The burning wire lr-9

by Jeffery Deaver

  But he told the cop, "Nothing." Then he dusted off his slacks and looked around. He asked, "Hey, Officer?"

  "Yessir?"

  "By any chance you pass a restroom on your way down here?"

  Chapter 80

  "CHARLIE SOMMERS'S OKAY," Sachs called, slipping away her cell phone. "Ron just called."

  Rhyme frowned. "I didn't know he wasn't okay."

  "Seems he tried to play hero. He was going to shut down the power at the convention center. Ron found him in the basement with a wire and some tools. He was hanging from the ceiling."

  "Doing what?"

  "I don't know."

  "What part of 'stay put' did he have trouble with?"

  Sachs shrugged.

  "You couldn't've just called him?"

  "Didn't have his phone on him. Something about a hundred thousand volts."

  Andi Jessen's brother was fine too, though filthy and hungry and furious. He'd been recovered from the back of Logan's white van parked in the alley behind Rhyme's townhouse. Logan had shared nothing with him and had kept him in the dark-in both senses. Randall Jessen had assumed he'd been kidnapped in some scheme to extort money from his wealthy CEO sister. Randall'd heard nothing of the attacks, and Logan's plan was apparently to electrocute him in Rhyme's basement, as if he'd accidentally touched a hot wire dismantling the switch he'd installed to kill Rhyme. He'd been reunited with his sister, who'd been briefed by Gary Noble about the situation.

  Rhyme wondered if she'd respond to the fact that the target of her attacks in the press-the alternative energy world-had been behind the scheme.

  Rhyme asked, "And Bob Cavanaugh? The Operations man?"

  "McDaniel's guys got him. He was in his office. No resistance. Tons of business records on start-up alternative energy companies the conspirators planned to do deals with after they'd taken over Algonquin. The Bureau'll get the other names from his computer and phone records-if he doesn't cooperate."

  A green cartel…

  Rhyme now realized that Richard Logan, sitting cuffed and shackled in a chair between two uniformed patrolmen, was speaking to him. In a cool, eerily analytical voice, the killer repeated, "A setup? All fake. You knew all along."

  "I knew." Rhyme regarded him carefully. Though he'd confirmed the name Richard Logan, it was impossible to think of him as that. To Rhyme he would always be the Watchmaker. The face was different, yes, after the plastic surgery, but the eyes were those of the same man who'd proved every bit as smart as Rhyme himself. Smarter even, on occasion. And unbridled by the trivia of law and conscience.

  The shackles were sturdy and the cuffs tight but Lon Sellitto sat nearby anyway, keeping an eye on the man, as if the cop thought that Logan was using his considerable mental prowess to plan an escape.

  But Rhyme believed not. The prisoner's darting eyes had taken in the room and the other officers and had concluded that there was nothing to be gained by resisting.

  "So," Logan said evenly, "how did you do it?" He seemed genuinely curious.

  As Sachs and Cooper logged and bagged the new evidence, Rhyme, with no small ego himself, was pleased to indulge him. "When our FBI agent told me that it was somebody else, not Galt, that jarred me out of my rut. You know the risk of making assumptions… I'd been assuming all along that Galt was the perp. But once that idea got turned upside down, I started thinking about the whole"-Rhyme smiled at the fortuitous word that popped into his mind-"the whole arc of the crimes. Take the trap at the school: What was the point of trying to hurt only two or three officers? And with a noisy generator? It occurred to me that that'd be a good way to get some planted evidence inside the lab-and big enough to hide a microphone.

  "I took the chance that the generator was bugged and that you were listening. So I started rambling about new theories involving Andi Jessen and her brother, which is where the evidence was obviously leading us. But at the same time I was typing out instructions for everybody in the lab. They were all reading over my shoulder. I had Mel-my associate-scan the generator for a bug… and there it was. Well, if you wanted the generator to be found, that meant that any evidence in it was planted. So whoever it pointed to was not involved in the crimes: Andi Jessen and her brother were innocent."

  Logan was frowning. "But you never suspected her?"

  "I did, yes. We thought Andi'd lied to us. You heard that on the microphone?"

  "Yes, though I wasn't sure what you meant."

  "She told Sachs that she got her skills from her father. As if she was hiding the fact that she'd been a lineman and could rig arc flashes. But if you think about what she said, she wasn't denying that she'd worked in the field but that she was simply saying her talent was mostly on the business side of the operation… Well, if it wasn't Andi or her brother, then who? I kept going back over the evidence." A glance at the charts. "There were some items unaccounted for. The one that stuck in my mind was the spring."

  "Spring? Yes, you mentioned that."

  "We found a tiny hairspring at one of the scenes. Nearly invisible. We thought it could have been from a timer in some switchgear. But I decided if it could come from a timer, it could also be used in watchmaking. That put me in mind of you, of course."

  "A hairspring?" Logan's face fell. "I always use a roller on my clothes"-he nodded to a rack of pet-hair rollers near an examination table-"to make sure I pick up any trace before I go out on a job. That must've fallen into my cuff. And you want to know something funny, Lincoln? It probably got there because I was putting away a lot of my old supplies and tools. What I told you before… I'd become fascinated with the idea of electronic timekeeping. That's what I was going to try next. I wanted to make the most perfect clock in the world. Even better than the government's atomic clock. But an electronic one."

  Rhyme continued, "And then all the other pieces fell into place. My conclusion about the letters-that they were written by Galt under threat-worked if you were the one dictating them. The alternative jet fuel? It was being tested mostly in military jets-but that means it was also being tested in some private and commercial flights. I decided it wouldn't make sense for anybody to plan an attack at an airport or a military base; the security around the electrical systems would be too high. So where did that trace come from? The only aviation scenario that had come up recently didn't involve this case at all; it involved you-in Mexico. And we found a green fiber at one of the scenes… it was the exact shade of Mexican police uniforms. And it had aviation fuel in it."

  "I left a fiber?" Angry with himself now. Furious.

  "I supposed you picked it up from meeting with Arturo Diaz at the airport before you flew back to Philadelphia to kidnap Randall Jessen and drive to New York."

  Logan could only sigh, confirming Rhyme's theory.

  "Well, that was my theory, that you were involved. But it was purely speculation-until I realized I had the answer right in front of me. The definitive answer."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The DNA. We had the analysis of the blood we found on the access door near the first substation attack. But I never ran it through CODIS-the DNA database. Why should we? We knew Galt's identity."

  This was the final check. Not long ago Rhyme had typed instructions to Cooper-he couldn't tell him orally because of the bug in the generator-to have the DNA lab send a copy of the sample to CODIS. "We had a sample of your DNA from your assignment in New York a few years ago. I was reading the confirmation that they were the same when you showed up. I scrambled to switch screens pretty quickly."

  Logan's face tightened with anger at himself. "Yes, yes… In the substation, at the access door, I cut my finger on a burr of metal. I wiped the blood off as best I could but I was worried that you'd find it. It's why I rigged the battery to blow and burn off the DNA."

  "Locard's principle," Rhyme said, citing the early-twentieth-century criminologist. He quoted, " 'In every crime there is an exchange'-"

  Logan finished, "-'between criminal and victim or criminal and the site of
the crime. It may be very difficult to find, but the connection exists. And it is the obligation of every crime scene professional to find that one common bit of evidence that will lead to the perpetrator's identity, if not his doorstep.' "

  Rhyme couldn't help but laugh. That particular quotation was his own, a paraphrase of Locard's. It had appeared in an article about forensics he'd written only two or three months ago. Richard Logan had apparently been doing his homework too.

  Or was it more than research?

  That's why I took the job… I needed to get close to you…

  Logan said, "You're not only a good criminalist, you're a good actor. You had me fooled."

  "You've done some of that yourself now, haven't you?"

  The men's eyes met and their gaze held steady. Then Sellitto's phone rang and he answered, had a brief conversation and hung up. "Transport's here."

  Three officers arrived in the doorway, two uniforms and a brown-haired detective in blue jeans, blue shirt and tan sports coat. He had an easy-going smile, which was tempered by the fact he wore two very large automatic pistols, one on each hip.

  "Hey, Roland," Amelia Sachs said, smiling.

  Rhyme offered, "Haven't seen you for a while."

  "Howdy. Well, you got yourself some catch here." Roland Bell was a transplant from a sheriff's office in North Carolina. He'd been a detective on the NYPD for some years but had yet to lose the Southern Mid-Atlantic twang. His specialty was protecting witnesses and making sure suspects didn't escape. There was nobody better at the job. Rhyme was pleased that he'd be the one shepherding the Watchmaker down to detention. "He'll be in good hands."

  At a nod from Bell, the patrolmen helped Logan to his feet. Bell checked the shackles and cuffs and then searched the man himself. He nodded and they headed for the door. The Watchmaker turned back, saying coyly, "I'll see you again, Lincoln."

  "I know you will. I'm looking forward to it."

  The suspect's smile was replaced by a perplexed look.

  Rhyme continued, "I'll be the expert forensic witness at your trial."

  "Maybe there. Maybe someplace else." The man glanced at the Breguet. "Don't forget to keep it wound."

  And with that he was gone.

  Chapter 81

  "I'M SORRY TO tell you, Rodolfo."

  The boisterous voice was absent completely. "Arturo? No. I can hardly believe it."

  Rhyme continued, explaining about the plot that Diaz had engineered-to kill his boss and make it seem like a by-product of an assassination mission to Mexico City.

  In the ensuing silence, Rhyme asked, "He was a friend?"

  "Ah, friendship… I would say, when it comes to betrayals, the wife who sleeps with a man and returns home to care for your children and to make you a hot meal is less of a sinner than the friend who betrays you for greed. What do you say to that, Captain Rhyme?"

  "Betrayal is a symptom of the truth."

  "Ah, Captain Rhyme, you are a Buddhist? You are a Hindu?"

  Rhyme had to laugh. "No."

  "But you wax philosophical… I think the answer is that Arturo Diaz was a Mexican law enforcer and that is reason enough for him to do what he did. Life is impossible down here."

  "Yet you persist. You continue to fight."

  "I do. But I'm a fool. Much like you, my friend. Could you not be making millions by writing security reports for corporations?"

  The criminalist replied, "But what's the fun of that?"

  The laugh was genuine and rich. The Mexican asked, "What will happen to him now?"

  "Logan? He'll be convicted of murder for these crimes. And for crimes here several years ago."

  "Will he get the death penalty?"

  "He could but he won't be executed."

  "Why not? Those liberals in America that I hear so much about?"

  "It's more complicated than that. The question is one of momentary politics. Right now, the governor here doesn't want to execute any prisoners, whatever they've done, because it would be awkward."

  "Especially so for the prisoner."

  "His opinion doesn't much enter into the matter."

  "I suppose not. Well, despite such leniency, Captain, I think I would like America. Perhaps I'll sneak across the border and become an illegal immigrant. I could work in McDonald's and solve crimes at night."

  "I'll sponsor you, Rodolfo."

  "Ha. My traveling there is about as likely as you coming to Mexico City for mole chicken and tequila."

  "Yes, that's true too. Though I would like the tequila."

  "Now, I'm afraid I must go clean out the rats' nest that my department has become. I may…"

  The voice faded.

  "What's that, Commander?"

  "I may have some questions of evidence. I know it's presumptuous of me, but perhaps I could impose upon you."

  "I'd be delighted to help, however I can."

  "Very good." Another chuckle. "Perhaps in a few years, if I am lucky, I can add those magic letters to my name too."

  "Magic letters?"

  "RET."

  "You? Retire, Commander?"

  "I am making a joke, Captain. Retirement is not for people like us. We will die on the job. Let's pray that it's a long time from now. Now, my friend, good-bye."

  They disconnected. Rhyme then ordered his phone to call Kathryn Dance in California. He gave her the news about the apprehension of Richard Logan. The conversation was brief. Not because he was feeling antisocial-just the contrary: He was thrilled at his victory.

  But the aftermath of the dysreflexia attack was settling on him like cold dew. He let Sachs take over the phone call, girl talk, and Rhyme asked Thom to bring him some Glenmorangie.

  "The eighteen year, if you would be so kind. Please and thank you."

  Thom poured a generous slug into the tumbler and propped it in the cup holder near his boss's mouth. Rhyme sipped through the straw. He savored the smoky scotch and then swallowed it. He felt the warmth, the comfort, though it also accentuated that damn fatigue plaguing him the past week or so. He forced himself not to think about it.

  When Sachs disconnected her call, he asked, "You'll join me, Sachs?"

  "You bet I will."

  "I feel like music," he said.

  "Jazz?"

  "Sure."

  He picked Dave Brubeck, a recording from a live concert in the sixties. The signature tune, "Take Five," came on and, with its distinctive five-four beat, the music cantered from speakers, scratchy and infectious.

  As Sachs poured the liquor and sat beside him, her eyes strayed to the evidence boards. "There's one thing we forgot about, Rhyme."

  "What?"

  "That supposed terrorist group? Justice For the Earth."

  "That's McDaniel's case now. If we'd found any evidence I'd be more concerned. But… nothing." Rhyme sipped more liquor and felt another wave of the persistent fatigue nestle around him. Still he managed a small joke: "Personally I think it was just a wrong number from the cloud zone."

  Chapter 82

  THE EARTH DAY festivities in Central Park were in full swing.

  At six-twenty on this pleasant though cool and overcast evening, an FBI agent was on the edge of the Sheep Meadow, scanning the crowd, most of which were protesting something or another. Some picnickers and some tourists. But the crowd of fifty thousand mostly just seemed pissed off about one thing or another: global warming, oil, big business, carbon dioxide, greenhouse gases.

  And methane.

  Special Agent Timothy Conradt blinked as he looked at a group of people protesting bovine flatulence. Methane from livestock apparently burned holes in the ozone layer too.

  Cow farts.

  What a crazy world.

  Conradt was sporting an undercover mustache and wore jeans and a baggy shirt, concealing his radio and weapon. His wife had ironed the wrinkles into his garments that morning, vetoing his idea that he sleep in his clothes to get that "lived-in" look.

  He was no fan of knee-jerk liberals and peop
le who'd sell the country out in the name of… well, who knew what? Complacency, Europe, globalism, socialism, cowardice.

  But one thing he had in common with these people was the environment. Conradt lived for the outdoors. Hunting, fishing, hiking. So he sympathized.

  He was scanning the crowds carefully because even though the perp known as the Watchmaker had been collared, ASAC Tucker McDaniel still was sure that that group Justice For the Earth was going to try something. The SIGINT hits were compelling, even nontech Conradt had to admit. Justice For the Earth. Or, as the agents were referring to it now, per McDaniel's instruction, JFTE, pronounced "Juf-tee."

  Teams of agents and NYPD cops were deployed throughout the city, covering the convention center near the Hudson River, a parade downtown in Battery Park and this gathering in Central Park.

  McDaniel's theory was that they'd misread the connection among Richard Logan, Algonquin Consolidated Power and JFTE, but it was likely that the group could have formed an alliance with, possibly, an Islamic fundamentalist cell.

  A symbiotic construct.

  A phrase that would give the agents plenty of ammunition for the next few months when they were out for drinks.

  Conradt's own feeling, from years on the street, was that JFTE may have existed but it was just a bunch of cranks, of no threat to anybody. He strolled around casually, but all the while he was looking for people who fit the profile. Watching where their arms were in relation to their bodies, watching for certain types of backpacks, watching for a gait that might reveal if they were carrying a weapon or an IED. Watching for pale jaws that suggested a newly shaved beard, or a woman's absent touch to her hair, possibly indicating her ill ease at being in public without a hijab for the first time since she'd reached adolescence.

  And always: watching the eyes.

  So far Conradt had seen some devout eyes and oblivious eyes and curious eyes.

  But none that suggested they were in the head of a man or woman who wanted to murder a large number of people in the name of a deity. Or in the name of whales or trees or spotted owls. He circulated for a while and finally eased up beside his partner, an unsmiling thirty-five-year-old, dressed in a long peasant skirt and a blouse as baggy and concealing as Conradt's shirt.