Cooper was looking reverently at the wire. "So that's it?" Then lifting another of the bags that contained misshapen metal disks, the shrapnel, he added, "Lucky nobody was walking by. If this'd happened on Fifth Avenue, there could be two dozen people dead."
Ignoring the tech's unnecessary observation, Rhyme focused on Sachs. He saw that her eyes had gone still as she looked at the tiny disks.
In a voice perhaps harsher than necessary, to shake her attention away from the shrapnel, he called, "Come on, people. Let's get to work."
Chapter 12
EASING INTO THE booth, Fred Dellray found himself looking at a pale skinny man who could have been a wasted thirty or a preserved fifty.
The guy was wearing a sports jacket that was too big, its source either a very low-end thrift shop or a coat rack, when nobody was looking.
"Jeep."
"Uhm, that's not my name anymore."
"Not your name? Like nacho cheese. Then whose cheese is it?"
"I don't get--"
"Whatcha name now?" Dellray asked, frowning deeply, playing a particular role, one he generally slipped into with people like this. Jeep, or Not Jeep, had been a sadistic junkie the FBI agent had collared in an undercover set that required Dellray to laugh his way through the man's graphic depiction of torturing a college kid who'd reneged on a drug payment. Then came the bust and, after some negotiation and time served, the man became one of Dellray's pets.
Which meant a tight leash that had to be jerked occasionally.
"It was Jeep. But I decided to change it. I'm Jim now, Fred."
Changes. The magic word of the day.
"Oh, oh, speakin' of names: 'Fred . . . Fred'? I'm your buddy, I'm your best friend? I didn't remember those introductions, signing your dance card, meetin' the parents."
"Sorry, sir."
"Tell ya what: Stick with 'Fred.' Don't believe you when you say 'sir.' "
The man was a disgusting morsel of humanity, but Dellray had learned you had to walk a fine line. Never contempt, yet never hesitate to dig in a knuckle or two, the pressure of fear.
Fear breeds respect. Just the way of the world.
"Now here's what we're doing. This's important. You got a date coming up, I'm recalling."
A hearing, about leaving the jurisdiction. Dellray didn't care about losing him. Jeep's usefulness was pretty much gone. That was the nature of CIs; they have a shelf life of fresh yogurt. Jeep-Jim was going to appeal to the New York State parole board about permission to move to Georgia. Of all places.
"If you'd put in a word, Fred, sir, that'd be great." And he turned big soupy eyes the agent's way.
Wall Street should take a lesson from the confidential informant world. No derivatives, no default swaps, no insurance, no cooking the books. It was simple. You gave your snitch something of X value, and he gave you something equally important.
If he didn't produce, he was out. If you didn't pay, you got shit.
And all so very transparent.
"Okay," Dellray said. "Whatchu want's on the table. Now 'bout what I want. And what I have to say up front is it's time sensitive. You know what that means, Jim?"
"Somebody's gonna get fucked and pretty soon."
"Rightie-ro. Now, listen close. I need to find Brent."
A pause. "William Brent? Why would I know where to find him?" Jeep-Jim, Slim-Jim, asked this with too much rise in his voice, telling Dellray that the snitch had at least some idea where to find the man.
Dellray sang, "Georgia's on my mind."