Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

"Afraid so." Then Rhyme said, "We should let Fred know."

McDaniel didn't respond.

"Fred Dellray." Your employee, Rhyme added silently. "He should tell his CI about Galt."

"Right. Hold on. I'll conference him in."

There were some clicks and a few heartbeats of silence. Then they heard, " 'Lo? This's Dellray."

"Fred, Tucker here. With Lincoln. On conference. We've got a suspect."

"Who?"

McDaniel glanced at Rhyme, who explained about Ray Galt. "We don't have a motive, but it's pointing to him."

"You found him?"

"No. He's MIA. We've got a team at his apartment."

"The deadline's still a go?"

McDaniel said, "We have no reason to think otherwise. You found anything, Fred?"

"My CI's got some good leads. I'm waiting to hear."

"Anything you can share?" the ASAC asked pointedly.

"Not at this point. I'm meeting him at three. He tells me he's got something. I'll call him and give him Galt's name. Maybe that'll speed things up."

They disconnected. Only a moment later Rhyme's phone rang again. "Is this Detective Rhyme?" a woman asked.

"Yes. That's me."

"It's Andi Jessen. Algonquin Consolidated."

McDaniel identified himself, then: "Have you heard anything more from him?"

"No, but there's a situation I have to tell you about." Her husky, urgent voice got Rhyme's full attention.

"Go ahead."

"Like I told you, we changed the computer codes. So he couldn't repeat what happened yesterday."

"I remember."

"And I ordered security around all the substations. Twenty-four/seven. But about fifteen minutes ago a fire started in one of our Uptown substations. One in Harlem."

"Arson?" Rhyme asked.

"That's right. The guards were in front. It looks like somebody threw a firebomb through the back window. Or something. The fire's been extinguished but it caused a problem. Destroyed the switchgear. That means we can't manually take that substation offline. It's a runaway. There's no way to stop the electricity flowing through the transmission lines without shutting down the entire grid."

Rhyme sensed she was concerned but he didn't grasp the implications. He asked her to clarify.

She said, "I think he's done something that's pretty crazy-he cut directly into an area transmission line running from the substation that burned. That's nearly a hundred and fifty thousand volts."

"How could he do it?" Rhyme asked. "I thought he used the substation yesterday because it was too dangerous to splice into a main line."

"True, but, I don't know, maybe he's developed some kind of remote switchgear to let him rig a splice, then activate it later."

McDaniel asked, "Any idea where?"

"The line I'm thinking of is about three-quarters of a mile long. It runs under Central and West Harlem to the river."

"And you absolutely can't shut it down?"

"Not until the switchgear's repaired in the burned substation. That'll take a few hours."

"And this arc flash could be as bad as yesterday's?" Rhyme asked.

"At least. Yes."

"Okay, we'll check it out."

"Detective Rhyme? Tucker?" Her voice was less brittle than earlier.

It was the FBI agent who said, "Yes?"

"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.

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?"

"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?"

Ahead of her was Morningside Park, filled with people as the hour approached lunchtime. Children, nannies, businesspeople, Columbia students, musicians… hundreds of them, just hanging out, enjoying the beautiful day. People on the sidewalks too. But the number of targets was only part of what dismayed Sachs.

"Rhyme, the whole west side of the park, Morningside Drive?"

"What?"

"They're doing construction. Replacing water mains. They're big iron pipes. God, if he's rigged the line to them…"

Rhyme said, "Then the flash could hit anywhere on the street. Hell, it could even get inside any building, office, dorm, a store nearby… or maybe miles away."

"I've got to find where he connected it, Rhyme." She slipped her phone into its holster and jogged to the construction site.

SAM VETTER HAD mixed feelings about being in New York.

The sixty-eight-year-old had never been here before. He'd always wanted to make the trip from Scottsdale, where he'd lived for 100 percent of those years, and Ruth had always wanted to see the place, but their vacations found them in California or Hawaii or on cruises to Alaska.