The jewelry exchange had been evacuated and swept--no devices were found there--and an emergency vehicle locator was out on al-Dahab's delivery van, which, according to the owners, might be anywhere in the city; the man was free to set his own delivery schedule.
It was at moments like this that Rhyme would have paced, had he been able to. Where the hell is he? Is the man driving around with a van full of explosives at the moment? Maybe he'd given up on the jewelry exchange and was going after a secondary target: a synagogue or an El-Al airlines office.
"Let's get Boyd down here, put some pressure on him," he snapped. "I want to know where the hell this guy is!"
It was at that moment that Mel Cooper's phone rang.
Then Sellitto's, followed by Amelia Sachs's.
Finally, the main laboratory phone began to chirp.
The callers were different but the message was virtually the same.
Rhyme's question about the bomber's whereabouts had just been answered.
*
Only the driver died.
Which considering the force of the explosion and the fact that the van was in the intersection of Ninth Avenue and Fifty-fourth, surrounded by other cars, was pretty miraculous.
When the bomb went off, the direction of the blast was mostly upward, through the roof, and out the windows, scattering shrapnel and glass and injuring a score of people, but the main damage was confined to the interior of the E250. The burning van had lurched up on the sidewalk, where it slammed into a light post. A crew from the fire station up the street on Eighth Avenue got the flames out fast and kept the crowd back. As for the driver, there was no point in even trying to save him; the two largest pieces of his remains were separated by several yards.
The Bomb Squad had cleared the scene and the main job of the police now was to wait for the medical examiner tour doctor and the crime scene crew.
"What's that smell?" the detective from Midtown North asked. The tall, balding officer was creeped out by the stink, which he took to be burnt human flesh. The problem was that it smelled good.
One of the detectives from the Bomb Squad laughed at the green-faced detective. "Gyros."
"Gear-o, what?" the detective asked, thinking it was short for something--like FUBAR, meaning "fucked up beyond all recognition."
"Look." The Bomb Squad cop held up a chunk of burnt meat in his latex-gloved hands. He smelled it. "Tasty."
The Midtown North detective laughed and didn't reveal how close to puking he was.
"It's lamb."
"It's--"
"The driver was delivering food. That was his job. The back of the van's filled with meat and falafel and shit like that."
"Oh." The cop still didn't feel any less nauseous.
It was then that a bright red Camaro SS--one hell of a car--skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, just kissing the yellow police tape. Out climbed a stunning redhead, who looked over the scene, nodding to the detective.
"Hey," he said.
As the woman detective hooked a headset onto her Motorola and waved to the crime scene bus, just pulling up as well, she sniffed the air, taking several deep breaths. She nodded. "Haven't run the scene yet," she said into the microphone, "but from the smell, Rhyme, I'd say we've got him."
It was then that the tall, bald detective swallowed and said, "You know, I'll be right back." He jogged to a nearby Starbucks, praying he'd make it to the restroom in time.
*
With Detective Bell at her side, Geneva walked into the laboratory portion of Mr. Rhyme's town house, downstairs. She glanced at her father, who looked at her with those big puppy-dog eyes of his.
Damnit. She looked away.
Mr. Rhyme said, "We've got some news. The man who hired Boyd's dead."