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Dellray had faced down some of the most dangerous assholes in the city without his pulse speeding up a single beat. He now was sure his neck was throbbing visibly as the blood pumped. "The drug collar, Staten Island. Right."
"There was a little mix-up somewhere, it seems."
"Mix-up?"
"Yeah, with the evidence."
"Really?"
The SAC rubbed his eyes. "At the bust your teams scored thirty ki's of smack, a couple doz
en guns and some big bricks of money."
"That's right."
"The press release said the cash recovered was one point one million. But we were getting the case ready for the grand jury and it looks like there's only one million even in the evidence locker."
"Mislogging a hundred K?"
The SAC cocked his head. "Naw, it's something else. Not mislogging."
"Uh-huh." Dellray breathed deeply. Oh, man . . . This is it.
"I looked over the paperwork and, it was funny, the second zero on the chain-of-custody card, the zero after the one million, was real skinny. You look at it fast, you could think it was a one. Somebody glanced at it and wrote the press release wrong. They wrote, 'one point one.' "
"I see."
"Just wanted to tell you, if the question comes up: It was a typo. The exact amount the Bureau collected in the Gonzalez bust was one million even. That's official."
"Sure. Thanks, Jon."
A frown. "For what?"
"Clarifying."
A nod. It was a nod with a message and that message had been delivered. The SAC added, "By the way, you did a good job helping nail Richard Logan. He had that plan a few years ago to take out dozens of soldiers and Pentagon people. Some of our folks too. Glad he's going away forever."
Dellray turned and left the office. As he returned to his own, he allowed himself a single nervous laugh.
Third graders?
Then pulled out his mobile to text Serena and to tell her that he'd be home soon.
Chapter 84
LINCOLN RHYME GLANCED up to see Pulaski in the doorway.
"Rookie, what're you doing here? I thought you were logging in evidence in Queens."
"I was. Just . . ." His voice slowed like a car hitting a patch of soupy fog.
"Just?"
It was close to 9 p.m., and they were alone in Rhyme's parlor. Comforting domestic sounds in the kitchen. Sachs and Thom were getting dinner ready. It was, Rhyme noticed, well past cocktail hour and he was a bit piqued that nobody had filled up his plastic tumbler of scotch again.
A failing he now told Pulaski to remedy, which the young cop did.
"That's not a double," Rhyme muttered. But Pulaski seemed not to hear. He'd walked to the window, eyes outside.
