Free The Burning Wire by Jeffery Deaver Page B

do something else, Rookie. You see that restaurant or coffee shop across the street from the power station?”
    The officer looked to his right. “I’ve got it. . . . Wait, how’d you know there was one there?”
    “Oh, from one of my neighborhood strolls,” Rhyme said, chuckling.
    “I . . .” The young man was flustered.
    “I know because there has to be one. Our UNSUB wanted to be able to see the substation for the attack. He couldn’t watch from a hotel room because he’d have to register, or an office building because it would be too suspicious. He’d be someplace where he could sit at his leisure.”
    “Oh, I get it. You mean psychologically, he gets off on watching the fireworks.”
    The time for compliments was over. “Jesus Christ, Rookie, that’s profiling. How do I feel about profiling?”
    “Uhm. You’re not exactly a big fan, Lincoln.”
    Rhyme caught Sachs, in the background, smiling.
    “He needed to see how the device was working. He’d created something unique. His arc flash gun isn’t the sort of thing he could test-fire at a rifle range. He had to make adjustments to the voltage and the circuit breakers as he went along. He had to make sure it discharged at the exact moment when the bus was there. He started manipulating the grid computer at eleven-twenty and in ten minutes it was all over. Go talk to the manager at the restaurant—”
    “Coffee shop.”
    “—of the coffee shop and see if anybody was inside, near a window, for a while before the explosion. He would’ve left right after, before police and fire got there. Oh, and find out if they have broadband and who’s the provider.”
    Thom, now in rubber gloves, was gesturing impatiently.
    The piss and shit detail . .  .
    Pulaski said, “Sure, Lincoln.”
    “And then—”
    The young officer interrupted, “Seal off the restaurant and walk the grid where he was sitting.”
    “Exactly right, Rookie. Then both of you, get the hell back here ASAP.”
    With a flick of one of his working fingers Rhyme ended the call, beating Thom’s own digit to the button by a millisecond.

Chapter 10
    THE CLOUD ZONE , Fred Dellray was thinking.
    Recalling when Assistant Special Agent in Charge Tucker McDaniel, newly on board in the FBI’s New York office, had gathered the troops and given, in lecture form, a talk similar to what he’d just delivered at Rhyme’s a few hours earlier. About the new methods of communication the bad guys were using, about how the acceleration of technology was making it easier for them and harder for us.
    The cloud zone  . . .
    Dellray understood the concept, of course. You couldn’t be in law enforcement now and not be aware of McDaniel’s high-tech approach to finding and collaring perps. But that didn’t mean he liked it. Not one bit. Largely because of what the phrase stood for; it was an emblem for fundamental, maybe cataclysmic, changes in everyone’s life.
    Changes in his life too.
    Heading downtown on a subway on this clear afternoon, Dellray was thinking about his father, a professor at Marymount Manhattan College, and a writer of several books about African-American philosophers and cultural critics. The man had eased into academia at the age of thirty, and he’d never left. He died at the same desk he’d called home for decades, slumping forward on proofs of the journal he’d founded when Martin Luther King’s assassination was still fresh in the world’s mind.
    The politics had changed drastically during his father’s lifetime—the death of communism, the wounding of racial segregation, the birth of nonstate enemies. Computers replaced typewriters and the library. Cars had air bags. TV channels propagated from four—plus UHF—to hundreds. But very little about the man’s lifestyle had altered in a core way. The elder Dellray thrived in his enclosed world of academia, specifically philosophy, and oh, how he had wanted his son to settle there too, examining the nature of existence