"I do. When?"
"Noon."
Brent further wrinkled his wrinkled face. "Five."
"Three?"
"Okay."
Dellray was about to whisper, "Please," which he didn't think he'd ever said to a CI. He canned the desperation but had a tough time keeping his eyes off the attache case, whose contents might just be the ashes of his career. And, for that matter, his entire life. An image of his son's ebullient face rose. He forced it away.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Fred." Brent smiled and nodded a farewell. The streetlight glinted off his oversized glasses and then he was gone.
Chapter 24
"THAT'S SACHS."
The deep bubble of a car engine sounded outside the window and fell to silence.
Rhyme was speaking to Tucker McDaniel and Lon Sellitto, both of whom had arrived not long before--independently--around the time the Death Doctor had exited so abruptly.
Sachs would be throwing the NYPD Official Business placard on the dash and heading toward the house. And, yes, a moment later the door opened and her footsteps, sp
aced far apart because of her long legs, and because of the urgency she wore like her weapon, resounded on the floor.
She nodded to those present and spent a second longer examining Rhyme. He noted the expression: tenderness blended with the clinical eye typical of those in relationships with the severely disabled. She'd studied quadriplegia more than he had, she could handle all the tasks involved in his intimate, day-to-day routine, and did occasionally. Rhyme was, at first, embarrassed by this but when she pointed out, with humor and maybe a little flirtation, "How's it different from any other old married couple, Rhyme?" he'd been brought up short. "Good point" was his only response.
Which didn't mean her doting, like anyone else's, didn't rankle occasionally and he glanced at her once and then turned to the evidence charts.
Sachs looked around. "Where's the award?"
"There was an element of misrepresentation involved."
"What do you mean?"
He explained to her about Dr. Kopeski's bait and switch.
"No!"
Rhyme nodded. "No paperweight."
"You threw him out?"
"That was Thom. And a very fine job he did of it. But I don't want to talk about that now. We have work to do." He glanced at her shoulder bag. "So what do we have?"
Pulling several large files out, she said, "Got the list of people who had access to the Algonquin computer pass codes. And their resumes and employee files."
"What about disgruntled workers? Mental problems?"
"None that're relevant."
She gave more details of her meeting with Andi Jessen: There was no record of employees in the steam tunnel work area near the substation on Fifty-seventh Street. There had been no obvious terrorist threats but an associate was looking into the possibility. "Now, I spoke to somebody who works in the Special Projects Division--that's alternative energy, basically. Charlie Sommers. Good guy. He gave me the profile of the sort of person who could rig an arc flash. A master electrician, military electrician, a power company lineman or troubleman--"
"Now that's a job description for you," Sellitto remarked.
"It's really troubleshooter, a foreman basically. You need on-the-job experience to make one of these arc flashes happen. You can't just look it up on the Internet."
Rhyme nodded at the whiteboard and Sachs wrote her summary. She added, "As for the computer, you'd need to have classroom training or a fair amount of training on the job. That's pretty tricky too." She explained about the SCADA and EMP programs that the UNSUB would have to be competent in.