The Burning Wire (10 page)

"It doesn't?" Rhyme asked, with surprise in his eyes that was both feigned and genuine.

Chapter 14

WITH THE SEM-EDS--THE
scanning electron microscope and energy-dispersive X-ray spectroscope--Mel Cooper analyzed the trace evidence Sachs had collected where the UNSUB had rigged the wire. "I've got some kind of mineral, different from the substrata around the substation."

"What's it made up of?"

"It's about seventy percent feldspar, then quartz, magnetite, mica, calcite and amphiboles. Some anhydrite too. Curious, large percentages of silicon."

Rhyme knew the geology of the New York area well. When mobile, he'd strolled around the city, scooping up samples of dirt and rock and creating databases that could help him match perp and locale. But this combination of minerals was a mystery to him. It certainly wasn't from around here. "We need a geologist." Rhyme thought for a moment and made a call with speed dial.

"Hello?" a man's soft voice answered.

"Arthur," Rhyme said to his cousin, who lived not far away, in New Jersey.

"Hey. How are you?"

Rhyme reflected that it seemed
everybody
was asking about his health today, though Arthur was just making conversation.

"Good."

"It was nice seeing you and Amelia last week."

Rhyme had recently reconnected with Arthur Rhyme, who'd been like a brother to him and with whom he'd grown up outside Chicago. Though the criminalist was hardly one for weekends in the country, he'd astonished Sachs by suggesting that the two of them take up an invitation to visit Art Rhyme and his wife, Judy, at their small vacation house on the shore. Arthur revealed that he'd actually built a wheelchair ramp to make it accessible. They'd gone out to the place, along with Thom and Pammy and her dog, Jackson, for a couple of days.

Rhyme had enjoyed himself. While the women and canine hiked the beach, he and Arthur had talked science and academia and world events, their opinions growing inarticulate in direct proportion to the consumption of single malt scotch; Arthur, like Rhyme, had a pretty good collection.

"You're on speaker here, Art, with . . . well, a bunch of cops."

"I've been watching the news. You're running this electricity incident, I'll bet. Terrible. The press is saying it's probably an accident but . . ." He gave a skeptical laugh.

"No, not accidental at all. We don't know whether it's a disgruntled employee or a terrorist."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Arthur was a scientist too and somewhat more broad-based than Rhyme.

"Actually, yes. I've got a fast question for you. Well, I hope it's fast. We found some trace at the crime scene and it doesn't match any substrata nearby. In fact, it doesn't match any geologic formation in the New York area I'm familiar with."

"I've got a pen. Give me what you found."

Rhyme recited the results of their tests.

Arthur was silent. Rhyme pictured his cousin lost in thought as he gazed at the list he'd jotted, his mind running through possibilities. Finally he asked, "How big are the particles?"

"Mel?"

"Hi, Art, it's Mel Cooper."

"Hi, Mel. Been dancing lately?"

"We won the Long Island tango competition last week. We're going to regionals on Sunday. Unless I'm stuck here, of course."

"Mel?" Rhyme urged.

"Particles? Yes, very small. About point two five millimeters."

"Okay, I'm pretty sure it's tephra."

"What?" Rhyme asked.

Arthur spelled it. "Volcanic matter. The word's Greek for 'ash.' In the air, after it's blown out of the volcano, it's pyroclast--broken rock--but on the ground it's called tephra."

"Indigenous?" Rhyme asked

In an amused voice, Arthur said, "It's indigenous
somewhere.
But you mean around here? Not anymore. You could find a very minuscule trace amount in the Northeast given a major eruption on the West Coast and strong prevailing winds, but there haven't been any lately. In those proportions I'd say most likely the source was the Pacific Northwest. Maybe Hawaii."

"So however this got to a crime scene it would have been carried there by the perp or somebody."

"That'd be my call."

"Well, thanks. We'll talk to you soon."

"Oh, and Judy said she's going to email Amelia that recipe she wanted."

Rhyme hadn't heard that part of the conversation during the weekend out of town. It must've occurred on one of the beach walks.

Sachs called, "No hurry."

After they disconnected, Rhyme couldn't help but look at her with a raised eyebrow. "You're taking up cooking?"

"Pammy's going to teach me." She shrugged. "How hard can it be? I figure it's just like rebuilding a carburetor, only with perishable parts."

Rhyme gazed at the chart. "Tephra . . . So maybe our perp's been to Seattle or Portland recently or to Hawaii. I doubt that much trace would travel very well, though. I'm betting he was in or near a museum, school, geologic exhibit of some kind. Do they use volcanic ash in any kind of business? Maybe polishing stones. Like Carborundum."

Cooper said, "This's too varied and irregular to be milled commercially. Too soft too, I'd think."

"Hm. How about jewelry? Do they make jewelry out of lava?"

None of them had ever heard of that, though, and Rhyme concluded that the source had to be an exhibit or display that the perp had attended or that was near where he lived or where a future target was. "Mel, have somebody in Queens start calling--check out any exhibits, traveling or permanent displays in the area that have anything to do with volcanoes or lava. Manhattan first." He gazed at the access door, wrapped in plastic. "Now, let's look at what Amelia went swimming with. Your turn at bat, Rookie. Make us proud."

Chapter 15

CLEANING HIS LATEX
gloves with the pet-hair roller--and drawing an approving look from Rhyme--the young officer hefted the access door and surrounding frame, still connected. The door was about eighteen inches square and the frame added another two or so inches. It was painted dark gray.

Sachs was right. It was a tight fit. The UNSUB very likely would have sloughed off something from his body as he entered the substation.

The door opened with four small turn latches on both sides. They would have been awkward to loosen with a gloved hand, so there was a chance he'd used bare fingers, especially since he'd planned on blowing up the door with the battery bomb and destroying evidence.

Fingerprints fell into one of three categories. Visible (the sort left by a bloody thumb on a white wall), impressible (left in pliable material, like plastic explosive), and latent (hidden to the unaided eye). There were dozens of good ways to raise latent prints but one of the best, on metal surfaces, was simply to use store-bought Super Glue, cyanoacrylate. The object would be put in an airtight enclosure with a container of the glue, which would then be heated until it turned gaseous. The vapors would bond with any number of substances left by the finger--amino and lactic acids, glucose, potassium and carbon trioxide--and the resulting reaction created a visible print.

The process could work miracles, raising prints that were completely invisible before.

Except not in this case.

"Nothing," Pulaski said, discouraged, peering at the access door through a very Sherlock Holmesian magnifier. "Only glove smudges."

"Not surprising. He's been fairly careful so far. Well, collect trace from the inside of the frame, where he made contact."

Pulaski did this, using a soft brush over the newsprint examination sheets and taking swabs. He placed whatever he found--to Rhyme it seemed like very little--into bags and organized them for Cooper to analyze.

Sellitto took a call and then said, "Hold on. You're being speakered."

"Hello?" came the voice.

Rhyme glanced at Sellitto. "Who?" he whispered.

"Szarnek."

The NYPD Computer Crimes expert.

"What do you have for us, Rodney?"

Rock music clattered around in the background. "I can almost guarantee that whoever played with the Algonquin servers had the pass codes up front. In fact, I
will
guarantee that. First of all, we found no evidence of any attempted intrusion. No brute force attack. No shredded code of rootkits, suspicious drivers or kernel modules or--"

"Just the bottom line, you don't mind."

"Okay, what I'm saying is we looked at every port . . ." He hesitated at Rhyme's sigh. "Ah, bottom line. It was and wasn't an inside job."

"Which means?" Rhyme grumbled.

"The attack was from outside Algonquin's physical building."

"We know that."

"But the perp had to get the codes from inside headquarters in Queens. Either him or an accomplice. They're kept in hard copies and on a random code generator that's isolated from networks."

"So," the criminalist summarized, just to make sure, "no outside hackers, domestic or international."

"Next to impossible. I'm serious, Lincoln. Not a single rootkit--"

"Got it, Rodney. Any trace on his line from the coffee shop?"

"Prepaid cell connecting through a USB port. Went through a proxy in Europe."

Rhyme was tech enough to know that this meant the answer to his question was no.

"Thanks, Rodney. How do you get any work done with that music?"

The man chuckled. "Call me anytime."

The raucous hammering disappeared with the disconnecting click.

Cooper too was on the phone. He hung up and said, "I've found somebody in Materials Analysis at HQ. She's got a geology background. She knows a lot of the schools that have regular exhibits for the public. She's checking on volcanic ash and lava."

Pulaski, poring over the door, squinted. "Got something here, I think."

He pointed to a portion of the door near the top latch. "It looks like he wiped it off." He grabbed the magnifying glass. "And there's a burr of metal. Sharp . . . I think he cut himself and bled."

"Really?" Rhyme was excited. There's nothing like DNA in forensic work.

Sellitto said, "But if he cleaned it off, does it still do us any good?"

Before Rhyme could offer anything, Pulaski, still hunched over his find, mused, "But what would he have to clean it off with? Maybe spit. That's as good as blood."

This was going to have been Rhyme's conclusion. "Use the ALS."

Alternative light sources can reveal bodily fluids like traces of saliva, semen and sweat, all of which contain DNA.

All law enforcement agencies were now taking samples of DNA of suspects in certain types of offenses--sex crimes, for instance--and many were going further than that. If their UNSUB had committed a swabbable offense, he'd be in the Combined DNA Index System database, CODIS.

A moment later Pulaski, wearing goggles, paused the wand over a portion of the access door where he'd spotted the smear. There was a tiny yellowish glow. He called, "Yessir, got something. Not much."

"Rookie, you know how many cells are in the human body?"

"Well . . . no, I don't."

"Over three trillion."

"That's a lot of--"

"And do you know how many are needed for a successful DNA sample?"

He said, "According to your book, Lincoln, about a hundred."

Rhyme lifted an eyebrow. "Impressive." Then he added, "You think you have a hundred cells there in that massive smear?"

"Probably, I would think."

"You sure do. Sachs, looks like your swimming expedition wasn't in vain. If the battery had blown, it would have destroyed the sample. Okay, Mel, show him how to collect it."

Pulaski ceded the tricky task to Cooper.

"STR?" Rhyme asked the tech. "Or is the sample degraded?"

The polymerase chain reaction short tandem repeat method was the standard DNA test in criminal cases. It was fast and the most reliable system, with at least a billion to one accuracy. It could also determine the sex of the person from whom the sample came. But while the sample could be very small it had to be in good shape. If it had been damaged by the water or heat in the substation, a different test--mitochondrial DNA--would have to be used, a technique that took longer.

"I think it'll be fine." The tech collected the DNA and called the lab for pickup. "I know--ASAP," he told Rhyme just as the criminalist had been about to crack the whip.

"And spare no expense."

"That coming out of your fee, Linc?" Sellitto grumbled.

"I give you my best customer discount, Lon. And a good find, Pulaski."

"Thanks, I--"

Having delivered enough compliments for the time being, Rhyme moved on, "What about the trace from the
inside
of the door, Mel? You know, we're not moving very quickly here."

Cooper took the samples and looked them over on the examining sheet or under the microscope. "Nothing that doesn't match the samplars and substrata . . . except this." It was a tiny pink dot.

"GC it," Rhyme ordered.

A short time later Mel was reading results from the gas chromatograph, the mass spectrometer and several other analyses. "We've got an acidic pH--about two--and citric acid and sucrose. Then . . . well, I'll put it up on the screen."

The words appeared:
Quercetin 3-O-rutinoside-7-O-glucoside and chrysoeriol 6,8-di-C-glucoside (stellarin-2).

"Fine," Rhyme said impatiently. "Fruit juice. With that pH, it's probably lemon."

Pulaski couldn't help but laugh. "How did you
know
that? I'm sorry, how did you know?"

"You only get out of a task what you bring to it, Rookie. Do your homework! Remember that." He turned back to Cooper.

"Then vegetable oil of some sort, lots of salt and some compound that eludes me completely."

"Made up of what?"

"It's protein rich. The amino acids are arginine, histidine, isoleucine, lysine and methionine. Also, plenty of lipids, mostly cholesterol and lecithin, then vitamin A, vitamins B2, B6, B12, niacin, pantothenic acid and folic acid. Large amounts of calcium, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium."

"Tasty," Rhyme said.

Cooper was nodding. "It's food, sure. But what?"

Though his sensations of taste hadn't changed after the accident, food was to Lincoln Rhyme essentially fuel and he didn't get much pleasure out of it, unlike, of course, whisky.

"Thom?" There was no response so he took a deep breath. Before he could call again, the aide stuck his head in the door.

"Everything okay?"

"Why do you keep asking that?"

"What do you want?"

"Lemon juice, vegetable oil and egg."

"You're hungry?"

"No, no, no. What would those ingredients be found in?"

"Mayonnaise."

Rhyme lifted an eye to Cooper, who shook his head. "Lumpy and kind of pinkish."

The aide reconsidered. "Then I'd go with taramasalata."

"What? Is that a restaurant?"

Thom laughed. "It's a Greek appetizer. A spread."

"Caviar, right? You eat it with bread."

Thom replied to Sachs, "Well, it is fish eggs, but cod, not sturgeon. So it's not technically caviar."

Rhyme was giving a nod. "Ah, the elevated saline. Fish. Sure. Is it common?"

"In Greek restaurants and grocery stores and delis."

"Is there anyplace more common than others? A Greek area of the city?"

"Queens," Pulaski said, who lived in the borough. "Astoria. Lots of Greek restaurants there."

"Can I get back now?" Thom asked.

"Yes, yes, yes . . ."

"Thanks," Sachs called.

The aide waved a gloved hand, Playtex yellow, and disappeared.

Sellitto asked, "Maybe he's been staking out someplace in Queens for the next attack."

Rhyme shrugged, one of the few gestures he could still perform. He reflected: The perp would have to prepare the location, that was true. Still, he was leaning in a different direction.

Sachs caught his eye. "You're thinking, Algonquin's headquarters're in Astoria, right?"

"Exactly. And everything's pointing to it being an inside job." He asked, "Who's in charge of the company?"

Ron Pulaski said he'd had a conversation with the workers outside the substation. "They mentioned the president and CEO. The name's Jessen. Andy Jessen. Everybody seemed a little afraid of him."

Rhyme kept his eyes on the charts for a moment and then said, "Sachs, how'd you like to go for a drive in your fancy new wheels?"

"You bet." She called, and arranged with the CEO's assistant for a meeting in a half hour.

It was then that Sellitto's cell rang. He pulled it out and took a look at caller ID. "Algonquin." He hit a button. "Detective Sellitto." Rhyme noticed his face went still as he listened. Then he said, "You're sure? . . . Okay. Who'd have access? . . . Thanks." He disconnected. "Son of a bitch."

"What?"

"That was the supply division supervisor. He said one of the Algonquin warehouses in Harlem was burglarized last week. Hundred and eighteen Street. They thought it was an employee pilfering. Perp used a key. It wasn't broken into."

Pulaski asked, "And whoever it was stole the cable?"

Sellitto nodded. "And those split bolts."

But Rhyme could see another message in the detective's round face. "How much?" he asked, his voice a whisper. "How much wire did he steal?"

"You got it, Linc. Seventy-five feet of cable and a dozen bolts. What the hell was McDaniel talking about, a onetime thing? That's bullshit. This UNSUB's going to keep right on going."

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.