The Burning Wire

about. About ten minutes ago Mr. Watchmaker, dressed as a businessman, entered the building. From the lobby he used a pay phone to call a company on the sixth floor—on the opposite side of where the fire alarm was yesterday. Just like you thought. He spent about ten minutes inside and then left.”
    “He vanished?” Rhyme asked, alarmed.
    “No. He’s now outside in a small park between the two main buildings in the complex.”
    “Just sitting there?”
    “So it seems. He’s made several mobile calls. But the frequency is unusual or they’re scrambled, Arturo tells me. So we can’t intercept.”
    Rhyme supposed rules about eavesdropping in Mexico might be somewhat less strict than in the U.S.
    “They’re sure it’s the Watchmaker?”
    “Yes. Arturo’s men said they had a clear view. He has a satchel with him. He still is carrying it.”
    “He is?”
    “Yes. We still can’t be sure what it is. A bomb, perhaps. With the circuit board detonator. Our teams are surrounding the facility. All plainclothed but we have a full complement of soldiers nearby. And the bomb squad.”
    “Where are you, Commander?”
    A laugh. “It was very considerate of your Watchmaker to pick this place. The Jamaican consulate is here. They have bomb barriers up and we’re behind those. Logan can’t see us.”
    Rhyme hoped that was true.
    “When will you move in?”
    “As soon as Arturo’s men say it’s clear. The park is crowded with innocents. A number of children. But he won’t get away. We have most of the roads sealed off.”
    A trickle of sweat slipped down Rhyme’s temple. He grimaced and twisted his head to the side to wipe it on the headrest.
    The Watchmaker . . .
    So close.
    Please. Let this work out. Please . . .
    And again squelched the frustration that he felt from working on such an important case at a distance.
    “We’ll let you know soon, Captain.”
    They disconnected the call and Rhyme forced himself to focus on Raymond Galt once again. Was the lead to his whereabouts solid? He looked like an everyman, approaching middle age, not too heavy, not too slim. Average height. And in the paranoid climate he’d created, people were undoubtedly primedto see things that weren’t there. Electrical traps, arc flash risks . . . and the killer himself.
    Then he started, as Sachs’s voice snapped through the radio. “Rhyme, you there, K?”
    She’d ended her transmission with the traditional conclusion of a comment or question in the police radio parlance, K , to let the recipient know it was okay to transmit. He and she usually disposed of this formality, and for some reason Rhyme found it troubling that she’d used the shorthand.
    “Sachs, go ahead. What do you have?”
    “We just got here. We’re about to go in. I’ll let you know.”

Chapter 58
    A MAROON TORINO Cobra made for a bad undercover car, so Sachs had glided it to a stop about two blocks away from the school where Galt had been sighted.
    The school had closed years ago and, according to the signage, was soon to be demolished and condominiums built on the grounds.
    “Good hidey-hole,” she said to Pulaski as they jogged close, noting the seven-foot-high wooden fence around the grounds, covered with graffiti and posters of alternative theater, performance pieces and music groups plummeting to obscurity. The Seventh Seal. The Right Hands. Bolo .
    Pulaski, who seemed to be forcing himself toconcentrate, nodded. She’d have to keep an eye on him. He’d done well at the elevator crime scene in Midtown but it seemed that the accident at Galt’s apartment—hitting that man—was bothering him again.
    They paused in front of the fence. The demolition hadn’t started yet; the gate—two hinged pieces of plywood chained together and padlocked—had enough play so they could have squeezed through, which is probably how Galt had gotten in, if in fact he had. Sachs stood to the side of the gap and peered in. The school was largely intact, though it seemed that a portion of the roof had fallen in. Most of the glass had been stoned out of the windows but you could see virtually nothing inside.
    Yep, it was a good hidey-hole. And a nightmare to assault. There’d be a hundred good defensive positions.
    Call in the troops? Not yet, Sachs thought. Every minute they delayed was a minute Galt could be finishing the last touches on his new weapon. And every ESU officer’s footfall might destroy trace evidence.
    “He could have it