“What’s it look like?”
“Silver frame, four motors. Small, about a foot square. Foot and a half maybe.”
Sellitto’s phone was in his hand. He placed a call to NYPD Dispatch, gave his name and badge number and reported a possible 243 at Rhyme’s address.
It meant, in police codes, a threat involving a dangerous weapon.
“All the doors and windows locked?”
Thom assured, “They are.”
Rhyme said, “First floor windows’re bulletproof. But there’re a half-dozen in the back that aren’t.”
“Mel, you armed?”
“I am.”
Sellitto ordered, “Get out here and hang with Lincoln.”
Cooper did, stepping from the lab, pulling off the protective gear and checking his pistol, which he probably hadn’t fired in a year or two.
Sellitto was out the door, just as two RMPs — marked squad cars — screeched up in front of the house.
Rhyme said to Cooper, “Put the security cameras on the big screen.”
A few computer commands later, the men were gazing at six different angles of the front and back of the residence. Outside, Sellitto and the officers were looking up and pointing. The detective pulled out his phone and made a call.
Rhyme’s phone hummed and he instructed it to answer on speaker.
“Lon, what does the drone look like?”
“Might have a payload in the center, but that could also just be the camera and battery. I don’t know. Okay, it’s moved. It’s hovering over your place... Hold on... It’s going toward the chimney. Yeah, it’s right above it. IED, I’m guessing.”
Thom said, “It’s not going to get very far. The chimney’s sealed up, about a foot from the top. The concrete goes all the way to the cellar.”
“Hold on. It’s like he’s just seen that he can’t drop anything into it... Yeah, it’s turning and banking. It’s leaving, heading into the park.” He turned and gazed into the greenery. “Whoever’s running it’s got to be here somewhere.” His voice grew distant as he turned to the uniforms. “Get into the park, see if you can find it and the operator. This’s part of a hit on Lincoln Rhyme.”
“Jesus,” was one response.
“You stay with me,” Sellitto told the largest of the officers. “Case the drone’s, you know, a diversion. We’re gonna check the perimeter.”
“Sure thing, Detective.”
He disconnected and, eyes on the high-def monitor, Rhyme watched three of the uniformed officers head into the park, while Sellitto and the other patrolman made the rounds of the town house, front and back. They returned to Central Park West and Sellitto left the uniform stationed by the front door and entered, double locking the door behind him.
He shrugged. “Coincidence?”
“No,” Rhyme announced.
Cooper said, “I agree. Anybody who owns drones knows the rules. A hobbyist wouldn’t fly in Manhattan. Serious offense.”
Sellitto took another call and had a brief conversation. It concluded with: “Yeah, okay. Get a dive team — and tell ’em it could be explosive.” He disconnected.
“Ended up in the pond?” Rhyme asked.
“Yeah. Looked like it ran out of battery. Just slowed up and dropped. They couldn’t find anybody with a controller.”
“The controller,” Cooper said, “is a cell phone. It’s all you need — not like a big box with an antenna.”
Drone, Rhyme reflected. Interesting choice. Before he could speculate further on the craft, he looked to Sellitto, whose phone was humming yet again. He answered, “Sellitto... No shit?... He get a description?... Okay. Thanks.”
After disconnecting, he turned to the others.
“That was a gold shield named Carruthers. Works Fraud. They got a report somebody was going through the trash outside your building earlier today. Dressed too good to be a homeless guy. He opened up some bags and took out some slips of paper. Call ended up on his desk because, you know, dumpster diving? Looking through trash for credit card numbers, social security, stuff like that. When he heard about your situation, he thought he better call.”
Rhyme said slowly, “Okay. Let’s say the diver was Person Y — the hit man hired by Person X. What would he be after? He wants me dead. He doesn’t want to steal my identity.”
His eyes turned to Thom. He whispered, “Receipts! He could find out where you shop for groceries and what you buy.”
The aide whispered, “Evans Market. Where I just was.”
Sellitto asked, “Did you use a cart when you shopped?”
“Yes.”
Rhyme said, “And at some point you must’ve left it unattended.”
“Never for more than a minute or so, but I did, yes.”
Rhyme said, “The drone was a distraction. We concentrate on that and he slips something into my food. Injection. What did you buy?”
“Apples, lemons, tomatoes, asparagus, steaks, chicken. Jars of pasta sauce, cheese. Wine.”
Rhyme said, “He’d target fresh fruits or vegetables. Meat you might freeze. We’d have to eat the produce now. Eliminate the lemons — I wouldn’t ingest enough toxin to cause much harm. Asparagus? No. Too thin to hold much poison. Apples would be too dense. Tomatoes’d be perfect. Mel, full protective gear and go get them. I want every centimeter of the skin examined. The compound scope. Four power.”
Cooper did as instructed and was soon rotating the large red sphere slowly under the microscope’s lens.
In the non-sterile portion of the parlor, Rhyme, Sellitto and Thom were staring at the high-definition monitor.
Suddenly, Cooper stopped the orbit. “There, upper left.”
“That’s it, right.” Rhyme was nodding.
They were looking at a pinprick in the skin.
“Put it in a protective container, seal it.”
The tech did so.
“Go over the others too.”
Ten minutes of further examination revealed that it was only the one tomato that had been tainted.
“Clever son of a bitch,” Sellitto muttered. “Had us focused on the drone and he slipped poison in right under our noses.”
Rhyme first heard then, on the monitor, saw Sachs’s red Ford Torino pull up in front of the house. She climbed from the sleek car, decades-old, and went to the trunk, from which she collected a box of evidence.
She carried the carton to the front door, which Thom opened for her.
“Looks impressive,” she said, eyeing the security scanners. “Are they doing any good?”
Rhyme laughed. “Actually, no. Didn’t stop the attempted poisoning or the aerial bomb attack.”
“I’m sorry?” She was frowning.
Rhyme explained about the drone and the injected tomato.
“Not your average criminal mind.”
Sellitto nodded to the sensors. “We’ll have to run everything through.”
“You think Velasquez’s involved? One of his crew is Person Y?”
“Ninety-nine percent no,” Sellitto said. “And our boy’s had his shot. He missed and I’ll bet he’s headed out of town. But” — a nod at the scanners — “let’s just stay on the safe side until we know for sure.”
After donning gloves, Sellitto opened each evidence bag and ran them through the machines.
Rhyme asked Sachs what had happened in Spanish Harlem.
“A blue-and-white was responding to a possible drug deal. The uniforms roll up and spot this guy looking suspicious, walking away from Velasquez’s club. He’s carrying a paper grocery bag. He sees the blue-and-white, panics. Tosses the bag and ditches his burner. He took off. Still haven’t found him.”
Sellitto said, “We’re lucky, we’ll get Velasquez’s prints or DNA on the happy powder bag.”
Rhyme asked, “What was the substance?”
“Haven’t tested it yet. Coke or smack. About a half key.”
There was enough white powder in the baggie to put its owner away for thirty years. Rhyme wondered if it could be traced to Velasquez. He would do everything he could to find out.