Jeffery Deaver - The burning wire

And with that he was gone.

"I'M SORRY TO tell you, Rodolfo."

The boisterous voice was absent completely. "Arturo? No. I can hardly believe it."

Rhyme continued, explaining about the plot that Diaz had engineered-to kill his boss and make it seem like a by-product of an assassination mission to Mexico City.

In the ensuing silence, Rhyme asked, "He was a friend?"

"Ah, friendship… I would say, when it comes to betrayals, the wife who sleeps with a man and returns home to care for your children and to make you a hot meal is less of a sinner than the friend who betrays you for greed. What do you say to that, Captain Rhyme?"

"Betrayal is a symptom of the truth."

"Ah, Captain Rhyme, you are a Buddhist? You are a Hindu?"

Rhyme had to laugh. "No."

"But you wax philosophical… I think the answer is that Arturo Diaz was a Mexican law enforcer and that is reason enough for him to do what he did. Life is impossible down here."

"Yet you persist. You continue to fight."

"I do. But I'm a fool. Much like you, my friend. Could you not be making millions by writing security reports for corporations?"

The criminalist replied, "But what's the fun of that?"

The laugh was genuine and rich. The Mexican asked, "What will happen to him now?"

"Logan? He'll be convicted of murder for these crimes. And for crimes here several years ago."

"Will he get the death penalty?"

"He could but he won't be executed."

"Why not? Those liberals in America that I hear so much about?"

"It's more complicated than that. The question is one of momentary politics. Right now, the governor here doesn't want to execute any prisoners, whatever they've done, because it would be awkward."

"Especially so for the prisoner."

"His opinion doesn't much enter into the matter."

"I suppose not. Well, despite such leniency, Captain, I think I would like America. Perhaps I'll sneak across the border and become an illegal immigrant. I could work in McDonald's and solve crimes at night."

"I'll sponsor you, Rodolfo."

"Ha. My traveling there is about as likely as you coming to Mexico City for mole chicken and tequila."

"Yes, that's true too. Though I would like the tequila."

"Now, I'm afraid I must go clean out the rats' nest that my department has become. I may…"

The voice faded.

"What's that, Commander?"

"I may have some questions of evidence. I know it's presumptuous of me, but perhaps I could impose upon you."

"I'd be delighted to help, however I can."

"Very good." Another chuckle. "Perhaps in a few years, if I am lucky, I can add those magic letters to my name too."

"Magic letters?"

"You? Retire, Commander?"

"I am making a joke, Captain. Retirement is not for people like us. We will die on the job. Let's pray that it's a long time from now. Now, my friend, good-bye."

They disconnected. Rhyme then ordered his phone to call Kathryn Dance in California. He gave her the news about the apprehension of Richard Logan. The conversation was brief. Not because he was feeling antisocial-just the contrary: He was thrilled at his victory.

But the aftermath of the dysreflexia attack was settling on him like cold dew. He let Sachs take over the phone call, girl talk, and Rhyme asked Thom to bring him some Glenmorangie.

"The eighteen year, if you would be so kind. Please and thank you."

Thom poured a generous slug into the tumbler and propped it in the cup holder near his boss's mouth. Rhyme sipped through the straw. He savored the smoky scotch and then swallowed it. He felt the warmth, the comfort, though it also accentuated that damn fatigue plaguing him the past week or so. He forced himself not to think about it.

When Sachs disconnected her call, he asked, "You'll join me, Sachs?"

"You bet I will."

"I feel like music," he said.

"Jazz?"

"Sure."

He picked Dave Brubeck, a recording from a live concert in the sixties. The signature tune, "Take Five," came on and, with its distinctive five-four beat, the music cantered from speakers, scratchy and infectious.

As Sachs poured the liquor and sat beside him, her eyes strayed to the evidence boards. "There's one thing we forgot about, Rhyme."

"What?"

"That supposed terrorist group? Justice For the Earth."

"That's McDaniel's case now. If we'd found any evidence I'd be more concerned. But… nothing." Rhyme sipped more liquor and felt another wave of the persistent fatigue nestle around him. Still he managed a small joke: "Personally I think it was just a wrong number from the cloud zone."

THE EARTH DAY festivities in Central Park were in full swing.

At six-twenty on this pleasant though cool and overcast evening, an FBI agent was on the edge of the Sheep Meadow, scanning the crowd, most of which were protesting something or another. Some picnickers and some tourists. But the crowd of fifty thousand mostly just seemed pissed off about one thing or another: global warming, oil, big business, carbon dioxide, greenhouse gases.

And methane.

Special Agent Timothy Conradt blinked as he looked at a group of people protesting bovine flatulence. Methane from livestock apparently burned holes in the ozone layer too.

Cow farts.

What a crazy world.

Conradt was sporting an undercover mustache and wore jeans and a baggy shirt, concealing his radio and weapon. His wife had ironed the wrinkles into his garments that morning, vetoing his idea that he sleep in his clothes to get that "lived-in" look.

He was no fan of knee-jerk liberals and people who'd sell the country out in the name of… well, who knew what? Complacency, Europe, globalism, socialism, cowardice.

But one thing he had in common with these people was the environment. Conradt lived for the outdoors. Hunting, fishing, hiking. So he sympathized.

He was scanning the crowds carefully because even though the perp known as the Watchmaker had been collared, ASAC Tucker McDaniel still was sure that that group Justice For the Earth was going to try something. The SIGINT hits were compelling, even nontech Conradt had to admit. Justice For the Earth. Or, as the agents were referring to it now, per McDaniel's instruction, JFTE, pronounced "Juf-tee."

Teams of agents and NYPD cops were deployed throughout the city, covering the convention center near the Hudson River, a parade downtown in Battery Park and this gathering in Central Park.

McDaniel's theory was that they'd misread the connection among Richard Logan, Algonquin Consolidated Power and JFTE, but it was likely that the group could have formed an alliance with, possibly, an Islamic fundamentalist cell.

A symbiotic construct.

A phrase that would give the agents plenty of ammunition for the next few months when they were out for drinks.

Conradt's own feeling, from years on the street, was that JFTE may have existed but it was just a bunch of cranks, of no threat to anybody. He strolled around casually, but all the while he was looking for people who fit the profile. Watching where their arms were in relation to their bodies, watching for certain types of backpacks, watching for a gait that might reveal if they were carrying a weapon or an IED. Watching for pale jaws that suggested a newly shaved beard, or a woman's absent touch to her hair, possibly indicating her ill ease at being in public without a hijab for the first time since she'd reached adolescence.

And always: watching the eyes.

So far Conradt had seen some devout eyes and oblivious eyes and curious eyes.

But none that suggested they were in the head of a man or woman who wanted to murder a large number of people in the name of a deity. Or in the name of whales or trees or spotted owls. He circulated for a while and finally eased up beside his partner, an unsmiling thirty-five-year-old, dressed in a long peasant skirt and a blouse as baggy and concealing as Conradt's shirt.