"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."

A full sixty seconds passed while Jeep did some negotiating with himself.

"I mean, maybe I could… the thing is, there's a possibility…"

"You gonna finish those sentences or can I eat 'em?"

"Lemme check something."

Jeep-James-Jim rose and walked into the corner of the place and began texting, leaving Dellray amused at the paranoia about overhearing a text message. Jeepy boy would probably do well in Georgia.

Dellray sipped water the waiter had brought. He hoped the skinny guy's mission would be successful… One of the agent's biggest successes was running William Brent, a middle-aged white guy, unathletic and looking like a Wal-Mart checker. He'd been key in bringing down a very nasty conspiracy. A domestic terrorist group-racists and separatists-had a plan to blow up a number of synagogues on a Friday evening and blame Islamic fundamentalists for it. They had money but not the means, so they turned to a local organized crime family, who also had no love of either Jews or Muslims. Brent had been hired by the family to help and he'd fallen for Dellray's twitchy character-an arms dealer from Haiti selling rocket-propelled grenades.

Brent got collared and Dellray turned him. Surprising everyone, he took to confidential informing as if he'd studied all his life for the job. Brent infiltrated high up in both the racist group and the family and brought down the conspiracy. His debt to society paid, Brent nonetheless went on to work with Dellray in various personas-a mean-ass hired killer, a jewelry and bank heist mastermind, a radical anti-abortion activist. He proved to be one of the sharpest CIs the agent had ever run. And a chameleon in his own right. He was the flip side of Fred Dellray (some years ago it was even suspected, but never proven, that Brent had run a network of his own snitches-inside the NYPD itself).

Dellray ran him for a year until he got overexposed and Brent retired into the comfy quilt of witness protection. But word was that in one of his new personas he remained well connected, a player on the street.

Since none of Dellray's usual sources had come up with anything about Justice For or Rahman or the grid attack, the agent thought of William Brent.

Jimmy-Jeep returned and sat down on the squeaking bench. "I think I can make it happen. But what's this about, man? I mean, I don't want him to clip me."

Which was, Dellray reflected, one fairly significant difference between Wall Street and the CI business.

He said, "No, no, Jimmy boy, you're not hearing me. I'm not asking you t'turn inta a little fly on the wall. I'm asking you to play matchmaker is all. You get me a sit-down and you'll be eating peaches down in Georgia in no time."

Dellray slid forward a card that contained only a phone number. "This's what he should call. Go make it happen."

"Now?"

"Now."

Jeep nodded toward the kitchen. "But my lunch. I didn't eat yet."

"What kinda place is this?" Dellray barked suddenly, looking around, horrified.

"What do you mean, Fred?"

"You can't get food to go?"

FIVE HOURS HAD passed since the attack and the tension was climbing in Rhyme's townhouse. None of the leads was panning out.

"The wire," he snapped urgently. "Where'd it come from?"

Cooper shoved his thick glasses up on his nose again. He pulled on latex examining gloves but before touching the evidence he cleaned his hands with a pet hair roller and discarded the tape. Rhyme had been instructing his team to do this ever since he'd analyzed a case for the New Jersey State Police and found that some fiber evidence had come not from the suspect in custody but from the inside pocket of a detective's jacket. The investigator had stuffed a wad of loose rubber gloves there, after seeing some cop on a popular crime scene TV show do the same. The odds of contamination were slim but a forensic detective's job was only partly to find and analyze the evidence; they had to make sure it remained pristine enough to convict the bad guys in a courtroom filled with sharp defense lawyers.

After the infamous New Jersey fiber case, he insisted his people roll gloves after donning them if they hadn't been in contamination-free bags or boxes.

Using surgical scissors, Cooper cut the plastic wrapper off and exposed the wire. It was about fifteen feet long and most of it was covered with black insulation. The wire itself wasn't solid but comprised many silver-colored strands. At one end was bolted the thick, scorched brass plate. Attached to the other end were two large copper bolts with holes in the middle.

"They're called split bolts, the Algonquin guy told me," Sachs said. "Used for splicing wires. That's what he used to hook the cable to the main line."

She then explained how he'd hung the plate-it was called a "bus bar," the worker had also explained-out the window. It was attached to the cable with two quarter-inch bolts. The arc had flashed from the plate into the nearest ground source, the pole.

Rhyme glanced at Sachs's thumb, ragged and dark with a bit of dried blood. She tended to chew her nails and worry digits and her scalp. Tension built up in her like the voltage in the Algonquin substation. She dug into her thumb again and then-as if forcing herself to stop-pulled on latex gloves of her own.

Lon Sellitto was on the phone with the officers canvassing for witnesses up and down Fifty-seventh Street. Rhyme gave him a fast questioning glance but the detective's grimace-deeper than the one that usually graced his features-explained that the efforts so far were unfruitful. Rhyme turned his attention back to the wire.

"Move the camera over it, Mel," Rhyme said. "Slowly."

Using a handheld video unit, the tech scanned the wire from top to bottom, turned it over and went back the other way. What the camera saw was broadcast in high definition on the large screen in front of Rhyme. He stared intently.

He muttered, "Bennington Electrical Manufacturing, South Chicago, Illinois. Model AM-MV-Sixty. Zero gauge, rated up to sixty thousand volts."