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Lon said, “Public IP address. A coffee shop in Brooklyn with no security camera. The Computer Crimes people think the perp wasn’t even in the place. He must’ve been outside and hijacked their router.”
“Well, one fact to note: they know computers. Or’re working with someone who does.” He added, “I think the mayor should announce. He’ll have to before tomorrow morning. Give people a chance to stay clear of jobsites.”
Sellitto repeated, “Harrison’s right—there’d be panic. And he’s gotta be worried about copycatting. Is that a goddamn gerund?”
“It would be if ‘copycat’ were a verb. WhichIconsider non-standard. Even if some people don’t.”
Rhyme continued to study the footage of the twisted tower and the wreckage of everything in its path. It had fallen forward, not to its side, and the long tower and arm atop it extended from the concrete base in the middle of the jobsite between two tall buildings, which it had narrowly missed, to a park across the uptown-downtown avenue. Had it veered just a dozen feet rightor left, it would have collided with glass high-rises. The death toll would have been far higher.
“How many cranes are there in the city?”
Sachs pulled out her phone and asked the question. She squinted as she read. “New York, all boroughs, twenty-six. We’re low on the list. Toronto has over a hundred. L.A. about fifty.”
That was all? Twenty-six? Rhyme thought there would be more. He didn’t get outside much, of course, but when he did, it seemed the soaring towers were everywhere, the crossbeams balancing precariously atop the stalks.
Rhyme said, “I’ll call Mel and get him up here. What’s Pulaski doing?”
Sachs said, “Homicide’s been using him. He’s running a scene in Midtown.”
Rhyme said, “When he’s done, I want him here.”
“I’ll call,” Sellitto said.
“And let’s get a chart going.”
Sachs moved aside the Unsub 212 board, but kept it near the front. They were expecting an update from the lead detective, who was on his way here presently.
In the cleared space, she tugged an easel and blank pad forward and started a new board. “How about naming the guy after the street. Unsub 89?”
“A perfect christening,” Rhyme said.
She wrote this at the top of the chart in her fine handwriting.
Sellitto said, “Think it’s a Russian thing? A cell. Given the name. Kommunwhatever?”
Rhyme shook his head. He was thinking back to a history course he’d tolerated years ago. He recalled that left-leaning movements in mid-twentieth-century America enjoyed co-opting Soviet terms: agitprop, kompromat, intelligentsia.
“Doubt it. The Russians may have a perennial interest indestabilizing democracy, but I doubt the Motherland’d pressure the city to find housing for the proletariat. That’s a Roman word, by the way. Marx stole it.
“But I agree with the mayor. We’ve got to coordinate with the feds. Maybe have Lyle handle that.”
A recent addition to the ranks of NYPD detectives, Lyle Spencer was a former head of corporate security for a media empire. He was quiet, but interviewees tended to cooperate when he asked them questions. The man was massive, a bodybuilder, and his eyes were fierce. Rhyme believed he had seen Spencer smile once, but he wasn’t sure.
Sachs left a message for the detective, detailing the situation and what they needed him to do.
Sellitto opened his briefcase and extracted a thick wad of documents. “This’s from the foreman at the jobsite on Eighty-Ninth: blueprints, maps, SD cards from some security cams, a few other things he thought might be helpful.”
Sachs tugged a worktable into the center of the non-sterile portion of the parlor, and Sellitto spread out the materials. From this sea of paper, she selected a diagram of the site and taped it to a whiteboard. The overhead view depicted the crane and the building whose construction it was part of. Surrounding structures were depicted in rudimentary sketches.
She looked at the TV screen, then drew an arrow on the board. “That’s the way it fell. Between these buildings … All right, I’ll get on the grid. Who knows, maybe we’ll find a receipt from that Chinese restaurant in Queens where the wannabe Russian revolutionaries meet every Wednesday.”
Sellitto gave a sardonic yeah-right laugh.
“Ah, itdoeshappen.” Rhyme was frowning as he looked at Sachs. “What was his name again? That serial killer. Staten Island. Dudley …?”
“Smits. Dudley Smits.” To Sellitto, she said, “He dropped a woman’s business card when he was leaving a murder scene. Had his prints on it. We moved into her apartment and just hung out. Ten hours later he showed up with a knife and a roll of duct tape. The look on his face, priceless. Worth the wait.”
4.
