The Burning Wire

you’re looking for somebody who works for the electric company? That man who was behind that explosion yesterday?”
    “That’s right, sir. Do you know anything about it?”
    “I think I might’ve seen him. I don’t know for sure. Maybe it’s not him. But I thought I should say something.”
    “Hold on.” The man lifted his bulky radio and spoke into it. “This is Portable SevenEight Seven Three to Command Post. I think I’ve got a witness. Might’ve seen the suspect, K.”
    “Roger.” Clattering from the speaker. “Hold on, K. . . . All right, Seven Eight, send him outside. Stone Street. Detective Simpson wants to talk to him, K.”
    “Roger. Seven Eight, out.” Turning to Vetter, the cop said, “Go out the front doors and turn left. There’s a detective there, a woman. Nancy Simpson. You can ask for her.”
    Hurrying through the lobby, Vetter thought: Maybe if the man is still around they’ll capture him before he hurts anybody else.
    My first trip to New York, and I might just make the newspapers. A hero.
    What would Ruth have said?

Chapter 37
    “AMELIA!” NANCY SIMPSON shouted from the sidewalk. “I’ve got a witness. Somebody in the hotel next door.” Sachs hurried up to Simpson, who said, “He’s coming out to see us.”
    Sachs, via the microphone, relayed this information to Rhyme.
    “Where was Galt seen?” the criminalist asked urgently.
    “I don’t know yet. We’re going to talk to the wit. In a second.”
    Together, she and Simpson hurried to the entrance of the hotel to meet the wit. Sachs lookedskyward at the steel superstructure of the building under construction. Workers were leaving fast. Only a few minutes remained until the deadline.
    Then she heard: “Officer!” A man’s voice called from behind her. “Detective!”
    She turned and saw Algonquin vice president Bob Cavanaugh running toward her. The large man was breathing heavily and sweating as he pulled up. His expression said, Sorry, I forgot your name.
    “Amelia Sachs.”
    “Bob Cavanaugh.”
    She nodded.
    “I heard that you’re clearing the construction site?”
    “That’s right. We couldn’t find anywhere he’d attack in the school. It’s mostly carpet and—”
    “But a job site makes no sense,” Cavanaugh said, gesturing frantically toward it.
    “Well, I was thinking . . . the girders, the metal.”
    “Who’s there, Sachs?” Rhyme broke in.
    “The operations director of Algonquin. He doesn’t think the attack’s going to be at the job site.” She asked Cavanaugh, “Why not?”
    “Look!” he said desperately, pointing to a cluster of workers standing nearby.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Their boots!”
    She whispered, “Personal protective equipment. They’d be insulated.”
    If you can’t avoid it, protect yourself against it. . .  .
    Some were wearing gloves too and thick jackets.
    “Galt would know they’re in PPE,” the operations man said. “He’d have to pump so much juice into the superstructure to hurt anybody that the grid’d shut down in this part of town.”
    Rhyme said, “Well, if it’s not the school and it’s not the job site, then what’s his target? Or did we get it wrong in the first place? Maybe it’s not there at all. There was another volcano exhibit.”
    Then Cavanaugh gripped her arm and gestured behind them. “The hotel!”
    “Jesus,” Sachs muttered, staring at the place. It was one of those minimalist, chic places filled with stark stone, marble, fountains . . . and metal. Lots of metal. Copper doors and steel stairs and flooring.
    Nancy Simpson too turned to gaze at the building.
    “What?” Rhyme asked urgently in her ear.
    “It’s the hotel , Rhyme. That’s what he’s attacking.” She grabbed her radio to call ESU’s chief. She lifted it to her mouth, as she and Simpson sprinted forward. “Bo, it’s Amelia. He’s going after the hotel , I’m sure of it. It’s not the construction site. Get your people there now! Evacuate it!”
    “Roger that, Amelia, I’ll—”
    But Sachs didn’t hear the rest of his transmission. Or rather, whatever he said was lost completely to her as she stared through the hotel’s massive windows.
    Though it was before the deadline, one o’clock, a half dozen people inside the Battery Park Hotel stopped in their tracks. Their animated faces instantly went blank. They became doll faces, they were caricatures, grotesques. Spittle appeared in the corners of lips taut as ropes. Fingers, feet,