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Nineteen, twenty …
Wonderful, thought Rhyme, in his most sardonic mode.
And then too, he reflected, even if they found the supplier, the perp would’ve taken precautions to hide his identity, paying cash.
Soon the tally hit thirty-seven and finally stalled.
Rhyme said, “Didn’t know it wasthatcommon.”
In the sterile portion of the parlor, Cooper, reading from oneof the most reliable sources in law enforcement—Google—said, “It’s one of the fastest-growing industrial products on the market.” He went on to explain that the demand for HF acid rose about ten percent a year and would soon top a billion dollars in revenue. “It’s used for more things than you’d think. Etching, cleaning, refining gas, making Teflon and fluoxetine—Prozac. You ever get depressed, Lincoln?”
“No time.”
“To get depressed?”
“No time for your trade association’s up-with-HF spiel.”
So it was as impossible to isolate a source of the acid as it was to source an unregistered Smith & Wesson on the street.
He scanned the chart. Albert Industrial Products to Zeigler Chemicals …
Hell.
Rhyme took a call from Lyle Spencer.
“Lincoln.”
“What did you find out about the politician that I should know everything about but do not?”
The man gave a brief laugh. “I’m convinced Representative Cody didn’t have anything to do with it. The Kommunalka Project just dug up a statement from a paper he wrote years ago. His body language? It told me that the attack was a surprise to him.”
Unlike witnesses’ observations and psychological profiling, kinesic analysis done by an expert was more or less reliable, Rhyme felt. A colleague in California, Kathryn Dance, working for the CBI, had proven to him on several occasions that techniques were reliable in painting interrogees credible or not.
So, the congressman was off the persons-of-interest list.
Spencer continued, “He said he’s never heard of any violent side to the affordable housing movement. But he knows activists. He’s going to contact them.”
“All right,” Rhyme muttered. Another dead end. Or at least a badly wounded one.
After they disconnected, Sachs wrote the detective’s conclusions on the whiteboard, then took a call. “Detective Sachs … That’s right …”
Rhyme’s eyes strayed out the window. From this narrow view alone, he could see three cranes lording over the East Side, all motionless. The stillness was eerie.
Sachs tucked her phone away and, after a blast of oxygen, said, “Downtown. Maybe a witness from the jobsite. I’m going to talk to him.” After another blast of oxygen, she pulled on her black leather jacket and walked into the front hall. A pause. She returned and, without a word to or glance at anyone else, grabbed the tank and hurried outside. A moment later, Rhyme heard her car’s throaty engine fire up. The gruff sound reminded him of her voice, with the acid exposure.
The sound had just disappeared when Rhyme’s phone sounded. It was Sellitto.
“Lon.”
“Gotta tell you, Linc. Just heard.”
“Another one? A crane?”
The deadline in the demand was tomorrow, but extortionists and kidnappers are known to improvise.
“No. It’s Andy Gilligan. He’s dead. Shot.”
Rhyme and Mel Cooper shared a glance.
