Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

Rhyme was tech enough to know that this meant the answer to his question was no.

"Thanks, Rodney. How do you get any work done with that music?"

The man chuckled. "Call me anytime."

The raucous hammering disappeared with the disconnecting click.

Cooper too was on the phone. He hung up and said, "I've found somebody in Materials Analysis at HQ. She's got a geology background. She knows a lot of the schools that have regular exhibits for the public. She's checking on volcanic ash and lava."

Pulaski, poring over the door, squinted. "Got something here, I think."

He pointed to a portion of the door near the top latch. "It looks like he wiped it off." He grabbed the magnifying glass. "And there's a burr of metal. Sharp… I think he cut himself and bled."

"Really?" Rhyme was excited. There's nothing like DNA in forensic work.

Sellitto said, "But if he cleaned it off, does it still do us any good?"

Before Rhyme could offer anything, Pulaski, still hunched over his find, mused, "But what would he have to clean it off with? Maybe spit. That's as good as blood."

This was going to have been Rhyme's conclusion. "Use the ALS."

Alternative light sources can reveal bodily fluids like traces of saliva, semen and sweat, all of which contain DNA.

All law enforcement agencies were now taking samples of DNA of suspects in certain types of offenses-sex crimes, for instance-and many were going further than that. If their UNSUB had committed a swabbable offense, he'd be in the Combined DNA Index System database, CODIS.

A moment later Pulaski, wearing goggles, paused the wand over a portion of the access door where he'd spotted the smear. There was a tiny yellowish glow. He called, "Yessir, got something. Not much."

"Rookie, you know how many cells are in the human body?"

"Well… no, I don't."

"Over three trillion."

"That's a lot of-"

"And do you know how many are needed for a successful DNA sample?"

He said, "According to your book, Lincoln, about a hundred."

Rhyme lifted an eyebrow. "Impressive." Then he added, "You think you have a hundred cells there in that massive smear?"

"Probably, I would think."

"You sure do. Sachs, looks like your swimming expedition wasn't in vain. If the battery had blown, it would have destroyed the sample. Okay, Mel, show him how to collect it."

Pulaski ceded the tricky task to Cooper.

"STR?" Rhyme asked the tech. "Or is the sample degraded?"

The polymerase chain reaction short tandem repeat method was the standard DNA test in criminal cases. It was fast and the most reliable system, with at least a billion to one accuracy. It could also determine the sex of the person from whom the sample came. But while the sample could be very small it had to be in good shape. If it had been damaged by the water or heat in the substation, a different test-mitochondrial DNA-would have to be used, a technique that took longer.

"I think it'll be fine." The tech collected the DNA and called the lab for pickup. "I know-ASAP," he told Rhyme just as the criminalist had been about to crack the whip.

"And spare no expense."

"That coming out of your fee, Linc?" Sellitto grumbled.

"I give you my best customer discount, Lon. And a good find, Pulaski."

"Thanks, I-"

Having delivered enough compliments for the time being, Rhyme moved on, "What about the trace from the inside of the door, Mel? You know, we're not moving very quickly here."

Cooper took the samples and looked them over on the examining sheet or under the microscope. "Nothing that doesn't match the samplars and substrata… except this." It was a tiny pink dot.

"GC it," Rhyme ordered.

A short time later Mel was reading results from the gas chromatograph, the mass spectrometer and several other analyses. "We've got an acidic pH-about two-and citric acid and sucrose. Then… well, I'll put it up on the screen."

The words appeared: Quercetin 3-O-rutinoside-7-O-glucoside and chrysoeriol 6,8-di-C-glucoside (stellarin-2).

"Fine," Rhyme said impatiently. "Fruit juice. With that pH, it's probably lemon."

Pulaski couldn't help but laugh. "How did you know that? I'm sorry, how did you know?"

"You only get out of a task what you bring to it, Rookie. Do your homework! Remember that." He turned back to Cooper.

"Then vegetable oil of some sort, lots of salt and some compound that eludes me completely."

"Made up of what?"

"It's protein rich. The amino acids are arginine, histidine, isoleucine, lysine and methionine. Also, plenty of lipids, mostly cholesterol and lecithin, then vitamin A, vitamins B2, B6, B12, niacin, pantothenic acid and folic acid. Large amounts of calcium, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium."

"Tasty," Rhyme said.

Cooper was nodding. "It's food, sure. But what?"

Though his sensations of taste hadn't changed after the accident, food was to Lincoln Rhyme essentially fuel and he didn't get much pleasure out of it, unlike, of course, whisky.

"Thom?" There was no response so he took a deep breath. Before he could call again, the aide stuck his head in the door.

"Everything okay?"

"Why do you keep asking that?"

"What do you want?"

"Lemon juice, vegetable oil and egg."

"You're hungry?"

"No, no, no. What would those ingredients be found in?"

"Mayonnaise."

Rhyme lifted an eye to Cooper, who shook his head. "Lumpy and kind of pinkish."

The aide reconsidered. "Then I'd go with taramasalata."

"What? Is that a restaurant?"

Thom laughed. "It's a Greek appetizer. A spread."

"Caviar, right? You eat it with bread."

Thom replied to Sachs, "Well, it is fish eggs, but cod, not sturgeon. So it's not technically caviar."

Rhyme was giving a nod. "Ah, the elevated saline. Fish. Sure. Is it common?"

"In Greek restaurants and grocery stores and delis."

"Is there anyplace more common than others? A Greek area of the city?"

"Queens," Pulaski said, who lived in the borough. "Astoria. Lots of Greek restaurants there."

"Can I get back now?" Thom asked.

"Yes, yes, yes…"

"Thanks," Sachs called.

The aide waved a gloved hand, Playtex yellow, and disappeared.

Sellitto asked, "Maybe he's been staking out someplace in Queens for the next attack."

Rhyme shrugged, one of the few gestures he could still perform. He reflected: The perp would have to prepare the location, that was true. Still, he was leaning in a different direction.

Sachs caught his eye. "You're thinking, Algonquin's headquarters're in Astoria, right?"

"Exactly. And everything's pointing to it being an inside job." He asked, "Who's in charge of the company?"

Ron Pulaski said he'd had a conversation with the workers outside the substation. "They mentioned the president and CEO. The name's Jessen. Andy Jessen. Everybody seemed a little afraid of him."

Rhyme kept his eyes on the charts for a moment and then said, "Sachs, how'd you like to go for a drive in your fancy new wheels?"

"You bet." She called, and arranged with the CEO's assistant for a meeting in a half hour.

It was then that Sellitto's cell rang. He pulled it out and took a look at caller ID. "Algonquin." He hit a button. "Detective Sellitto." Rhyme noticed his face went still as he listened. Then he said, "You're sure?… Okay. Who'd have access?… Thanks." He disconnected. "Son of a bitch."

"What?"

"That was the supply division supervisor. He said one of the Algonquin warehouses in Harlem was burglarized last week. Hundred and eighteen Street. They thought it was an employee pilfering. Perp used a key. It wasn't broken into."

Pulaski asked, "And whoever it was stole the cable?"

Sellitto nodded. "And those split bolts."

But Rhyme could see another message in the detective's round face. "How much?" he asked, his voice a whisper. "How much wire did he steal?"