Chemistry was never far from the mind of Lincoln Rhyme.
Cooper called through the intercom, “So, too many possibilities to figure out what he’s using it for.”
“Hm,” was Rhyme’s confirmation.
Sachs asked, “Used something made out of silicone to store acid?”
“Probably not. HF’ll degrade it. And if this is on the doorknob, it was a gel or liquid.”
Had she risked her life for nothing? Rhyme was wondering.
Yet he kept in mind what he told his classes: a finding of flour alone doesn’t tell you much. But traces of yeast, egg yolk, milk and salt could lead you to a murderous baker.
And here? What else had they discovered that might help narrow the search? He scanned the whiteboards. And saw no answers.
The lab phone buzzed.
The caller was Dellray on his mobile.
“Fred.”
A British voice responded. “Unfurled an interesting fact here, Lincoln. Quite interesting.”
Who the hell was this?
“Is that you?”
“Undercover. I’m Sir Percy Thompson, a London casino owner and playboy. If they still have playboys. I need to stay in character. Accent’s a bit tricky. I mean dodgy. I’m aiming for Covent Garden.”
“What’s so interesting?”
Fred Dellray was not a man to be rushed, but he chopped off some backstory and subplotting. “Has to do with your drones. No reports since the hospital. But have something interesting about the prior sightings.”
Rhyme recalled. Two flights were logged, but they had not been near any construction sites. “Where were they again?”
The FBI agent told him: “The four hundred block of Towson Street, Brooklyn. Then the office building, 556 Hadley, Manhattan. I was wondering what kind of family relationships the two flights shared. Might they be siblings? Cousins?”
The typical Dellray jargon was utterly absent. It was disorienting. Sachs had made him watch a few episodes of a show called Downton Abbey (not bad, he’d assessed), and Dellray sounded exactly like one of the characters.
He continued, “I found nothing obvious to me. But I’ve been playing with a new toy we have here. It’s called ORDA, which people might call an acronym, but we know—”
“It’s only an acronym if it spells a real word.”
“Quite. This one stands for Obscure Relationship Data Analysis.”
“Familiar with it. Used it myself.”
“You, the emperor of evidence?”
Rhyme had originally been skeptical of the software, which processed trillions of bits of data taken from two or more things — maybe places, people, events — that seemed to have nothing in common. But the software was capable of finding the most ethereal connections.
“And?” Rhyme asked.
“And the electronic brain came back with the aforementioned interesting thing. A certain individual lives on the block that was strafed in Brooklyn. And his office is on the block it flew by in the city.”
Rhyme and Sachs eyed each other.
He asked, “And who is it?”
“This would seem to be quite the day for your civics lessons, Lincoln...”
55
It was crazy, what he was doing.
Breaching the barbed-wire fence of party affiliation and voting for the president’s infrastructure bill.
Doing good...
As Senator Edward Talese and Peter, his bodyguard, were walking to a media interview, he was speculating what would happen to him when he voiced the vote on the Senate floor.
Goodbye to the good committee assignments.
Dogcatcher...
He had to smile.
Thinking of his affection for Buttercup, all six pounds and three ounces of her.
They walked for another half block and Talese realized he was hungry. “We’ll stop at Ross’s deli.”
“Yessir. Good.”
At times of stress, what was better than a “mile-high” pastrami sandwich, slammed down on the counter in front of you by surly carvers, who only reluctantly would hand over an extra pickle as if you were a bank robber demanding small bills?
Talese loved the place.
They walked in silence for a time, dodging the pedestrians and traffic downtown, similar to their walk in the opposite direction not long ago. Though there was one difference. The radiant sunlight was now gone, obscured by a layer of imposing clouds.
He was looking forward to the interview, which would probably focus on his clean water legislation. And with that a burst of pure happiness within him — he now had Boyd’s support. The bill would surely pass. Other topics would come up, of course, but at this stage of his career, so many years of elected office under his belt, so many days of political battle, he was confident he could answer or evade any question aimed at him by the probing, but easily anticipated, journalists.
“No sign, sir.”
Peter would be referring to the man in the throwaway attire they’d seen earlier. Probably just another citizen on the streets of Manhattan. One of millions. A worker, a professor, a tourist.
But then it occurred to him that if anyone knew of his conversation with the president and was inclined to make sure that he did not cast the vote for Boyd’s bill, someone with issues with a huge infrastructure spending bill, that individual might just resort to efforts a lot more serious than lobbying.
If he died, the governor would appoint a new senator to finish out his term, and that man or woman would absolutely not support the president’s plan.
Just then he happened to notice someone across the square looking his way. He was big and dark-complected. Not of mixed race, it seemed, but Anglo with olive-tinted skin.
Looking down at his phone, he strode forward along a route that would soon intercept the two men.
His suit jacket was a touch too large, and the senator wondered if the man was armed.
“Peter.”
“I made him too, sir.”
“He alone?”
“Can’t tell. On the street, yes. But somebody else in a building? Don’t know.”
Too many windows for a shooter to fire from.
Was he a colleague of the man who had followed him earlier?
And, if he was, and Talese was their target, what would their mission be here in public?
Although, thinking back to some of those cases he’d run as a prosecutor, it was astonishing how many professional killers had gunned down someone in the middle of a crowded street and even the most seemingly cooperative witnesses saw nothing helpful.
The large man was getting closer and ignoring Talese and his guard — or so it seemed. His eyes taking in the area, the people, the windows, the cars...
Talese felt his heart thud at triple the usual pace.
He slowed.
And then a sharp voice sounded behind him.
“Senator?”
Talese turned fast.
Was this it? A bullet?
Peter spun about too, his hand inside his jacket.
But the man who approached wore a gold shield on his belt.
NYPD detective.
Talese’s face tightened into a querying look. He glanced around, noting that the man on the intersecting path was getting closer yet.
“Detective, there’s—” Talese began.
But the cop cut him off, saying, with irritation, “Your phone’s off.”