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Fifteen minutes later, they had answers. The Watchmaker’s fingerprints were on the knob. A few grains of sand, similar to those in the lot where Gilligan died and more of the trace that led Tamblyn to give them Hamilton Court. There was also a short hair with the bulb attached, so DNA could be run, but that would be a formality, as the fingerprints left no doubt.
“And traces of silicone,” Cooper called.
Rhyme’s brow troughed. “Hard to source. One of the most common substances on earth. There are hundreds of suppliers. You create trimethyl, dimethyl and methyl chlorosilane from the element silicon. Do that, add the ‘e’ and you’ve got flexible, heat- and cold-resistant stuff that’s used in, well, a million different things: lubricants, food processing and medicine, caulks, gaskets, sealants. And don’t you love this: it has excellent releaseandadhesion properties. Imagine a contradiction like that.”
Chemistry was never far from the mind of Lincoln Rhyme.
Cooper called through the intercom, “So, too many possibilities to figure out what he’s using it for.”
“Hm,” was Rhyme’s confirmation.
Sachs asked, “Used something made out of silicone to store acid?”
“Probably not. HF’ll degrade it. And if this is on the doorknob, it was a gel or liquid.”
Had she risked her life for nothing? Rhyme was wondering.
Yet he kept in mind what he told his classes: a finding of flour alone doesn’t tell you much. But traces of yeast, egg yolk, milk and salt could lead you to a murderous baker.
And here? What else had they discovered that might help narrow the search? He scanned the whiteboards. And saw no answers.
The lab phone buzzed.
The caller was Dellray on his mobile.
“Fred.”
A British voice responded. “Unfurled an interesting fact here, Lincoln. Quite interesting.”
Who the hell was this?
“Is that you?”
“Undercover. I’m Sir Percy Thompson, a London casino owner and playboy. If they still have playboys. I need to stay in character.Accent’s a bit tricky. I mean dodgy. I’m aiming for Covent Garden.”
“What’s so interesting?”
Fred Dellray was not a man to be rushed, but he chopped off some backstory and subplotting. “Has to do with your drones. No reports since the hospital. But have something interesting about the prior sightings.”
Rhyme recalled. Two flights were logged, but they had not been near any construction sites. “Where were they again?”
The FBI agent told him: “The four hundred block of Towson Street, Brooklyn. Then the office building, 556 Hadley, Manhattan. I was wondering what kind of family relationships the two flights shared. Might they be siblings? Cousins?”
The typical Dellray jargon was utterly absent. It was disorienting. Sachs had made him watch a few episodes of a show calledDownton Abbey(not bad, he’d assessed), and Dellray sounded exactly like one of the characters.
He continued, “I found nothing obvious to me. But I’ve been playing with a new toy we have here. It’s called ORDA, which people might call an acronym, but we know—”
“It’s only an acronym if it spells a real word.”
“Quite. This one stands for Obscure Relationship Data Analysis.”
“Familiar with it. Used it myself.”
“You, the emperor of evidence?”
Rhyme had originally been skeptical of the software, which processed trillions of bits of data taken from two or more things—maybe places, people, events—that seemed to have nothing in common. But the software was capable of finding the most ethereal connections.
“And?” Rhyme asked.
