guys meeting on the street to conduct business.

Behind them an unclean teenage boy, strumming a guitar and bleeding from a recent lip piercing, moaned out a song. Dellray motioned Brent along the sidewalk. The smell and the sound faded.

The agent asked, "You found anything more?"

"Have, yes."

"What?" Once again, trying not to sound desperate.

"It wouldn't do any good to say at this point. It's a lead to a lead. I'll guarantee you something by tomorrow."

Guarantee? Not a word you heard often in the snitch business.

But William Brent was your Armani of CIs.

Besides, Dellray had no choice.

"Say," Brent said casually, "you through with the paper?"

"Sure. Keep it." And handed the folded-up
New York Post
to Brent.

They'd done this all before, of course, a hundred times. The CI slipped the newspaper into his attache case without even feeling for the envelope inside, much less opening it up and counting the money.

Dellray watched the money disappear as if he were watching a coffin submerge into a grave.

Brent didn't ask the source of the cash. Why should he? It wasn't relevant to him.

The CI now summarized, half musing, "White male, a lot of mediums. Employee or inside connection. Justice For something. Rahman. Terrorism, possibly. But it could be something else. And he knows electricity. And significant planning."

"That's all we have for now."

"I don't think I need anything else," Brent said without a hint of ego. Dellray took the words and this attitude as encouragement. Normally, even parting with a typical snitch gratuity--$500 or so--he felt like he was getting robbed. Now, he had a gut sense that Brent would deliver.

Dellray said, "Meet me tomorrow. Carmella's. The Village. Know it?"

"I do. When?"

"Noon."

Brent further wrinkled his wrinkled face. "Five."

"Three?"

"Okay."

Dellray was about to whisper, "Please," which he didn't think he'd ever said to a CI. He canned the desperation but had a tough time keeping his eyes off the attache case, whose contents might just be the ashes of his career. And, for that matter, his entire life. An image of his son's ebullient face rose. He forced it away.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Fred." Brent smiled and nodded a farewell. The streetlight glinted off his oversized glasses and then he was gone.

Chapter 24

"THAT'S SACHS."

The deep bubble of a car engine sounded outside the window and fell to silence.

Rhyme was speaking to Tucker McDaniel and Lon Sellitto, both of whom had arrived not long before--independently--around the time the Death Doctor had exited so abruptly.

Sachs would be throwing the
NYPD Official Business
placard on the dash and heading toward the house. And, yes, a moment later the door opened and her footsteps, spaced far apart because of her long legs, and because of the urgency she wore like her weapon, resounded on the floor.

She nodded to those present and spent a second longer examining Rhyme. He noted the expression: tenderness blended with the clinical eye typical of those in relationships with the severely disabled. She'd studied quadriplegia more than he had, she could handle all the tasks involved in his intimate, day-to-day routine, and did occasionally. Rhyme was, at first, embarrassed by this but when she pointed out, with humor and maybe a little flirtation, "How's it different from any other old married couple, Rhyme?" he'd been brought up short. "Good point" was his only response.

Which didn't mean her doting, like anyone else's, didn't rankle occasionally and he glanced at her once and then turned to the evidence charts.

Sachs looked around. "Where's the award?"

"There was an element of misrepresentation involved."

"What do you mean?"

He explained to her about Dr. Kopeski's bait and switch.

"No!"

Rhyme nodded. "No paperweight."

"You threw him out?"

"That was Thom. And a very fine job he did of it. But I don't want to talk about that now. We have work to do." He glanced at her shoulder bag. "So what do we have?"

Pulling several large files out, she said, "Got the list of people who had access to the Algonquin computer pass codes. And their resumes and employee files."

"What about disgruntled workers? Mental problems?"

"None that're relevant."

She gave more details of her meeting with Andi Jessen: There was no record of employees in the steam tunnel work area near the substation on Fifty-seventh Street. There had been no obvious terrorist threats but an associate was looking into the possibility. "Now, I spoke to somebody who works in the Special Projects Division--that's alternative energy, basically. Charlie Sommers. Good guy. He gave me the profile of the sort of person who could rig an arc flash. A master electrician, military electrician, a power company lineman or troubleman--"

"Now that's a job description for you," Sellitto remarked.

"It's really trouble
shooter,
a foreman basically. You need on-the-job experience to make one of these arc flashes happen. You can't just look it up on the Internet."

Rhyme nodded at the whiteboard and Sachs wrote her summary. She added, "As for the computer, you'd need to have classroom training or a fair amount of training on the job. That's pretty tricky too." She explained about the SCADA and EMP programs that the UNSUB would have to be competent in.

She added these details to the chart too.

Sellitto asked, "How many're on the list?"

"Over forty."

"Ouch," McDaniel muttered.

Rhyme supposed that one of the names on the list could be the perp's, and maybe Sachs or Sellitto could narrow it down to a more reasonable number. But what he wanted at the moment was evidence. Of which there was very little, at least little that was productive.

Nearly twelve hours had elapsed since the attack and they were no closer to finding the man who'd been in the coffee shop, or any other suspect.

The lack of leads was frustrating, but more troubling was a simple entry in the UNSUB's profile chart:
Possibly same person who stole 75 feet of similar Bennington cable and 12 split bolts. More attacks in mind?

Was he rigging something right now? There'd been no warning about the bus attack. Maybe that was the MO for his crimes. Any moment the networks could report a story that perhaps dozens of people had been killed in a second arc flash explosion.

Mel Cooper made a copy of the list and they divided up the names. Sachs, Pulaski and Sellitto took half, McDaniel the rest, for his federal agents to follow up on. Sachs then looked through the personnel files she'd gotten at Algonquin and kept the ones that corresponded to the names they'd selected, gave the others to McDaniel.

"This Sommers, you trust him?" Rhyme asked.

"Yes. He checked out. And he gave me this." She whipped out a small black electronic device and pointed it toward a wire near Rhyme. She pressed a button and read a screen. "Hm. Two hundred forty volts."

"And how about me, Sachs? Am I fully charged?"

She laughed, playfully aimed it at him. Then lifted what he thought was a seductive eyebrow his way. Her phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen, answered. She had a brief conversation and hung up. "That was Bob Cavanaugh, the Operations vice president. He was the one checking out terrorist connections at the company branches around the region. No evidence of ecoterror groups threatening Algonquin or attacking their power plants. But there was a report of infiltration in one of the company's main Philadelphia substations. White male in his forties got inside. Nobody knows who he was or what he was doing there. No security tape and he got away before the police arrived. This was last week."

Race, sex and age . . . "That's our boy. But what did he want?"

"No other intrusions in the company's facilities."

Was the perp's mission to get information about the grid, the security in substations? Rhyme could only speculate and, accordingly, filed the incident away for the time being.

McDaniel got a phone call. He stared absently at the evidence chart whiteboards, then disconnected. "T and C's had more chatter about the Justice For terrorist group."

"What?" Rhyme asked urgently.

"Nothing big. But one thing interesting: they're using code words that've been used in the past for large-scale weapons. 'Paper and supplies' were the ones our algorithms isolated."

He explained that underground cells often did this. An attack in France was averted recently when chatter among known negatives included the words "
gateau,
" "
farine
" and "
beurre.
" French for "cake," "flour" and "butter." They really referred to a bomb and its ingredients: explosives and detonator.

"The Mossad's reported that Hezbollah cells sometimes use 'office supplies' or 'party supplies' for missiles or high explosives. Now, we also think that two people in addition to Rahman have been involved. Man and a woman, the computer's telling us."

Rhyme asked, "Have you told Fred?"

"Good idea." McDaniel pulled out his BlackBerry and made a speakerphone call.

"Fred, it's Tucker. You're on speaker at Rhyme's. You had any luck?"

"My CI's on it. Following up on some leads."

"Following up? Nothing more concrete than that?"

A pause. Dellray said, "I don't have anything more. Not yet."

"Well, T and C's found a few things." He updated the agent on the code words and the fact that a man and woman were likely involved.

Dellray said he'd report that to his contact.

McDaniel asked, "So he was willing to work within the budget?"

"That's right."

"I knew he would. These people'll take advantage of you if you let them, Fred. That's the way CIs work."

"Happens," Dellray said somberly.

"Stay in touch." McDaniel disconnected, stretched. "This damn cloud zone. We're not hoovering up nearly as much as we'd like."

Hoovering?

Sellitto tapped the stack of personnel files from Algonquin. "I'll go downtown. Get people started on them. Brother, it's going to be a long night." The time was now eleven-ten.

It
was,
Rhyme reflected. For him too. Particularly because there wasn't much for him to do at this point but wait.

Oh, how he hated waiting.

Eyes straying to the skimpy evidence boards, he thought: We're moving too damn slow.

And here we are, trying to find a perp who attacks with the speed of light.

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 Algonquin 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.