The Burning Wire (16 page)

Sixteen hours until Earth Day

II
THE PATH OF LEAST RESISTANCE

"Someday, man will harness the rise and fall of the tides, imprison the power of the sun, and release atomic power."

--T
HOMAS
A
LVA
E
DISON, ON THE FUTURE
OF PRODUCING ELECTRICITY

Chapter 25

EIGHT A.M.

Low morning light poured into the townhouse. Lincoln Rhyme blinked and maneuvered out of the blinding stream as he steered his Storm Arrow wheelchair out of the small elevator that connected his bedroom with the lab below.

Sachs, Mel Cooper and Lon Sellitto had assembled an hour earlier.

Sellitto was on the phone and said, "Okay, got it." He crossed through another name. He hung up. Rhyme couldn't tell if he'd changed clothes. Maybe he'd slept in the den or downstairs bedroom. Cooper had been home, at least for a time. And Sachs had slept beside Rhyme--for a portion of the night. She was up at five-thirty to keep reviewing employee files and narrowing the list of suspects.

"Where are we?" Rhyme now asked.

Sellitto muttered, "Just talked to McDaniel. They've got six and we've got six."

"You mean we're down to twelve suspects? Let's--"

"Uhm, no, Linc. We've
eliminated
twelve."

Sachs said, "The problem is that a lot of the employees on the list are senior. They didn't put their early careers on their resumes or all of the continuing education computer courses. We have to do a lot of digging to find out if they had the skill to manipulate the grid and rig the device."

"Where the hell's the DNA?" Rhyme snapped.

"Shouldn't be long," Cooper said. "They're expediting it."

"Expediting," was Rhyme's sour, muttered response. The new tests generally could be done in a day or two, unlike the old RFPL tests, which could take a week. He didn't understand why the results weren't back already.

"And nothing more about Justice For?"

Sellitto said, "Our people've been through all their files. McDaniel's too. And Homeland Security and ATF and Interpol. Nothing on them or Rahman. Zip. Fucking creepy, that cloud zone thing. Sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel."

Rhyme started to call the lab running the DNA analysis but just as he flicked a finger to the touchpad to make a call, the phone buzzed. He lifted an eyebrow and instantly hit
ANSWER CALL
.

"Kathryn. Morning. You're up early." It was 5 a.m. in California.

"A bit."

"Anything more?"

"Logan was spotted again--near where he'd been seen before. Now, I just talked to Arturo Diaz."

The law enforcer was up early too. A good sign.

"His boss is on the case now. The one I mentioned. Rodolfo Luna."

Luna was, it turned out, very senior indeed: the second in command of the Mexican Ministerial Federal Police, the equivalent of the FBI. Though burdened with the overwhelming task of running drug enforcement operations--and rooting out corruption in government agencies themselves--Luna had eagerly taken over the chance to apprehend the Watchmaker, Dance explained. A threat of another killing in Mexico wasn't much news, and hardly required someone as high up as Luna, but he was ambitious and he'd be thinking that his cooperation with the NYPD would pay dividends with Mexico's tenuous allies to the north.

"He's larger than life. Drives around in his own Lexus SUV, carries two guns . . . a real cowboy sort."

"But is he honest?"

"Arturo was telling me that he plays the system but, yes, he's honest enough. And he's good. He's a twenty-year veteran and sometimes goes into the field himself to work a case. He even collects evidence on his own."

Rhyme was impressed. He'd done the same when he was an active captain on the force and working as head of Investigation Resources. He remembered many times when a young technician was startled to turn around at the sound of a voice and see his boss's boss's boss holding a pair of tweezers in gloved hands as he examined a fiber or hair.

"He's made a name for himself cracking down on economic crimes and human trafficking and terrorism. Put some big people behind bars."

"And he's still alive," Rhyme said. He wasn't being flippant. The head of the Mexico City police force had been assassinated not long ago.

"He does have a huge security detail," Dance explained. Then added, "He'd like to talk to you."

"Give me the number."

Dance did. Slowly. She'd met Rhyme and knew about his disability. He moved his right index finger over the special touchpad and typed the numbers. They appeared on the flat screen in front of him.

She then said that the DEA was continuing its interview with the man who'd delivered a package to Logan. "He's lying when he says he doesn't know what was inside. I watched the video and gave the agents some advice on how to handle the interrogation. The worker would've thought drugs or cash and taken a fast look. The fact he didn't steal it means that it wasn't those two things. They're about to start with him again."

Rhyme thanked her.

"Oh, one thing?"

"Yes?"

Dance gave him a URL of a website. This too Rhyme slowly typed into his browser.

"Go to that site. I thought you'd like to see Rodolfo. I think it's easier to understand someone when you can picture them."

Rhyme didn't know if that was the case or not. In his line of work, he tended not to see many people at all. The victims were usually dead and the ones who'd killed them were long gone by the time he got involved. Given his druthers he'd rather not see anyone.

After disconnecting, though, he called the site up. It was a Mexican newspaper story in Spanish about a huge drug bust, Rhyme deduced. The officer in charge was Rodolfo Luna. The photo accompanying the story showed a large man surrounded by fellow federal policemen. Some wore black ski masks to hide their identities, others had the grim, vigilant look of people whose jobs turned them into marked men.

Luna was a broad-faced, dark-complexioned man. He wore a military cap but it seemed that he had a shaved head underneath. His olive drab uniform was more military than police and he was decked out with plenty of shiny gingerbread on the chest. He had a bushy black mustache, surrounded by jowl lines. Frowning with an intimidating visage, he was holding a cigarette and pointing toward something to the left of the scene.

Rhyme placed the call to Mexico City, again using the touchpad. He could have used the voice recognition system, but since he'd regained some motion in his right hand he tended to prefer to use the mechanical means.

Placing the call took only a country code's extra effort and soon he was talking to Luna, who had a surprisingly delicate voice with only a slight and completely unrecognizable accent. He would be Mexican, of course, but his vowels seemed tinged with French.

"Ah, ah, Lincoln Rhyme. This is very much a pleasure. I've read about you. And, of course, I have your books. I made sure they were in the course curriculum for my investigators." A moment's pause. He asked, "Forgive me. But are you going to update the DNA section?"

Rhyme had to laugh. He'd been considering doing exactly that just a few days ago. "I'm going to. As soon as this case is finished. Inspector . . . are you an inspector?"

"Inspector? I'm sorry," said the good-natured voice, "but why does everybody think that officers in other countries than the United States are inspectors?"

"The definitive source for law enforcement training and procedures," Rhyme said. "Movies and TV."

A chuckle. "What would we poor police do without cable? But no. I'm a commander. In my country the army and the police, we're often interchangeable. And you are a captain RET, I see from your book. Does that mean resident expert technician? I was wondering."

Rhyme laughed aloud. "No, it means I'm retired."

"Really? And yet here you are working."

"Indeed. I appreciate your help with this case. This is a very dangerous man."

"I'm pleased to be of assistance. Your colleague, Mrs. Dance, she's been very helpful in getting some of our felons extradited back to our own country, when there was considerable pressure not to."

"Yes, she's good." He got to the meat of his question: "I understand you've seen Logan."

"My assistant, Arturo Diaz, and his team have spotted him twice. Once yesterday in a hotel. And then not long ago nearby--among office buildings on Avenue Bosque de Reforma in the business district. He was taking pictures of the buildings. That aroused suspicion--they are hardly architectural marvels--and a traffic officer recognized Logan's picture. Arturo's men got there quickly. But your Mr. Watchmaker vanished before backup arrived. He's very elusive."

"That describes him pretty well. Who are the tenants in the offices he was taking pictures of?"

"Dozens of companies. And some small government ministries. Satellite offices. Transport and commerce operations. A bank on the ground floor of one. Would that be significant?"

"He's not in Mexico for a robbery. Our intelligence is that this is a murder he's planning."

"We're looking into the personnel and the purposes of all the offices right now to see if there might be a likely victim."

Rhyme knew the delicate game of politics but he had no time for finesse, and he had a feeling Luna didn't either. "You have to keep your teams out of sight, Commander. You must be much more careful than usual."

"Yes, of course. This man has the eye, does he?"

"The eye?"

"Like second sight. Kathryn Dance was telling me he's like a cat. He knows when he's in danger."

No, Rhyme thought; he's just very smart and can anticipate exactly what his opponents are likely to do. Like a master chess player. But he said, "That's it exactly, Commander."

Rhyme stared at the picture of Luna on his computer. Dance was right: Conversations seemed to have more to them when you could visualize the person you were speaking with.

"We have a few of those down here too." Another chuckle. "In fact, I'm one of them. It's why I'm still alive when so many of my colleagues are not. We will continue the surveillance--subtly. When we capture him, Captain, perhaps you would like to come for the extradition."

"I don't get out much."

Another pause. Then a somber, "Ah, forgive me. I forgot about your injury."

The one thing, Rhyme reflected, with equal sobriety, that he himself never could. He said, "No apologies are necessary."

Luna added, "Well, we are very--what do you say?--
accessible
here in Mexico City. You would be welcome to come, and very comfortable. You could stay at my house and my wife will cook for you. I have no stairs to trouble you."

"Perhaps."

"We have very good food, and I am a collector of mescal and tequilas."

"In that case a celebration dinner might be in order," Rhyme said to placate him.

"I will earn your presence by capturing this man . . . and perhaps you could lecture to my officers."

Now Rhyme laughed to himself. He hadn't realized they'd been negotiating. Rhyme's appearance in Mexico would be a feather in this man's cap; it was one of the reasons he'd been so cooperative. This was probably the way all business--whether it was law enforcement or commerce--worked in Latin America.

"It would be a pleasure." Rhyme glanced up and saw Thom gesturing to him and pointing to the hallway.

"Commander, I have to go now."

"I'm grateful you contacted me, Captain. I will be in touch as soon as I learn anything. Even if it seems insignificant, I will absolutely call you."

Chapter 26

THOM LED TRIM,
energetic Assistant Special Agent in Charge Tucker McDaniel into the lab again. He was accompanied by an associate, spiffy and young and compensating, whose name Rhyme immediately forgot. He was easier to think of as the Kid, capital
K,
anyway. He blinked once at the quadriplegic and looked away.

The ASAC announced, "We've eliminated a few more names from the list. But there's something else. We've got a demand letter."

"Who from?" Lon Sellitto asked from an examination table, where he sat wrinkled as a deflated ball. "Terrorists?"

"Anonymous and unspecified," McDaniel said, pronouncing every syllable primly. Rhyme wondered if he disliked the man as much as he thought he did. Partly it was how he'd treated Fred Dellray. Partly it was just his style. And sometimes, of course, you just didn't need a reason.

Cloud zone . . .

The agent continued, "Sounds mostly like a crank, eco issues, but who knows what it's a front for."

Sellitto continued, "We sure it's him?"

After an apparently motiveless attack, it wasn't unusual for a number of people to take credit for it. And threaten to repeat the incident if some demands weren't met, even though they themselves had nothing to do with it.

McDaniel said in a stiff voice, "He confirmed details of the bus attack. Of
course
we checked that."

The condescension explained some of Rhyme's distaste.

"Who received it and how?" Rhyme asked.

"Andi Jessen. I'll let her give you the details. I wanted to get it to you as fast as possible."

At least the fed wasn't fighting a turf war. The dislike eased a bit.

"I've told the mayor, Washington and Homeland Security. We conferenced about it on the way over."

Though without our presence, Rhyme noted.

The fed opened his briefcase and took out a sheet of paper in a clear plastic envelope. Rhyme nodded to Mel Cooper, who, in gloved hands, removed the sheet and placed it on an examining table. First, he photographed it and an instant later the handwritten text appeared on the computer screens around the room:

To Andi Jessen, CEO, and Algonquin Consolidated Power:

At around 11:30 a.m. yesterday morning there was an arc flash incident at the MH-10 substation on W 57 Street in Manhattan, this happened by securing a Bennington cable and bus bar to a post-breaker line with two split bolts. By shutting down four substations and raising the breaker limit at MH-10 an overload of close to two hundred thousand volts caused the flash.

This incident was entirely your fault and due to your greed and selfishness. This is typical of the industry and it is reprehensable. Enron destroyed the financial lives of people, your company destroys our physical lives and the life of the earth. By exploiting electricity without regard for it's consequences you are destroying our world, you insideously work your way into our lives like a virus, until we are dependent on what is killing us.

People must learn they do not need as much electricity as you tell them they do. You have to show them the way. You are to execute a rolling brownout across the New York City service grid today--reduce levels to fifty per cent of offpeak load for a half hour, starting at 12:30. If you don't do this, at 1 p.m. more people will die.

Rhyme nodded toward the phone and said to Sachs, "Call Andi Jessen."

She did and a moment later the woman's voice came through the speaker. "Detective Sachs? Have you heard?"

"Yes, I'm here with Lincoln Rhyme and some people from the FBI and the NYPD. They've brought the letter."

Rhyme heard exasperation and anger as the woman said, "Who's behind it?"

"We don't know," Sachs said.

"You have to have some idea."

McDaniel identified himself and said, "The investigation's moving along, but we don't have a suspect yet."

"The man in the uniform at the coffee shop yesterday morning, by the bus stop?"

"We don't have his identity. We're going through the list you gave us. But nobody's a clear suspect yet."

"Ms. Jessen, this is Detective Sellitto, NYPD. Can you do it?"

"Do what?"

"What he's asking for. You know, reduce the power."

Rhyme didn't see any problem playing games with the bad guys, if a little negotiation gave extra time to analyze the evidence or run surveillance on a terrorist. But it wasn't his call.

"This is Tucker again, Ms. Jessen. We strongly recommend against negotiating. In the long run, that just encourages them to up their demands." His eyes were on the large detective, who stared right back.

Sellitto persisted, "It could buy us some breathing room."

The ASAC was hesitating, perhaps debating the wisdom of not presenting a united front. Still he said, "I would firmly recommend against it."

Andi Jessen said, "It's not even an issue. A citywide fifty percent decrease below off-peak load? It's not like turning a dimmer switch. It would throw off the load patterns throughout the Northeast Interconnection. We'd have dropouts and blackouts in dozens of places. And we've got millions of customers with on-off systems that'd shut down cold with that drop in power. There'd be data dumps and resets'd go to default. You can't just turn them back on again; it would take days of reprogramming, and a lot of data would be lost altogether.

"But worse,
some
of the life-critical infrastructure has battery or generator backup, but not all of it. Hospitals have only so much and some of those systems never work right. People will die as a result of it."

Well, thought Rhyme, the writer of the letter had one point right: Electricity, and Algonquin and the power companies, have indeed worked their way into our lives. We're dependent on juice.

"There you have it," said McDaniel. "It can't be done."

Sellitto grimaced. Rhyme looked toward Sachs. "Parker?"

She nodded, and scrolled through her BlackBerry to find the number and email of Parker Kincaid in Washington, D.C. He was a former FBI agent and now a private consultant, the best document examiner in the country, in Rhyme's opinion.

"I'll send it now." She dropped into a chair in front of one of the workstations, wrote an email, scanned the letter then sent them on their way.

Sellitto snapped open his phone and contacted NYPD Anti-Terror, along with the Emergency Service Unit--the city's version of SWAT--and told them that another attack was planned for around 1 p.m.

Rhyme turned to the phone. "Ms. Jessen, Lincoln again. That list you gave Detective Sachs yesterday? The employees?"

"Yes?"

"Can you get us samples of their handwriting?"

"Everybody?"

"As many as you can. As soon as you can."

"I suppose. We have signed confidentiality statements from just about everybody. Probably health forms, requests, expense accounts."

Rhyme was somewhat skeptical of signatures as representative of handwriting. Though he was no document examiner, you can't be the head of a forensics unit without developing some knowledge of the subject. He knew that people tended to scrawl their names carelessly (very bad practice, he'd also learned, since a sloppy signature was easier to forge than a precise one). But people wrote memos and took notes in a more legible way, which was more indicative of how they wrote in general. He told this to Jessen, and she responded that she'd put several assistants on the job of finding as many nonsignature examples of handwriting as she could. She wasn't happy but seemed to be softening her position that an Algonquin employee couldn't be involved.

Rhyme turned away from the phone and called, "Sachs! Is he there? Is Parker there? What's going on?"

She nodded. "He's at some function or something. I'm getting patched through."

Kincaid was a single father of two children, Robby and Stephanie, and he carefully balanced his personal and professional lives--his commitment to his kids was why he'd quit the FBI to become, like Rhyme, a consultant. But Rhyme knew too that for a case like this, Kincaid would get on board instantly and do what he could to help.

The criminalist turned back to the phone. "Ms. Jessen, could you scan them and send them to . . ." An eyebrow raised toward Sachs, who called out Parker Kincaid's email address.

"I've got it," Jessen said.

"Those are terms in the business, I assume?" Rhyme asked. " 'Rolling brownout,' 'shedding load,' 'service grid,' 'offpeak load.' "

"That's right."

"Does that give us any details about him?"

"Not really. They're technical aspects of the business but if he could adjust the computer and rig a flash arc device, then he'd know those too. Anybody in the power industry would know them."

"How did you get the letter?"

"It was delivered to my apartment building."

"Is your address public?"

"I'm not listed in the phone book but I suppose it wouldn't be impossible to find me."

Rhyme persisted, "How exactly did you receive it?"

"I live in a doorman building, Upper East Side. Somebody rang the back delivery bell in the lobby. The doorman went to go see. When he got back, the letter was at his station. It was marked,
Emergency. Delivery immediately to Andi Jessen.
"

"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."