The Stone Monkey (31 page)

"So much crime," Dellray intoned as he stalked past them on his long legs, "so little time." They waved good night.

Then down the elevator and out the front door. He crossed the street, heading for the federal parking annex.

He noticed the scorched frame of a van that had burned earlier in the evening, still smoldering. He remembered hearing the sirens, wondered what had happened.

Past the guard, down the ramp into the dim garage, which smelled of wet concrete and car exhaust.

Dellray found his government-issue Ford and unlocked the door. He opened it and tossed in his battered briefcase, which contained a box of 9mm ammunition, a yellow pad filled with his jottings, various memos on the Kwan Ang case and a well-read book of Goethe's poems.

As Dellray started to climb inside the Ford he noticed on the driver's side of the car the window weather stripping was unsealed, which told him immediately somebody had wedged the window to open the door. Shit! He glanced down and saw the wires protruding from under his seat. He lunged for the top of the door with his right hand to keep from putting all his weight on the seat and compressing what he knew was the bomb's pressure switch.

But it was too late.

The tips of his long fingers flapped against the open door frame and slipped off. He began to fall sideways onto the seat beneath him.

Save your eyes! he thought instinctively, lifting his long hands toward his face.

"The Changs're somewhere in Queens," Sachs said, writing this bit of information on the whiteboard. "Driving a blue van, no tag, no make."

"Do we have
anything
specific about it?" Rhyme muttered. "Cerulean, navy, sky,
baby
blue?"

"Wu couldn't remember."

"Oh, my, now,
that's
helpful."

As Sachs paced, Thorn took over as the scribe.

The information about the Ghost's four-by-four, which the snakehead had abandoned at the site of the Wu shoot-out, wasn't any better. The Blazer had been stolen and had current but fake dealer tags. Tracing the vehicle identification number revealed only that it had been stolen in Ohio months ago.

Sonny Li sat nearby but wasn't offering his Asian detective insights at the moment; he was rummaging through a large shopping bag he'd brought back from Chinatown a short while before. Lon Sellitto was on his phone, apparently learning that the Ghost had successfully vanished after the shoot-out, to judge from his scowl.

Sachs, Mel Cooper and the criminalist turned to the trace evidence she'd found in the Blazer. She'd located a few small grayish carpet fibers under the brake and accelerator pedals and two matching fibers in the cuff of the dead shooter outside the Wus' apartment. The fibers didn't match the carpet in the Blazer or any of the prior scenes and therefore might've come from the Ghost's safehouse.

"Burn 'em and let's check the database."

Cooper ran two of the fibers through the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer, which produced a record of the exact substances that went into this type of carpet.

As they waited for the results there was a knock on the door outside and a moment later Thorn ushered in the visitor.

It was Harold Peabody.

Rhyme assumed that he'd come here to talk to them about Coe's carelessness at the Wus' apartment. But there was a grimness on his face that suggested something more. Then behind him another man appeared. Rhyme recognized him as the assistant special agent in charge—the ASAC—of the Manhattan office of the FBI, a too-handsome man with a perfect chin and smug manners. Rhyme had worked with him several times and found him efficient and unimaginative—and given, as Dellray had complained, to bureauspeak thick as honey. He too was grim-faced.

Then a third man appeared. His crisp navy-blue suit and white shirt suggested to Rhyme that he was bureau as well, but he identified himself tersely as Webley from State.

So, the State Department was now involved, Rhyme thought. That was a good sign. Dellray must've indeed used his
guanxi
in high places to get them reinforcements.

"Sorry to intrude, Lincoln," Peabody said.

The ASAC: "We need to talk to you. Something happened downtown tonight."

"What?"

"About the case?" Sachs asked.

"We don't think it's related. But it's going to have some implications, I'm afraid."

Well, get on with it, Rhyme thought and hoped his impatient glare conveyed this message.

"Someone planted a bomb in the garage across from the federal building tonight."

"My God," Mel Cooper whispered.

"It was in Fred Dellray's car."

Oh, Lord, no, thought Rhyme, "No!" Sachs cried.

"A bomb?" Sellitto blurted, snapping closed his cell phone.

"He's okay," the ASAC said quickly. "The main charge didn't go off."

Rhyme closed his eyes. Both he and Dellray had lost people close to them thanks to explosive devices. It was, even unemotional Rhyme believed, the most insidious and cowardly way to kill someone.

"Not hurt?" Li asked, concerned.

"No."

The Chinese cop muttered something, a prayer perhaps.

"What happened?" the criminalist asked.

"Dynamite with a pressure switch. Dellray triggered it but only the detonator fired. Maybe the cap wasn't seated right. They don't know yet."

The ASAC said, "Our bomb unit rendered safe and handed the parts over to PERT."

Rhyme knew most of the agents and the techs in the bureau's Physical Evidence Response Team and respected them. If there was anything to find he had confidence that they would. "Why don't you think it's related?"

"Anonymous nine-one-one call about twenty minutes before the blast. Male voice, undetermined accent, said the Cherenko family was planning some retaliation for the bust last week. It said more would follow."

Dellray, Rhyme recalled, had just finished running a huge covert operation in Brooklyn, the home of the Russian mob. They'd nailed three international money launderers, their staffs and several supposed hitmen and had confiscated millions of dollars and rubles.

"Origin of the call?"

"Pay phone in Brighton Beach."

The largest Russian community in the area.

"I don't believe in coincidences," Rhyme said. "The Ghost spent some time in Russia, remember? To pick up the immigrants."

He glanced at Sachs, an inquiring eyebrow raised. She answered, "The Ghost and his buddies were pretty hot to get the hell away from the scene of the Wu shooting. I can't see them detouring down to the federal building to set up a bombing. Not to say they couldn't have hired somebody."

Rhyme observed that Webley from State had said not a word since the three men arrived. He was standing, silent, arms crossed, in front of the evidence charts, staring at them.

"How'd they plant the device?" Sellitto asked the ASAC.

"Team of two, we think. Somebody set a van on fire in front of the parking garage. Distracted the guard. The other guy got into the garage and set it."

Dismayed, Rhyme suddenly understood what "implications" the ASAC had been referring to. "And Fred wants off the Ghost case, right?"

The ASAC nodded. "The thing with his partner, you know."

Toby Doolittle, Rhyme recalled, the partner killed in the Oklahoma City bombing.

"He's already cleared the decks and's calling in markers from his snitches in Brighton Beach."

Rhyme could hardly blame the agent. But he said, "We need some help, Harold. Fred was getting a SPEC-TAC team together and some more agents." He knew too that Dellray had been arranging to have the INS's role cut down to intelligence gathering and advising, a fact which even Rhyme—never a practitioner of diplomacy—decided it was best not to mention at the moment. "The Ghost's network is too good. He's too far underground. We need more people, better support."

The ASAC said reassuringly, "Oh, we're downcourt with that one, Lincoln. We'll have a new field ops agent for you in the morning and some more news about SPEC-TAC."

Peabody unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing a badly sweat-stained shirt. He said, "I heard what happened with Alan Coe—at the Wus' apartment, I mean. I'm sorry."

"We would've catch the Ghost," Li said, "if Coe not fire shot."

"I know. Look, he's a good man. I don't have many agents as dedicated as he is. He works twice as hard as most of my people. He's just impulsive. I try to cut him some slack. Had a tough time after that informant of his disappeared. I guess he blamed himself. After his suspension he took a leave of absence. He won't talk about it but I heard he went overseas to find out what happened to her. On his own nickel. Finally came back to work and's been going like a greyhound ever since. One of my best agents."

Except for minor flaws like letting suspects escape, Rhyme thought wryly.

Peabody and the ASAC left, reassuring Rhyme and Sellitto once again that they'd have a new FBI liaison agent in the morning and the SPEC-TAC team en route. "It's definitely agendaed," the ASAC called.

"Good night," said Webley from State formally and followed the men out the door.

"Okay, back to work," the criminalist said to Sellitto, Sachs, Cooper and Li. Eddie Deng was at home, nursing his badly bruised chest. "What else did the Wus tell you, Sachs?"

She gave them the details she'd learned at the clinic. The Wus included Qichen; his wife, Yong-Ping; a teenage daughter named Chin-Mei and a young son, Lang. The Changs were Sam, Mei-Mei, William and Ronald, as well as Chang's father, who was known by his full Chinese name, Chang Jiechi. In China, Sam had arranged for jobs for himself and William but Wu didn't know where or even in what line of work. Then she said that the family also had a baby whose mother had drowned on the
Dragon.
"Po-Yee. It means 'Treasured Child.'"

Rhyme noticed a certain look in Sachs's eyes when she mentioned the infant. He knew how much Sachs wanted a child—and wanted a child with him. As bizarre as this idea would have seemed to him several years ago he now secretly liked it. Part of his motive wasn't completely paternal, though. Amelia Sachs was one of the best crime scene searchers he'd ever seen. Most important was her empathy. She, more than any other CS professional he'd known, except himself, had the ability to transport herself into the mind of the perpetrator at the scene and, in that persona, find evidence that most other officers would have missed. Sachs, however, had another aspect to her psyche. What drove her to perfection at crime scenes drove her into danger. A champion pistol shot, an expert driver, she was often first on the scene at takedowns, ready to pull her weapon and engage a perp. Just like tonight, in the alleyway beside the Wus' apartment.

Rhyme would never ask her to give that up. But with a child at home he hoped she'd restrict herself to the crime scene work, where her true talent as a cop lay.

Then Mel Cooper interrupted his thoughts. "Chromatograph results from the carpet." He explained that it was a wool-nylon blend. He determined the color temperature of the gray shade and then went online, logging into the FBI's carpet-fiber database.

A few minutes later the results popped onto the screen. "It's Lustre-Rite brand and the manufacturers Arnold Textile and Carpeting in Wallingham, Mass. I've got phone numbers," the slim man said.

"Get somebody calling them," Rhyme said. "We want to know about installations in Lower Manhattan. Recent, you think, Mel?"

"Probably. With this many fibers."

"Why that?" Li asked.

The tech explained, "Most fiber loss from carpets happens within six months of installation, give or take."

"I'll do it," Sellitto said. "Only don't hope for miracles, considering the company's probably been closed for hours." He nodded at the clock. It was nearly 11 P.M.

Rhyme said, "It's a manufacturing company. And what does that mean?"

"I don't know, Linc. Why don't you tell me?" Sellitto grumbled. Nobody was in the mood for object lessons.

"That there's probably a night shift. And a night shift means a foreman, and a foreman'll have the boss's number at home. In case of fire or some such."

"I'll see what I can do."

Cooper was testing the trace Sachs had found in the Blazer. "More of the bentonite," he said. "On both the Ghost's shoes and on his partners'." The slim man turned to the microscope and examined another bit of material. "What do you think, Lincoln. Is this mulch?" He looked up from the scope. "Came from the SUV's carpet, driver's side."

"Command, input, microscope," Rhyme ordered. The image that Cooper was looking at in the microscope came up on Rhyme's computer screen. The criminalist saw what he recognized immediately as traces of fresh cedar mulch, the sort used in decorative gardens. "Good."

"Lot of landscaping around Battery Park City," Sellito pointed out, referring to the large residential development in downtown Manhattan, where the trace evidence they'd found earlier had suggested the Ghost might maintain his safehouse.

Too
much
landscaping, though, thought Rhyme. "Trace it to a particular manufacturer?"

"Nup," Cooper said. "Generic."

Well, this sample alone wouldn't pin down a particular location. The fact that the mulch was still damp, however, might help. "If we find a number of possible locations we can eliminate the ones that didn't have mulching done in the past few days. Long shot, but it's something." Then Rhyme asked, "How about the body?"

"Not much," she said. She explained that the man had had no identification on him—only some cash, about $900, extra ammo for his weapon, cigarettes and a lighter. "Oh, and a knife, which had traces of blood on it."

Cooper had already ordered the typing test on the blood. But Rhyme knew it would match Jerry Tang's or Jimmy Mah's.

AFIS results came back on the prints from the Blazer and from the dead man. All negative.

Sonny Li pointed to a Polaroid of the face of the corpse. "Hey, I got it right, Loaban. His face—check it out. He's Kazakh, Kyrgyz, Tajik, Uighur. A minority, like I telling you, remember?"