The Burning Wire

44
    AT 2:40 P.M . Algonquin security chief Bernard Wahl was walking along the sidewalk in Queens, coming back from his investigation. That’s how he liked to think of it. His investigation about his company, the number-one energy provider in the East, maybe in the entire North American grid.
    He wanted to help. Especially now, since the horrific attack this afternoon at the Battery Park Hotel.
    Ever since he’d heard that woman, Detective Sachs, mention to Ms. Jessen about the Greek food, he’d been devising a strategy.
    “Microinvestigation” was how he thought of what he was doing. Wahl had read about it somewhere, or maybe seen it on the Discovery Channel. It was all about looking at the small clues, the small connections. Forget geopolitics and terrorists. Get a single fingerprint or hair and run with it. Until you collared the perp. Or it turned out to be a dead end and you went in a different direction.
    So he’d been on a mission of his own—checking out the nearby Greek restaurants in Astoria, Queens. He’d learned Galt enjoyed that cuisine.
    And just a half hour ago he’d hit pay dirt.
    A waitress, Sonja, more than cute, earned a twenty-dollar tip by reporting that twice in the past week, a man wearing dark slacks and a knit Algonquin Consolidated shirt—the sort worn by middle managers—had been in for lunch. The restaurant was Leni’s, known for its moussaka and grilled octopus . . . and, more significant, homemade taramasalata, bowls of which were brought to everyone who sat down, lunch and dinner, along with wedges of pita bread and lemon.
    Sonja “couldn’t swear to it,” but when shown a picture of Raymond Galt, she said, “Yeah, yeah, that looks like him.”
    And the man had been online the entire time—on a Sony VAIO computer. While he’d only picked at the rest of his food he’d eaten all his taramasalata, she’d noted.
    Online the whole time . . .
    Which meant to Wahl that there might be some way to trace what Galt had searched for or who he’d emailed. Wahl watched all those crime shows on TV, and did some continuing education in security on his own dime. Maybe the police could get the identification number of Galt’s computer and find out where he was hiding.
    Sonja had reported the killer had also made a lot of cell phone calls.
    That was interesting. Galt was a loner. He was attacking people because he was pissed off about getting cancer from high-tension wires. So who was he calling? A partner? Why? That was something they could find out too.
    Hurrying back to the office now, Wahl considered how best to handle this. Of course he’d have to get word back to the police as fast as he could. His heart was slamming at the thought of being instrumentalin catching the killer. Maybe Detective Sachs would be impressed enough to get him a job interview with the NYPD.
    But, hold on, don’t be cagey here, he cautioned himself. Just do what’s best and deal with the future in the future. Call everybody—Detective Sachs, Lincoln Rhyme and the others: FBI Agent McDaniel and that police lieutenant, Lon Sellitto.
    And, of course, tell Ms. Jessen.
    He walked quickly, tense and exhilarated, seeing ahead of him the red and gray smokestacks of Algonquin Consolidated. And in front of the building, those damn protesters. He enjoyed a brief image of turning a water cannon on them. Or, even more fun, a Taser. The company that made them also had a sort of a shotgun Taser, which would fire a number of barbs into a crowd for riot control.
    He was smiling at the thought of them dancing around on the ground, when the man got him from behind.
    Wahl gasped and barked a cry.
    A muzzle of a gun appeared against his right cheek. “Don’t turn around,” was the whisper. The gun now pressed against his back. The voice told him to walk into an alley between a closed car repair shop and a darkened warehouse.
    A harsh whisper: “Just do what I say, Bernie, and you won’t get hurt.”
    “You know me?”
    “It’s Ray,” came the whisper.
    “Ray Galt?” Wahl’s heart thudded hard. He wondered if he’d be sick. “Oh, man, look. What’re you—”
    “Shhh. Keep going.”
    They continued into the alley for another fifty feet or so, and turned a corner into a dim recess.
    “Lie down, face first. Arms out at your sides.”
    Wahl hesitated, thinking for some ridiculous reason about the suit he’d proudly put on that morning, an expensive one. “Always look better than your job title,” his