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But, no, it was in a context different from the crime scene work they’d done together in the town house.
Clothing?
No …
A mannerism?
Then: “Yes!”
All three men in the lab looked his way.
What was familiar was the man’s stride.
And Lincoln Rhyme knew where he’d seen it before.
“Mel! I want the security cam of the DSE break-in. Put it on the second monitor.”
Rhyme motored closer to that screen. Come on, he thought impatiently. Come on.
“I’m getting it.”
Apparently, he’d spoken out loud.
Soon, a security video was playing, a case number and date appeared, glowing yellow, on a black screen. The scene came to life and they were looking at what a subtitle explained was the west hallway, first floor, of the Department of Structures and Engineering building. Unsub 212 was walking away from the camera toward the exit, the stolen file folders tucked under his right arm.
“Look at Gilligan’s walk at the diner. Look at the thief’s walk at DSE.”
Sellitto was whispering, “The fuck? They’re the same.”
Many law enforcement agencies were using gait-profiling software to identify perps and witnesses. It wasn’t yet admissible at trial in most states, but comparing how a known individual walked with an unknown individual in security videos like this could help investigators tentatively ID the perp. Rhyme didn’t have a program for this in the lab, but he hardly needed one. The two men were clearly the same.
“And his ear,” Pulaski said.
Ah, yes. In both videos he lifted his left hand and compulsively tugged the lobe, a nervous habit.
There was no doubt. Andy Gilligan was Unsub 212.
Sellitto said, “The hell is this about? The detective running the DSE theft case is also the goddamn perp? Somebody explain that to me.”
At that moment, Mel Cooper’s voice came through the speaker clearly. Normally placid, he sounded energized. “Well, we have something here. Where the shooter’s shell casings landed in the field and he picked them up? Guess what I found in the trace?”
“Mel!” Rhyme exhaled noisily. He wasn’t in the mood for dramatic setups.
Unfazed, the tech turned to them with a smile. “Hydrofluoric acid.”
“Jesus,” Sellitto muttered. “So, the shooter’s been to the crane collapse—or he’s Unsub Eighty-Nine himself.”
Rhyme said, “Too much of a coincidence for him to happen to have been at the scene for no reason. No, he’s the mechanic, either with the Kommunalka Project or hired by them. And he needed an inside man in the city government. He pays Gilligan to get him a list of the properties they want turned into affordable housing. That’s where the list came from. And he wanted charts and maps of building sites in the city so he can figure out which cranes are the best to sabotage.”
Sellitto helped himself to a cookie from a tray that Rhyme had not noticed earlier. Thom, a talented baker, was forever leaving out treats that visitors enjoyed but that his boss had little interest in.
Eyes back on the board, Rhyme whispered, “And the mystery man, the mechanic … Who the hell are you?”
The answer to that very question came just a moment later.
Thom Reston stepped into the parlor. “There isn’t much on Gilligan’s phone. No data, no downloads. Just records of calls. Some local—probably to other burners—but there were some toand from a number in England. I checked the exchange. It’s in Manchester. If that means anything.”
Rhyme was silent for a moment, letting the shock settle.
