The Burning Wire (Lincoln Rhyme 9)

As he walked he glanced into offices, to find somebody to ask about the incident. But they were empty. It was after hours but more likely, he guessed, everybody'd sped to Central Park after Justice For the Earth was spotted. That was perhaps the best indicator that his career was over: Nobody had even called to request his presence in the operation.

Of course, there was another possible reason for that too--and for the summons to the SAC's office: the stolen $100K.

What the hell had he been thinking of? He'd done it for the city he loved, for the citizens he was sworn to protect. But did he actually believe he'd get away with it? Especially with an ASAC who wanted him out and who pored over his agents' paperwork like a crossword-puzzle addict.

Could he negotiate his way out of jail time?

He wasn't sure. With the fuckup over Justice For the Earth, his stock was real low.

Down one corridor of the nondescript office building. Down another.

Finally he came to the den of the special agent in charge. His assistant announced Dellray and the agent walked inside the large corner office.

"Fred."

"Jon."

The SAC, Jonathan Phelps, mid-fifties, brushed at his gray swept-back hair, pushing it a little farther back, and motioned the agent into a chair across from his cluttered desk.

No, Dellray thought, cluttered wasn't the right word. It was ordered and organized; it was just layered in three inches of files. This was, after all, New York. There was a lot that could go wrong and needed mending by people like the SAC.

Dellray tried to read the man but could find no clues. He too had worked undercover earlier in his career. But that wouldn't buy Dellray any sympathy, that wisp of common past. That was one thing about the Bureau; federal law and the regulations promulgated thereunder trumped everything. The SAC was the only person in the room, which didn't surprise Dellray. Tucker McDaniel would be reading rights to terrorists in Central Park.

"So, Fred. I'll get right to it."

"Sure."

"About this Juf-tee thing."

"Justice For the Earth."

"Right." Another sweep through the opulent hair. It was as ordered after the fingers left as when they arrived.

"I just want to understand. You didn't find anything about the group, right?"

Dellray hadn't gotten this far by poking at the truth. "No, Jon. I blew it. I hit up all my usual sources and a half dozen new ones. Everybody I'm running now and a dozen I've retired. Two dozen. I didn't come up with squat. I'm sorry."

"And yet Tucker McDaniel's surveillance team's had ten clear hits."

The cloud zone . . .

Dellray wasn't going to trash McDaniel either, not even wing him a bit. "That's what I understand. His teams came up with a bucketful of good details. The personnel--this Rahman, Johnston. And code words about weapons." He sighed. "I heard there was an incident, Jon. What happened?"

"Oh, yeah. Juf-tee made a move."

"Casualties?"

"We've got a video. You want to see it?"

Dellray thought, No, sir, you betcha I don't. The last thing I want to see is people hurt because I screwed up. Or Tucker McDaniel leading in a takedown team to save the day. But he said, "Sure. Roll it."

The SAC leaned over his laptop and hit some keys, then spun the unit around for Dellray to look at. He expected to see one of the typical Bureau surveillance videos, shot with a wide-angle lens, low contrast to pick up all the details, information at the bottom: location and by-the-second time stamp.

Instead, he was looking at a CNN newscast.

CNN?

A smiling, coiffed woman reporter, holding a sheaf of notes, was talking to a man in his thirties, wearing a mismatched suit jacket and slacks. He was dark-complexioned and his hair was cropped short. He was smiling uneasily, eyes shifting between the reporter and the camera. A young redheaded boy with freckles, about eight years old, stood next to him.