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"And maybe related, maybe not."
"Two separate meanings."
"Yes," Rhyme said. "Do they have any significance at all regarding the places he's been spotted?"
"No."
"And those buildings? The tenants?"
"Arturo Diaz and his officers are speaking with them now, explaining the situation. The ones there who are legitimate businesspeople are mystified because they cannot believe they are in danger. The ones who are themselves criminals are mystified because they are better armed than my troops and believe no one would dare attack them."
Five hundred seventy and three hundred seventy-nine. . . .
Phone numbers? Coordinates? Parts of an address?
Luna continued, "We've reconstructed the route the truck took from the airport to the capital. They were pulled over once. But you may have heard about our traffic police? A 'fine' was paid immediately and no questions were asked. Arturo tells me those officers--who are, by the way, now looking for new jobs--identified your Mr. Watchmaker. There was no one else in the truck other than the driver, and, of course, they didn't bother to look over his license. And there was, in the back, no equipment or contraband that would lead us in one direction or another. So we are left to focus on the buildings he seems to be focusing on. And hope--"
"--that he isn't sneaking up behind his real victim, five miles away."
"Very much what I was going to say."
"Do you have any thoughts about the circuit board that Logan was given?"
"I'm a soldier, Detective Rhyme, not a hacker. And so naturally I thought it was not a piece of computer hardware but a remote detonator for explosives. The booklet was perhaps an instruction manual."
"Yes, I was thinking that too."
"He would not want to travel with such a device. It would make sense to acquire it here. And I understand, from our news, that you have your hands full there. Some terrorist group?"
"We don't know."
"I wish I could help you."
"Appreciated. But keep your attention focused on the Watchmaker, Commander."
"Good advice." Luna gave a sound between a growl and a laugh. "Cases are so much easier to run when you start with a corpse or two. I hate it when the bodies are still alive and being elusive."
Rhyme smiled at that. And couldn't disagree.
Chapter 44
AT 2:40 P.M. Algonquin security chief Bernard Wahl was walking along the sidewalk in Queens, coming back from his investigation. That's how he liked to think of it. His investigation about his company, the number-one energy provider in the East, maybe in the entire North American grid.
He wanted to help. Especially now, since the horrific attack this afternoon at the Battery Park Hotel.
Ever since he'd heard that woman, Detective Sachs, mention to Ms. Jessen about the Greek food, he'd been devising a strategy.
"Microinvestigation" was how he thought of what he was doing. Wahl had read about it somewhere, or maybe seen it on the Discovery Channel. It was all about looking at the small clues, the small connections. Forget geopolitics and terrorists. Get a single fingerprint or hair and run with it. Until you collared the perp. Or it turned out to be a dead end and you went in a different direction.
So he'd been on a mission of his own--checking out the nearby Greek restaurants in Astoria, Queens. He'd learned Galt enjoyed that cuisine.
And just a half hour ago he'd hit pay dirt.
A waitress, Sonja, more than cute, earned a twenty-dollar tip by reporting that twice in the past week, a man wearing dark slacks and a knit Algonquin Consolidated shirt--the sort worn by middle managers--had been in for lunch. The restaurant was Leni's, known for its moussaka and grilled octopus . . . and, more significant, homemade taramasalata, bowls of which were brought to everyone who sat down, lunch and dinner, along with wedges of pita bread and lemon.
Sonja "couldn't swear to it," but when shown a picture of Raymond Galt, she said, "Yeah, yeah, that looks like him."
And the man had been online the entire time--on a Sony VAIO computer. While he'd only picked at the rest of his food he'd eaten all his taramasalata, she'd noted.
