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At least it thinned the Smoke a bit.
CHAPTER 10
RHYME NOTED NANCE LAUREL scrutinizing her face in the dim mirror of the gas chromatograph's metal housing. She gave no reaction to what she was seeing. She didn't seem like a primping woman.
She turned and asked Sellitto and Rhyme, "How do you suggest we proceed?"
In Rhyme's mind the case was already laid out clearly. He answered, "I'll run the crime scene as best I can. Sachs and Lon'll find out what they can about NIOS, Metzger and the other conspirator--the sniper. Sachs, start a chart. Add the cast of characters on there, even if we don't know very much."
She took a marker and walked to an empty whiteboard, jotted the sparse information.
Sellitto said, "I wanna track down the whistleblower too. That could be tough. He knows he'll be at risk. He didn't tip off the press that some company's using shitty wheat in their breakfast cereal; he's accusing the government of committing murder. Amelia, you?"
Sachs replied, "I've sent Rodney the information about the email and the STO. I'll coordinate with him and Computer Crimes. If anybody can trace an anonymous upload, he can." She thought for a moment and said, "Let's call Fred too."
Rhyme considered this and said, "Good."
"Who's that?" Laurel asked.
"Fred Dellray. FBI."
"No," Laurel said bluntly. "No feds."
"Why not?" Sellitto's question.
"A chance word'll get to NIOS. I don't think we can risk it."
Sachs countered, "Fred's specialty's undercover work. If we say be discreet, that's how he'll handle it. We need help, and he'll have access to a lot more information than NCIC and state criminal databases."
Laurel debated. Her round, pale face--pretty from some angles, farm girl pretty--registered a very subtle change. Concern? Pique? Defiance? Her expressions were like lettering in Hebrew or Arabic, tiny diacritical marks the only clues to radically different meanings.
Sachs glanced once at the prosecutor, said insistently, "We'll tell him how sensitive it is. He'll go along."
She hit speaker on a phone nearby before Laurel could say any more. Rhyme saw the prosecutor stiffen and wondered if she was actually going to step forward and press her finger down on the cradle button.
The hollow sound of ringing filled the air.
"S'Dellray here," the agent answered. The muted tone suggested he might've been on an undercover set somewhere in Trenton or Harlem and didn't want to draw attention to himself.
"Fred. Amelia."
"Well, well, well how's it goin'? Been a while. Now how imperiled am I, speaking into a telephone that on my end is nice and private but on yours is broadcasting to Madison Square Garden? I do truly hate speakers."
"You're safe, Fred. You're on with me, Lon, Lincoln--"
"Hey, Lincoln. You lost that Heidegger bet, ya know. I'ma peeking in my mailbox everday and as of yesterday, ain't a single check appeared. Pay to the order of Fred Don't-Argue-Philosophy-With Dellray."
"I know, I know," Rhyme grumbled. "I'll pay up."
"Y'owe me fifty."
Rhyme said, "By rights, Lon should pay part of it. He egged me on."
"Fuck no I didn't." Delivered essentially as one word.
Nance Laurel took in the exchange with a bewildered look. Of all the things she wasn't, a banterer would be high on the list.
Or maybe she was just angry that Sachs had overridden her and called the FBI agent.
