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Thom laughed. "It's a Greek appetizer. A spread."
"Caviar, right? You eat it with bread."
Thom replied to Sachs, "Well, it is fish eggs, but cod, not sturgeon. So it's not technically caviar."
Rhyme was giving a nod. "Ah, the elevated saline. Fish. Sure. Is it common?"
"In Greek restaurants and grocery stores and delis."
"Is there anyplace more common than others? A Greek area of the city?"
"Queens," Pulaski said, who lived in the borough. "Astoria. Lots of Greek restaurants there."
"Can I get back
now?" Thom asked.
"Yes, yes, yes . . ."
"Thanks," Sachs called.
The aide waved a gloved hand, Playtex yellow, and disappeared.
Sellitto asked, "Maybe he's been staking out someplace in Queens for the next attack."
Rhyme shrugged, one of the few gestures he could still perform. He reflected: The perp would have to prepare the location, that was true. Still, he was leaning in a different direction.
Sachs caught his eye. "You're thinking, Algonquin's headquarters're in Astoria, right?"
"Exactly. And everything's pointing to it being an inside job." He asked, "Who's in charge of the company?"
Ron Pulaski said he'd had a conversation with the workers outside the substation. "They mentioned the president and CEO. The name's Jessen. Andy Jessen. Everybody seemed a little afraid of him."
Rhyme kept his eyes on the charts for a moment and then said, "Sachs, how'd you like to go for a drive in your fancy new wheels?"
"You bet." She called, and arranged with the CEO's assistant for a meeting in a half hour.
It was then that Sellitto's cell rang. He pulled it out and took a look at caller ID. "Algonquin." He hit a button. "Detective Sellitto." Rhyme noticed his face went still as he listened. Then he said, "You're sure? . . . Okay. Who'd have access? . . . Thanks." He disconnected. "Son of a bitch."
"What?"
"That was the supply division supervisor. He said one of the Algonquin warehouses in Harlem was burglarized last week. Hundred and eighteen Street. They thought it was an employee pilfering. Perp used a key. It wasn't broken into."
Pulaski asked, "And whoever it was stole the cable?"
Sellitto nodded. "And those split bolts."
But Rhyme could see another message in the detective's round face. "How much?" he asked, his voice a whisper. "How much wire did he steal?"
"You got it, Linc. Seventy-five feet of cable and a dozen bolts. What the hell was McDaniel talking about, a onetime thing? That's bullshit. This UNSUB's going to keep right on going."
CRIME SCENE: ALGONQUIN
SUBSTATION MANHATTAN-10,
WEST 57TH STREET
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