The Burning Wire

on which was recorded segment from TV show or film. Cable TV.
    —Additional traces of taramasalata.
    —Brite-Beam Flashlight.
    —Untraceable.
    —Six-foot string holding flashlight.
    —Untraceable.
    —Trace evidence, associated with the area around City Hall:
    —Quartz and ammonium chloride copper cleaner.
    —Terra-cotta dust, similar to building facades in area.
    —White marble stone dust.
    —Hair, 9 inches long, blond, sprayed, person under 50, probably woman’s.
    —Hair, 3 / 8 inches long, brown, person under 50.
    THIRD DEMAND
----
    —Sent via email.
    —Untraceable; used a proxy in Europe.
    But it turned out that Rhyme was wrong.
    It was true that, as he’d felt all along, the evidence—as much else in this case—just didn’t add up.But he was wrong in that the key to unraveling the mystery wasn’t to be found on the charts surrounding him. Rather, it came blustering into the lab just now, accompanied by Thom, in the form of a tall, lanky sweating man, skin black, clothing bright green.
    Catching his breath, Fred Dellray nodded fast to everybody in the room, then proceeded to ignore them as he strode up to Rhyme. “I need to throw something out, Lincoln. And you gotta tell me if it works or not.”
    “Fred,” McDaniel began. “What the hell—”
    “Lincoln?” Dellray persisted.
    “Sure, Fred. Go ahead.”
    “What do you think of the theory that Ray Galt’s a fall guy. He’s dead, been dead for a couple of days, I think. It’s somebody else who’s put this whole thing together. From the beginning.”
    Rhyme paused for a moment—the disorientation from the attack was slowing his analysis of Dellray’s idea. But finally he offered a faint smile and said, “What do I think? It’s brilliant. That’s what.”

Chapter 69
    TUCKER MCDANIEL’S RESPONSE , however, was, “Ridiculous. The whole investigation’s based on Galt.”
    Sellitto ignored him. “What’s your theory, Fred? I want to hear it.”
    “My CI, a guy named William Brent. He was followingup on a lead. He was on to somebody who was connected with—maybe behind—the grid attacks. But then he vanished. I found out that Brent was interested in somebody who’d just come to town, was armed with a forty-five and was driving a white van. He’d recently kidnapped and killed somebody. He’d been staying at an address on the Lower East Side for the past couple of days. I found out where. It turned out to be a crime scene.”
    “Crime scene?” Rhyme asked.
    “You betcha. It was Ray Galt’s apartment.”
    Sachs said, “But Galt didn’t just come to town. He’s lived here all his adult life.”
    “Ex- actly .”
    “So what’s this Brent have to say?” McDaniel asked skeptically.
    “Oh, he ain’t tellin’ anybody anything. ’Cause yesterday he was in the alley behind Galt’s and got himself run over by an NYPD patrolman. He’s in the hospital, still unconscious.”
    “Oh my God,” Ron Pulaski whispered. “St. Vincent’s?”
    “Right.”
    Pulaski said in a weak voice, “That was me who hit him.”
    “You?” Dellray asked, voice rising.
    The officer said, “But, no, it can’t be. The guy I hit? His name’s Stanley Palmer.”
    “Yep, yep . . . That’s him. ‘Palmer’ was one of Brent’s covers.”
    “You mean, he didn’t have warrants on him? He didn’t do time for attempted murder, aggravated assault?”
    Dellray shook his head. “The rap sheet was fake, Ron. We put it into the system so anybody whochecked’d find out he had a record. The worst we got him for was conspiracy and then I turned him. Brent’s a stand-up guy. He snitched for the money mostly. One of the best in the business.”
    “But what was he doing with groceries? In the alley?”
    “Undercover technique a lot of us use. You cart around groceries or shopping bags, you look less suspicious. Baby carriage is the best. With a doll in it, course.”
    “Oh,” Pulaski muttered. “I . . . Oh.”
    But Rhyme couldn’t be concerned about his officer’s psyche. Dellray had raised a credible theory that explained the inconsistencies that Rhyme had been sensing in the case all along.
    He’d been looking for a wolf, when he should have been hunting a fox.
    But could it be? Was somebody else behind the attacks and Galt just a fall guy?
    McDaniel looked doubtful. “But there’ve been witnesses . . .”
    His brown eyes locked on his boss’s blue ones, Dellray said, “Are they reliable?”
    “What do you mean, Fred?” An