"I'm sorry. I think I was being difficult yesterday. But I honestly didn't believe that one of my employees would do this."
"I understand," McDaniel said. "At least we've got the name now. If we're lucky we'll stop him before more people get hurt."
As they disconnected, Rhyme was shouting, "Mel, you get that? Uptown? Morningside Heights, Harlem. Museum, sculptor, whatever. Now, find me a possible target!" Rhyme then called the temporary head of the Crime Scene Unit in Queens--the man with his former job--and asked him to send a team to the substation closed because of the arson. "And have them bring back whatever they find, stat!"
"Got a possibility!" Cooper called, tilting his head away from the phone. "Columbia University. One of the biggest lava and igneous rock collections in the country."
Rhyme turned to Sachs. She nodded. "I can be there in ten minutes."
They were both glancing at the digital clock on Rhyme's computer screen.
The time was 11:29.
Chapter 31
AMELIA SACHS WAS on the Columbia University campus, Morningside Heights, in northern Manhattan.
She had just left the Earth and Environmental Science Department office, where a helpful receptionist had said, "We don't have a volcano exhibit, as such, but we have hundreds of samples of volcanic ash, lava and other igneous rock. Whenever some undergrads come back from a field project, there's dust all over the place."
"I'm here, Rhyme," she said into the mike and told him what she'd learned about the volcanic ash.
He was saying, "I've been talking to Andi Jessen again. The transmission line goes underground basically all the way from Fifth Avenue to the Hudson. It roughly follows a Hundred and Sixteen Street. But the lava dust means the arc is rigged somewhere near the campus. What's around there, Sachs?"
"Just classrooms, mostly. Administration."
"The target could be any of them."
Sachs was looking from right to left. A clear, cool spring day, students meandering or jogging. Sitting on the grass, the library steps. "I don't see a lot of likely targets, though, Rhyme. The school's old, mostly stone and wood, it looks like. No steel or wires or anything like that. I don't know how he could rig a large trap here to hurt a significant number of people."
Then Rhyme asked, "Which way is the wind blowing?"
Sachs considered this. "To the east and northeast, it looks like."
"Logically, what would you think? Dust wouldn't blow that far. Maybe a few blocks."
"I'd think. That'd put him in Morningside Park."
Rhyme told her, "I'll call Andi Jessen or somebody at Algonquin and find out where the transmission lines are under the park. And, Sachs?"
"What?"
He hesitated. She guessed--no, knew--that he was going to tell her to be careful. But that was an unnecessary comment.
"Nothing," he said.
And disconnected abruptly.
Amelia Sachs walked out one of the main gates in the direction the wind was blowing. She crossed Amsterdam and headed down a street in Morningside Heights east of the campus, toward dun-shaded apartments and dark row houses, solidly built of granite and brick.
When her phone trilled she glanced at caller ID. "Rhyme. What do you have?"
&nb
sp; "I just talked to Andi. She said the transmission line jogs north around a Hundred Seventeenth then runs west under the park."
"I'm just about there, Rhyme. I don't see . . . oh, no."
"What, Sachs?"