The Burning Wire

grin on Pulaski’s face and he wanted to call his twin brother, a uniform down in the Sixth Precinct, and tell him what had happened. He didn’t, of course; he’d save that for when they went out for beers this weekend.
    And so, solo, he started the search, pulling on the latex gloves.
    Galt’s apartment was a cheesy, depressing place, clearly the home of a bachelor who cared zero about his environment. Dark, small, musty. Food half fresh and half old, some of it way old. Clothes piled up.The immediate search, as Rhyme had impressed on him, was not to gather evidence for trial—though he “better not fuck up the chain of custody cards”—but to find out where Galt might be going to attack again and what, if any, connection he had with Rahman and Justice For . . .
    Presently he was searching fast through the unsteady, scabby desk and the battered filing cabinets and boxes for references to motels or hotels, other apartments, friends, vacation houses.
    A map with a big red X and a note: Attack here!
    But of course there wasn’t anything that obvious. In fact, there was very little helpful at all. No address books, notes, letters. The call log, in and out, on the phone had been wiped and, hitting REDIAL, he heard the electronic voice ask what city and state he needed a number for. Galt had taken his laptop with him and there was no other computer here.
    Pulaski found sheets of paper and envelopes similar to what had been used for the demand note. A dozen pens too. He collected these and bagged them.
    When he found nothing else helpful he began walking the grid, laying the numbers, photographing. And collecting samples of trace.
    He moved as quickly as he could, though, as often, wrestling with the fear, which was always with him. Afraid that he’d get hurt again, which made him timid and want to pull back. But that in turn led to another fear: that if he didn’t do 100 percent, he wouldn’t live up to expectations. He’d disappoint his wife, his brother, Amelia Sachs.
    Disappoint Lincoln Rhyme.
    But it was so hard to shake the fear.
    His hands started to quiver, breath came fast, and he jumped at the sound of a creak.
    Calming, remembering his wife’s comforting voice whispering, “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay . . .”
    He started again. He located a back closet and was about to open it. But he noted the metal handle. He was on linoleum but he didn’t know if that was safe enough. He was too spooked to open the door even with the CS latex gloves. He picked up a rubber dish mat and used that to grip the knob. He opened the door.
    And inside was proof positive that Ray Galt was the perp: a hacksaw with a broken blade. The bolt cutter too. He knew his job here was only to walk the grid and collect evidence but he couldn’t help pulling a small magnifier from his pocket and looking over the tool, noting that it had a notch on the blade that could have left the distinctive mark on the grating bar he’d collected at the substation scene near the bus stop. He bagged and tagged them. In another small cabinet he discovered a pair of Albertson-Fenwick boots, size 11.
    His phone trilled, startling him. It was Lincoln Rhyme on caller ID. Pulaski answered at once. “Lincoln, I—”
    “You find anything about hidey-holes, Rookie? Vehicles he might’ve rented? Friends he might be staying with? Anything at all about target locations?”
    “No, he’s kind of sanitized the place. I found the tools and boots, though. It’s definitely him.”
    “I want locations. Addresses .”
    “Yessir, I—”
    Click .
    Pulaski snapped the phone shut and carefully bagged the evidence he’d collected so far. Then he went through the entire apartment twice, includingthe refrigerator, the freezer, all the closets. Even food cartons large enough to hide something.
    Nothing . . .
    Now the fear was replaced by frustration. He’d found evidence that Galt was the attacker but nothing else about him. Where he might be, what his target was. Then his eyes settled on the desk again. He was looking at a cheap computer printer. On the top a yellow light was blinking. He approached it. The message was: Clear jam .
    What had Galt been printing?
    The cop carefully opened the lid and peered into the guts of the machine. He could see the tangle of paper.
    He could also see a sign that warned, Danger! Electric Shock Risk! Unplug before clearing jam or servicing!
    Presumably there might be other pages in the queue,