Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

"Someday, man will harness the rise and fall of the tides, imprison the power of the sun, and release atomic power." -THOMAS ALVA EDISON, ON THE FUTURE

Low morning light poured into the townhouse. Lincoln Rhyme blinked and maneuvered out of the blinding stream as he steered his Storm Arrow wheelchair out of the small elevator that connected his bedroom with the lab below.

Sachs, Mel Cooper and Lon Sellitto had assembled an hour earlier.

Sellitto was on the phone and said, "Okay, got it." He crossed through another name. He hung up. Rhyme couldn't tell if he'd changed clothes. Maybe he'd slept in the den or downstairs bedroom. Cooper had been home, at least for a time. And Sachs had slept beside Rhyme-for a portion of the night. She was up at five-thirty to keep reviewing employee files and narrowing the list of suspects.

"Where are we?" Rhyme now asked.

Sellitto muttered, "Just talked to McDaniel. They've got six and we've got six."

"You mean we're down to twelve suspects? Let's-"

"Uhm, no, Linc. We've eliminated twelve."

Sachs said, "The problem is that a lot of the employees on the list are senior. They didn't put their early careers on their resumes or all of the continuing education computer courses. We have to do a lot of digging to find out if they had the skill to manipulate the grid and rig the device."

"Where the hell's the DNA?" Rhyme snapped.

"Shouldn't be long," Cooper said. "They're expediting it."

"Expediting," was Rhyme's sour, muttered response. The new tests generally could be done in a day or two, unlike the old RFPL tests, which could take a week. He didn't understand why the results weren't back already.

"And nothing more about Justice For?"

Sellitto said, "Our people've been through all their files. McDaniel's too. And Homeland Security and ATF and Interpol. Nothing on them or Rahman. Zip. Fucking creepy, that cloud zone thing. Sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel."

Rhyme started to call the lab running the DNA analysis but just as he flicked a finger to the touchpad to make a call, the phone buzzed. He lifted an eyebrow and instantly hit ANSWER CALL.

"Kathryn. Morning. You're up early." It was 5 a.m. in California.

"A bit."

"Anything more?"

"Logan was spotted again-near where he'd been seen before. Now, I just talked to Arturo Diaz."

The law enforcer was up early too. A good sign.

"His boss is on the case now. The one I mentioned. Rodolfo Luna."

Luna was, it turned out, very senior indeed: the second in command of the Mexican Ministerial Federal Police, the equivalent of the FBI. Though burdened with the overwhelming task of running drug enforcement operations-and rooting out corruption in government agencies themselves-Luna had eagerly taken over the chance to apprehend the Watchmaker, Dance explained. A threat of another killing in Mexico wasn't much news, and hardly required someone as high up as Luna, but he was ambitious and he'd be thinking that his cooperation with the NYPD would pay dividends with Mexico's tenuous allies to the north.

"He's larger than life. Drives around in his own Lexus SUV, carries two guns… a real cowboy sort."

"But is he honest?"

"Arturo was telling me that he plays the system but, yes, he's honest enough. And he's good. He's a twenty-year veteran and sometimes goes into the field himself to work a case. He even collects evidence on his own."

Rhyme was impressed. He'd done the same when he was an active captain on the force and working as head of Investigation Resources. He remembered many times when a young technician was startled to turn around at the sound of a voice and see his boss's boss's boss holding a pair of tweezers in gloved hands as he examined a fiber or hair.

"He's made a name for himself cracking down on economic crimes and human trafficking and terrorism. Put some big people behind bars."

"And he's still alive," Rhyme said. He wasn't being flippant. The head of the Mexico City police force had been assassinated not long ago.

"He does have a huge security detail," Dance explained. Then added, "He'd like to talk to you."

"Give me the number."

Dance did. Slowly. She'd met Rhyme and knew about his disability. He moved his right index finger over the special touchpad and typed the numbers. They appeared on the flat screen in front of him.

She then said that the DEA was continuing its interview with the man who'd delivered a package to Logan. "He's lying when he says he doesn't know what was inside. I watched the video and gave the agents some advice on how to handle the interrogation. The worker would've thought drugs or cash and taken a fast look. The fact he didn't steal it means that it wasn't those two things. They're about to start with him again."

Rhyme thanked her.

"Oh, one thing?"

"Yes?"

Dance gave him a URL of a website. This too Rhyme slowly typed into his browser.

"Go to that site. I thought you'd like to see Rodolfo. I think it's easier to understand someone when you can picture them."

Rhyme didn't know if that was the case or not. In his line of work, he tended not to see many people at all. The victims were usually dead and the ones who'd killed them were long gone by the time he got involved. Given his druthers he'd rather not see anyone.

After disconnecting, though, he called the site up. It was a Mexican newspaper story in Spanish about a huge drug bust, Rhyme deduced. The officer in charge was Rodolfo Luna. The photo accompanying the story showed a large man surrounded by fellow federal policemen. Some wore black ski masks to hide their identities, others had the grim, vigilant look of people whose jobs turned them into marked men.

Luna was a broad-faced, dark-complexioned man. He wore a military cap but it seemed that he had a shaved head underneath. His olive drab uniform was more military than police and he was decked out with plenty of shiny gingerbread on the chest. He had a bushy black mustache, surrounded by jowl lines. Frowning with an intimidating visage, he was holding a cigarette and pointing toward something to the left of the scene.

Rhyme placed the call to Mexico City, again using the touchpad. He could have used the voice recognition system, but since he'd regained some motion in his right hand he tended to prefer to use the mechanical means.

Placing the call took only a country code's extra effort and soon he was talking to Luna, who had a surprisingly delicate voice with only a slight and completely unrecognizable accent. He would be Mexican, of course, but his vowels seemed tinged with French.

"Ah, ah, Lincoln Rhyme. This is very much a pleasure. I've read about you. And, of course, I have your books. I made sure they were in the course curriculum for my investigators." A moment's pause. He asked, "Forgive me. But are you going to update the DNA section?"

Rhyme had to laugh. He'd been considering doing exactly that just a few days ago. "I'm going to. As soon as this case is finished. Inspector… are you an inspector?"

"Inspector? I'm sorry," said the good-natured voice, "but why does everybody think that officers in other countries than the United States are inspectors?"

"The definitive source for law enforcement training and procedures," Rhyme said. "Movies and TV."

A chuckle. "What would we poor police do without cable? But no. I'm a commander. In my country the army and the police, we're often interchangeable. And you are a captain RET, I see from your book. Does that mean resident expert technician? I was wondering."

Rhyme laughed aloud. "No, it means I'm retired."