The Burning Wire (Lincoln Rhyme 9)

"Hey. How are you?"

Rhyme reflected that it seemed everybody was asking about his health today, though Arthur was just making conversation.

"Good."

"It was nice seeing you and Amelia last week."

Rhyme had recently reconnected with Arthur Rhyme, who'd been like a brother to him and with whom he'd grown up outside Chicago. Though the criminalist was hardly one for weekends in the country, he'd astonished Sachs by suggesting that the two of them take up an invitation to visit Art Rhyme and his wife, Judy, at their small vacation house on the shore. Arthur revealed that he'd actually built a wheelchair ramp to make it accessible. They'd gone out to the place, along with Thom and Pammy and her dog, Jackson, for a couple of days.

Rhyme had enjoyed himself. While the women and canine hiked the beach, he and Arthur had talked science and academia and world events, their opinions growing inarticulate in direct proportion to the consumption of single malt scotch; Arthur, like Rhyme, had a pretty good collection.

"You're on speaker here, Art, with . . . well, a bunch of cops."

"I've been watching the news. You're running this electricity incident, I'll bet. Terrible. The press is saying it's probably an accident but . . ." He gave a skeptical laugh.

"No, not accidental at all. We don't know whether it's a disgruntled employee or a terrorist."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Arthur was a scientist too and somewhat more broad-based than Rhyme.

"Actually, yes. I've got a fast question for you. Well, I hope it's fast. We found some trace at the crime scene and it doesn't match any substrata nearby. In fact, it doesn't match any geologic formation in the New York area I'm familiar with."

"I've got a pen. Give me what you found."

Rhyme recited the results of their tests.

Arthur was silent. Rhyme pictured his cousin lost in thought as he gazed at the list he'd jotted, his mind running through possibilities. Finally he asked, "How big are the particles?"

"Mel?"

"Hi, Art, it's Mel Cooper."

"Hi, Mel. Been dancing lately?"

"We won the Long Island tango competition last week. We're going to regionals on Sunday. Unless I'm stuck here, of course."

"Mel?" Rhyme urged.

"Particles? Yes, very small. About point two five millimeters."

"Okay, I'm pretty sure it's tephra."

"What?" Rhyme asked.

Arthur spelled it. "Volcanic matter. The word's Greek for 'ash.' In the air, after it's blown out of the volcano, it's pyroclast--broken rock--but on the ground it's called tephra."

"Indigenous?" Rhyme asked.

In an amused voice, Arthur said, "It's indigenous somewhere. But you mean around here? Not anymore. You could find a very minuscule trace amount in the Northeast given a major eruption on the West Coast and strong prevailing winds, but there haven't been any lately. In those proportions I'd say most likely the source was the Pacific Northwest. Maybe Hawaii."

"So however this got to a crime scene it would have been carried there by the perp or somebody."

"That'd be my call."

"Well, thanks. We'll talk to you soon."

"Oh, and Judy said she's going to email Amelia that recipe she wanted."