The Burning Wire

but if she ever had any doubts about the wisdom of sticking to her career, all she had to do was listen to a conversation like the one Larry and his friend were having at the moment, and she knew she could never go into that side of business—law, finance, banking, accounting.
    The two men wore very expensive suits, nice watches and elegant shoes. But there was a harried quality about them. Edgy. It didn’t seem they liked their jobs much. The friend was complaining about his boss breathing down his neck. Larry was complaining about an audit that was in the “fucking tank.”
    Stress, unhappiness.
    And that language too.
    Susan was pleased she didn’t have to deal with that. Her life was the Rococo and neoclassical designs of craftsmen, from Chippendale to George Hepplewhite to Sheraton.
    Practical beauty, she phrased their creations.
    “You look wasted,” the friend said to Larry.
    He did, Susan agreed.
    “I am. Bear of a trip.”
    “When’d you get back?”
    “Tuesday.”
    “You were senior auditor?”
    Larry nodded. “The books were a nightmare. Twelve-hour days. The only time I could get out on the golf course was Sunday and the temperature hit a hundred and sixteen.”
    “Ouch.”
    “I’ve got to go back. Monday. I mean, I just don’t know where the hell the money’s going. Something’s fishy.”
    “Weather that hot, maybe it’s evaporating.”
    “Funny,” Larry muttered in an unfunny way.
    The men continued their banter about financial statements and disappearing money but Susan tuned them out. She saw another man approach, wearing a workman’s brown overalls and a hat, as well as glasses. Eyes down, he carried a tool kit and a large watering can, though he must’ve been working in a different office since there were no decorative plants in the hallway here, and none in her office. Her publisher wouldn’t pay for any flora and he sure wouldn’t pay for a person to water them.
    The elevator car came and the two businessmen let her precede them inside, and she reflected that at least some semblance of chivalry remained in the twenty-first century. The workman entered too and hit the button for the floor two down. But, unlike the others, he rudely pushed past her to get to the back of the car.
    They started to descend. A moment later Larry glanced down and said, “Hey, mister, watch it. You’re leaking there.”
    Susan looked back. The workman had accidentally tilted the can and a stream of water was pouring onto the stainless-steel floor of the car.
    “Oh, sorry,” the man mumbled unapologetically. The whole floor was soaked, Susan noted.
    The door opened and the worker got out. Another man entered.
    Larry’s friend said in a loud voice, “Careful, that guy just spilled some water in here. Didn’t even bother to clean it up.”
    But whether the culprit had heard or not, Susan couldn’t say. Even if he had she doubted he cared.
    The door closed and they continued their journey downward.

Chapter 49
    RHYME WAS STARING at the clock. Ten minutes until the next deadline.
    The last hour or so had involved coordinated searches throughout the city by the police and FBI, and, in the town house here, a frantic analysis of the evidence once more. Frantic . . . and futile. They were no closer to finding Galt or his next target location than they’d been just after the first attack. Rhyme’s eyes swung to the evidence charts, which remained an elusive jumble of puzzle pieces.
    He was aware of McDaniel’s taking a call. The agent listened, nodding broadly. He shot a look to his protégé. He then thanked the caller and hung up.
    “One of my T and C teams had another hit about the terror group. A small one but it’s gold. Another word in the name is ‘Earth.’ ”
    “Justice For the Earth,” Sachs said.
    “Could be more to it but we know those words for certain. ‘Justice.’ ‘For.’ And ‘Earth.’ ”
    “At least we know it’s ecoterror,” Sellitto muttered.
    “No hits on any database?” Rhyme wondered aloud.
    “No, but remember, this is all cloud zone. And there was another hit. Rahman’s second in command seems to be somebody named Johnston.”
    “Anglo.”
    But how does this help? Rhyme wondered angrily to himself. How does any of this help us find the site of the attack, which’s going to happen in just a few minutes?
    And what the hell kind of weapon has he devised this time? Another arc flash? Another deadly circuit in a public place?
    Rhyme’s eyes were