The Burning Wire (Lincoln Rhyme 9)

"Didn't have one."

The agent didn't need a polygraph. R.C. was doing just fine with the dharmic quality of honesty.

"Come on, R.C., my friend, what else about him? White van, just came to town, big forty-five. Clipped somebody for reasons unknown."

"Maybe kidnapped 'em before he killed 'em . . . Was somebody you didn't fuck with."

That kind of went without saying.

R.C. continued, "So this Bill or whoever heard I was connected, you know. Hooked into the wire, you know."

"The wire."

"Yeah. Not what that asshole's using to kill people. I mean the word on the street."

"Oh, that's what you mean," Dellray said but R.C. floated below irony.

"And you are connected, aren't you, son? You know all 'bout the hood, right? You're the Ethel Mertz of the Lower East Side."

"Who?"

"Keep going."

"Okay, well, like, I had heard something. I like to know who's around, what kind of shit could be going down. Anyway, I'd heard about this guy, was just like Bill said. And I sent him over to where he's staying. That's it. That's all."

Dellray believed him. "Gimme the address."

He did, a decrepit street not far away. "It's the basement apartment."

"Okay, s'all I need for now."

"You . . ."

"I won't tell Daddy anything. Don'tcha worry. 'Less you're fucking with me."

"I'm not, no, Fred, really."

When Dellray was at the door, R.C. called, "It wasn't what you think."

The agent turned.

"It really was 'cause you smelt bad. That's why we weren't going to serve you. Not because you're black."

Five minutes later Dellray was approaching the block R.C. had told him about. He'd debated calling in backup, but decided not to quite yet. Working street required finesse, not sirens and takedown teams. Or Tucker McDaniel. Dellray loped through the streets, dodging the dense crowds. Thinking, as he often did, It's the middle of the day. What the hell do these people do for work? Then he turned two corners and eased into an alley, so he could approach the apartment in question from the back.

He looked quickly up the dim, rot-smelling canyon.

Not far away was a white guy in a cap and baggy shirt, sweeping cobblestones. Dellray counted addresses; he was directly behind the place where R.C. had sent William Brent.

Okay, this's weird, the agent thought. He started forward through the alley. The sweeper turned his mirrored sunglasses his way and then went back to sweeping. Dellray stopped near him, frowning and looking around. Trying to make sense of this.

Finally the sweeper asked, "The fuck're you doing?"

"Well, I'll tell you," Dellray offered. "One thing I'm doing is looking at an NYPD undercover cop who, for some fucked-up reason, is trying to blend by sweeping cobblestones in a 'hood where they stopped sweeping cobblestones, oh, about a hundred and thirty years ago." Dellray displayed his ID.

"Dellray? I heard of you." Then defensively the cop said, "I'm just doing what they told me. It's a stakeout."

"Stakeout? Why? What is this place?"