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"Fred," Rhyme said as Dellray--now wearing the orangest shirt that the criminalist had ever seen--walked into his living room laboratory.
"Hey," Sachs said to the agent. "They let you wear shirts like that? Say, is that a real color?"
"You gave us a hell of a scare," Rhyme said.
" 'Magine what I myself was feelin', settin' my ass down on a few sticks of Mr. Noble's creation." He looked around the room. "Where Dan?"
"Dan?" Rhyme asked.
"The SSA?"
Noting the blank stares, Dellray continued, "The super-visin' agent, the guy who took over for me. Dan Wong. From our San Francisco office. Wanna thank him for takin' over."
Rhyme and Sachs looked at each other. The criminalist said, "Nobody took over for you. We're still waiting."
"Still waitin'?" Dellray whispered in disbelief. "I talked to Dan myself last night. He's the man you need. Run dozens of human smuggling cases. He's some kinda expert in snakeheads and Chinese culture. He was gonna call you an' be out here on a army jet this morning."
"No word."
Dellray's expression of astonishment turned to anger. "What about SPEC-TAC?" he asked suspiciously. "They are here, ain't they?"
"Nope," Sachs said.
With a snarl he pulled his phone off his belt as if he were quick-drawing his weapon. One speed-dial button later he was connected. "This's Dellray . . . Put him on. . . . Don't care. Want him now. . . . Like I said, which mebbe you din't hear. I. Want. Him. Now. . . ." A disgusted sigh. "Well, have him call me. An' you tell me--what happened to Dan Wong?" He listened for a long moment then snapped the phone off without a farewell.
"Dan got some emergency assignment in Hawaii. Word came from Washington, so it got priority over our li'l pissy insignificant case here. Somebody was s'posed to call me--and you--but it fell through the cracks."
"And SPEC-TAC?"
"The SAC's calling me back. But if they ain't here by now something's fucked up in a big way."
Rhyme said, "They told us it was on the 'scroll' for a meeting today."
"Hate that crappy way they talk," Dellray
snapped. "I'ma get it taken care of when I get back to the office. No excuse for this."
"Thanks, Fred. We need the help. We've got half the Fifth Precinct trying to find the print shop or painting company where Sam Chang works and we're coming up with zilch."
"This ain't good."
Sellitto asked, "Where're you with the bomb investigation?"
"That's th'other reason I came by. Simon says zip . . . Can't make a baby step of headway. My CIs, they're scouring Brighton Beach but they ain't turning up anything. Not. A. Peep. And I run dozens of skels there."
"You're sure the device's Russian?"
"When're we sure 'bout anyfuckin'thing?"
That much was true. Rhyme nodded at a paper bag he carried. "What've you got?"
He dug out a plastic bag containing the bright yellow stick of explosive and tossed it across the room to Sachs.
She caught it one-handed. "Holy Mother, Fred," she called.
"S'only dynamite. And if it din't go off with a detonator it sure ain't gonna go bang with a little lob to left field. Hey, Aye-melia, you wanna play softball on the bureau team? That was a good catch."
She examined the stick of dynamite.
