Nearby was Bo Haumann and one of the ESU tactical teams. The threat assessment was low, but low wasn’t nonexistent.
Tamblyn’s driver checked out too. He was a former NYPD officer, who’d tripled his salary — and maybe extended his life span — by going private. He had no record and the concealed-carry for his weapon was in order.
“We found evidence that links you to the first crane collapse.”
“Well, obviously it would. I was there.” He gave a breathy laugh. “You even saw me. But you don’t remember.”
“No, I do.”
Tamblyn tilted his head slightly. “What evidence exactly? I’m curious.”
“Trace evidence.” Give your subjects something that keeps them talking, Sachs thought, but never anything they can use.
He frowned more wrinkles into a wrinkled face. “Ah. You vacuumed up, or whatever you do, dirt outside my car. No, all the big developer’s cars. Who else, I wonder. Liebermann? Frost? Bahrani? And assumed one of us hired a hit man with a hacksaw to tip cranes over for fun and profit. A cruiser spotted this.” A nod at the Mercedes. “And called it in. Do you say, ‘Calling it in’?” He nodded broadly. “I know. It was the acid! In the news. That’s the trace. Bad stuff. I steered clear.”
She wished she had, though the lungs were clearly on the mend.
“Okay, sure I was at the collapse on Eighty-Ninth Street. And the hospital.” A nod north. “And the Bingham construction site where the elevator dropped sixty feet and broke a workman’s back. I was at the Richard Henderson development on the Hudson. The big glass tower? Construction waste wasn’t secured. A ton of scrap lumber was blown over the side. It fell six hundred feet and hit three workers at a hundred miles an hour. One was killed. Another lost an arm.”
He nodded to his cell phone, which she’d removed from his overcoat and placed on the hood of his car. “I video the sites, then I write reports on how the accidents could’ve been prevented. Laborers’ International, Brotherhood of Carpenters, Plumbing and Pipefitting, Sheet Metal, Painters and Allied Trades... All the unions report incidents to me. I play detective.” He cut his gaze toward the shield on her belt, almost as if he wished he had one.
“You’re a crusading developer, saving workers’ lives.”
He liked the phrase.
“I meet regularly with the mayor and the director of safety at Structures and Engineering.”
Explaining why he’d logged in there.
The man had removed the odd hat and overcoat. They appeared grimy, but that was all part of the stage acting, it seemed. The dirt and grease were spray paint. While she’d originally expected an unpleasant odor, all she detected was a faint lavender scent. Maybe shampoo, though Tamblyn seemed like a cologne kind of guy.
“Why the disguise?”
“I’m like a restaurant reviewer. The companies and developers know me. If they were to see me and there’s unsafe conditions, they’d cover them up. Or manhandle me off the site. Sometimes I’m a tourist, sometimes a street musician. Homeless is best. I’m invisible.” He scoffed. “I got right behind you, didn’t I? If I’d been the man behind the collapse, you’d be dead.”
Couldn’t argue with him there.
“And when you act insane, they just want you to go away.” He told her an officer had just detained him at the hospital scene. But once he started to ramble, she got tired of him pretty fast and sent him along.
“Frederick,” he said, looking to his driver. “Water, towels.” He turned back to her and she nodded okay.
The driver walked to the back of the vehicle and removed the requested items from the trunk, which Sachs and ESU had already cleared. He handed his boss the bottle and the cloth towels — which looked sumptuous. She’d never seen towels that thick.
Tamblyn rinsed the dirt off his hands. The water splashed and flew. He didn’t care who or what got wet. Sachs stepped back. When he was done, he dried, and then began removing the crud from beneath his nails with a file portion of a pair of clippers. “Dirty nails. You want somebody to think you’re an unfortunate soul, if you ever go undercover, you need dirty nails.”
She didn’t respond, but decided it was not bad advice.
He studiously cleaned each fingertip, rolling the residue into tiny balls and dropping them on the sidewalk. “Are you believing me? Ah, your face says not exactly... All right. Call this number.”
He recited one and she dialed. The line rang once and was picked up. “Hello?” A man’s impatient voice.
Sachs asked, “Who is this?”
“The fuck. Who is this and how did you get this number?”
“Detective Amelia Sachs, NYPD. I’m with Willis Tamblyn. Who am I speaking to?”
“Tony Harrison.”
The mayor of New York.
“Is Willis all right?”
“Yes. Let me call you on the City Hall line,” she said.
“Are you—?”
She disconnected and called the main number and in ten seconds was speaking to the man once again.
He grumbled, “Your conspiracy bones satisfied, and my authenticity established, Detective Sachs?”
“Yes.” Maybe a “sir” might be in order. She wasn’t in the mood.
“Mr. Tamblyn has been at several of the crime scenes involving the crane collapses.”
“I know. That’s what he does. Anything more?”
“No. I—”
The line went dead.
She said, “The collapses were intentional. How can you guard against that?”
He shrugged. “Wind happens. Metal failure happens. Terrorists happen. Contractors have to be ready for anything. Look at what we learned on Eighty-Ninth. The operator had a rope in the cab. A hundred dollars’ worth of rope saved his life. That went into my report. And the hospital? I’m going to recommend the city doesn’t approve freestanding cranes. They have to be attached to the structure they’re building.”
She asked, “Did you see anyone at either of the sites who gave you the impression they were involved?”
“No. Just a bunch of jackals who wanted selfies at a disaster. Now, can I go?”
Her phone buzzed.
She told Tamblyn, “Not yet.” Then, to the phone: “Rhyme. I’ve got him. Only, it’s not quite what we thought.” She explained about Tamblyn’s mission, and the mayor’s confirmation.
“Homeless...” Rhyme said. “I saw somebody earlier, on one of the videos. Let me check something... Ah, yes, it’s Tamblyn. That’s what he was holding, a cell phone.” He fell silent. “Put him on speaker.”
She tapped the button and moved the unit closer to Tamblyn. She said, “It’s Lincoln Rhyme. He’s—”
The developer said, “I know who he is... Mr. Rhyme.”
“Mr. Tamblyn. We could use your help. Let me run a few ideas by you and see what you think.”
“I suppose. If it’s urgent. I have an engagement.” And started on the nails of his right hand.
Rhyme said, “Urgent, yes. We just checked the countdown clock. It’s been reset. Only this time whoever’s behind it has upped the deadline. Another crane comes down in just a few hours.”
47
“Senator, four o’clock.”
Not a reference to time.
Position of threat.
The two men were in Lower Manhattan, east of Wall Street.
A glance to his right and behind.
He noted a fortyish man in jeans, dark baseball cap and a sweatshirt, no logo, navy blue. The kind favored by street thieves. Toss-aways, they were called. You mug somebody, run and throw away what you were wearing to fool those searching for you.
“Why’s it a threat, you think?”
Peter, the tall, broad “personal security specialist,” replied, “Paused when we waited for the light, made a call that might not have been a call. It looked fake.” The sun flared off Peter’s naked scalp.