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And she noted too: the coughing had stopped.
Waiting for the crash …
Waiting …
For the crash that didn’t happen.
Instead of the deafening sound of collapsing metal and glass, another noise grew evident and then increased in volume.
Thump, thump, thump …
She rose and made her way cautiously to the window. She turned to her left and saw Dr. Gomez was on her feet and walking to the injured worker.
The crane was still looming in sight. But no longer moving their way.
Thump, thump …
About forty feet above the mast was a helicopter. A hook had been lowered from a winch above the open door and had snapped onto the front jib.
The craft was big, but hardly meant to lift weights like the crane, and a worker sat strapped in the doorway, his hand on a control on the winch. If the mast finally gave way and fell freely, he would have to release the cable so it didn’t pull the craft to the ground with it.
But so far the chopper was handling the load. The mast sank slowly.
Down, down, slowly …
Twenty feet from the top of the building.
Then ten.
With a resounding metallic clang, the mast came to rest against what would be the steel girder of the crown. The helicopter remained in position.
The cable slacked, and the tower and jib were stable.
The worker pulled the pin, releasing the cable. It fell, shimmering in a band of sun, and dropped straight down as the helicopter hovered for a moment, like an angel’s halo above the genuflecting crane, and then rose slowly into a faultless sky.
42.
SHE WAS OUTSIDEthe main building, watching crews run cables from the tower and jib to rebar rods set in the concrete foundation of the addition.
Reminding her of what amounted to the murder weapon that had killed the operator’s friend in such a horrid way.
Here, at least, a better ending.
Crews were also atop the main building, dismantling the jib and lowering the segments to the roof where, she supposed, another chopper would remove them.
Her phone purred.
“Rhyme.”
“I heard. It got lassoed.”
She explained that Garry Helprin, the operator, had gotten the message she left, learned of the impending disaster and called the head of his company. The boss had scrambled their heavy-lifting S-64E Sikorsky—which was doing a job on West 55th Street and the Hudson. The pilot had dumped the load and sped to the hospital. It took only two attempts to hook the mast like a bass.
Rhyme told her, “And Counterterrorism at the Bureau found two other drone flights. But not near any jobsites. A residential block in Brooklyn and an office building, Manhattan. We’re trying to find the connection. Walk the grid, Sachs. I need evidence. And get me all the video footage you can.”
“What?” The word was uttered as an astonished whisper. “Youwant video?”
“It’s all right, Sachs. Locard has given me dispensation.”
