The Burning Wire

forward—his version of Cooper’s own posture adjustment. “He’s on a chemotherapy regimen.”
    “Has to be.”
    The young FBI protégé of McDaniel’s barked a laugh. “How do you know that?” Then to his boss: “That’s pretty good.”
    “You’d be surprised,” Ron Pulaski said.
    Rhyme ignored them both. “Call Algonquin and see if any of the twelve on the list made health claims for cancer treatment in the past five or six months.”
    Sachs called Algonquin. Andi Jessen was on the phone—probably with the governor or mayor—and Sachs was transferred to the company’s security chief,Bernard Wahl. Through speakerphone, the deep, African-American-inflected voice reassured them that he’d look into it immediately.
    It wasn’t quite immediate but it was good enough for Rhyme. Three minutes later Wahl came back on the line.
    “There’re six cancer patients on the original list—of the forty-six. But only two on the list of the twelve, the ones whose handwriting could match the demand letter. One of those is a manager in the energy brokerage department. He was supposedly flying into town from a business trip at the time of the attack.” Wahl gave the relevant information. Mel Cooper took it down and, at a nod from Rhyme, called the airline to check. Transportation Security had become an unwitting partner in general law enforcement because identification requirements were now so stringent that the whereabouts of people flying could be verified easily.
    “He checks out.”
    “What about the other one?”
    “Yessir, well, he’s a possibility. Raymond Galt, forty. He’s made health claims for leukemia treatment over the past year.”
    Rhyme shot a glance to Sachs, who knew instinctively what the look meant. They communicated this way often. She dropped into a chair and began keyboarding.
    “His history?” Rhyme said.
    Wahl answered, “Started with a competitor in the Midwest and then joined Algonquin.”
    “Competitor?”
    He paused. “Well, not really competitor, like carmakers are. That’s just how we refer to other power companies.”
    “What does Galt do for you now?”
    “He’s a troubleman,” Wahl said.
    Rhyme was staring at the profile on his computer screen. A troubleman would have enough experience to put together an arc flash weapon like the sort at the substation, according to Charlie Sommers. He asked, “Mel, take a look at Galt’s file. Would he know SCADA and the energy management program?”
    Cooper opened the man’s personnel file. “Doesn’t say specifically. Just that he’s taken a lot of continuing education courses.”
    “Mr. Wahl, is Galt married, single?” Rhyme asked the security chief.
    “Single. Lives in Manhattan. You want his address, sir?”
    “Yes.”
    Wahl gave it to them.
    “This is Tucker McDaniel. What about whereabouts, Mr. Wahl?” McDaniel asked urgently.
    “That’s the thing. He called in sick two days ago. Nobody knows where he is.”
    “Any chance he’s done some traveling lately? Maybe to Hawaii or Oregon? Someplace where there’s a volcano?”
    “Volcano? Why?”
    Struggling to be patient, Rhyme asked, “Just, has he traveled?”
    “According to his time sheets, no. He’s taken a few days’ medical—I guess for the cancer treatment—but he hasn’t been on a vacation since last year.”
    “Could you check with his fellow employees and see if they know about places he goes, friends outside of the company, any groups he’s in?”
    “Yessir.”
    Thinking of the Greek food connection, Rhyme asked, “And anybody he goes to lunch with regularly.”
    “Yessir.”
    “Mr. Wahl, what about Galt’s next of kin?” McDaniel asked.
    Wahl reported that Galt’s father was dead but his mother and a sister lived in Missouri. He recited the names, addresses and phone numbers.
    Rhyme—and McDaniel too—could think of nothing else to ask the security chief. The criminalist thanked him and they disconnected.
    McDaniel instructed his underling to contact the FBI’s resident agency in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, and have them start surveillance.
    “Probable cause to get a tap?” the Kid asked.
    “Doubt it. But push for one. Get a pen register, at least.”
    “I’m on it.”
    “Rhyme,” Sachs called.
    He looked up at the screen, which revealed the fruits of Sachs’s frantic keyboarding. The DMV picture showed a pale man, gazing unsmiling at the camera. He was blond, hair trimmed short. About an inch long.
    “So,” McDaniel said,