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"Clients whose deals turned out to be less lucrative than they would have wanted. He performs some other functions too, which I cannot find out about too easily. And if I cannot find out about them the answer is simple: He's a crook. Which means he has a very large and efficient security staff."
"So he's the sort of target that would require a killer like the Watchmaker."
"Exactly."
"But," Rhyme continued, "I would also keep in mind that the target could be at the exact opposite end of the complex from that office."
"You think the fire alarm was a feint."
"Possibly."
"I'll have Arturo's men consider that too. He's put his best--and most invisible--surveillance people on the case."
"Have you found anything more about the contents of the package that Logan received? The letter I with the blanks? The circuit board, the booklet, the numbers?"
"Nothing but speculation. And, as I think you would too, Captain, I feel speculation is a waste of time."
"True, Commander."
Rhyme thanked the man again and they disconnected. He glanced at the clock. The time was 10 p.m. Thirty-five hours since the attack at the substation. Rhyme was in turmoil. On the one hand, he was aware of the terrible pressure to move forward with a case in which the progress was frustratingly slow. On the other, he was exhausted. More tired than he remembered being in a long time. He needed sleep. But he didn't want to admit it to anyone, even Sachs. He was staring at the silent box of the phone, considering what the Mexican police commander had just told him, when he was aware of sweat dotting his forehead. This infuriated him. He wanted to wipe it before anyone noticed, but of course that was a luxury not available to him. He jerked his head from side to side. Finally the motion dislodged the drop.
&
nbsp; But it also caught Sachs's attention. He sensed she was about to ask if he was feeling all right. He didn't want to talk about his condition, since he'd either have to admit that he wasn't, or lie to her. He wheeled abruptly to an evidence whiteboard and studied the script intently. Without seeing the words at all.
Sachs was starting toward him when the doorbell rang. A moment later there was some motion from the doorway and Thom entered the room with a visitor. Rhyme easily deduced the person's identity; she was in a wheelchair made by the same company that had produced his.
Chapter 52
SUSAN STRINGER HAD a pretty, heart-shaped face and a singsongy voice. Two adjectives stood out: pleasant and sweet.
Her eyes were quick, though, and lips taut, even when smiling, as befit somebody who had to maneuver her way through the streets of New York using only the power of her arms.
"An accessible town house on the Upper West Side. That's a rarity."
Rhyme gave her a smile in return--he was reserved. He had work to do, and very little of it involved witnesses; his comments to Sachs earlier about his interviewing Susan Stringer were, of course, facetious.
Still, she'd nearly been killed by Ray Galt--in a particularly horrible way--and might have some helpful information. And if, as Sachs had reported, she wanted to meet him in the process, he could live with that.
She nodded at Thom Reston with a knowing look about the importance of--and burdens upon--caregivers. He asked if there was anything she wanted and she said no. "I can't stay long. It's late and I'm not feeling too well." Her face had a hollow look; she'd undoubtedly be thinking of the terrible moments in the elevator. She wheeled closer to Rhyme. Susan's arms clearly worked fine; she was a paraplegic and would probably have suffered a thoracic injury, in her mid or upper back.
"No burns?" Rhyme asked.
"No. I didn't get a shock. The only problem was smoke--from the . . . from the men in the elevator with me. One caught fire." The last sentence was a whisper.
"What happened?" Sachs asked.
A stoic look. "We were near the ground floor when the elevator stopped suddenly. The lights went out, except for the emergency light. One of the businessmen behind me reached for the panel to hit the HELP button. As soon as he touched it he just started moaning and dancing around."
She coughed. Cleared her throat. "It was terrible. He couldn't let go of the panel. His friend grabbed him or he brushed against him. It was like a chain reaction. They just kept jerking around. And one of them caught fire. His hair . . . the smoke, the smell." Susan was whispering now. "Horrible. Just horrible. They were dying, right around me, they were dying. I was screaming. I realized it was some electrical problem and I didn't want to touch the metal hand rim of the chair or the metal door frame. I just sat there."
Susan shuddered. Then repeated, "I just sat there. Then the car moved down the last few feet and the door opened. There were dozens of people in the lobby, they pulled me out. . . . I tried to warn them not to touch anything but the electricity was off by then." She coughed softly for a moment. "Who is this man, Ray Galt?" Susan asked.
Rhyme told her, "He thinks he got sick from power lines. Cancer. He's out for revenge. But there may be an ecoterror connection. He might've been recruited by a group that's opposed to traditional power companies. We don't know yet. Not for sure."
Susan blurted, "And he wants to kill innocent people to make his point? What a hypocrite."
Sachs said, "He's a fanatic so he doesn't even register hypocrisy. Whatever he wants to do is good. Whatever stops him from doing what he wants is bad. Very simple universe."
