"Made up of what?"

"It's protein rich. The amino acids are arginine, histidine, isoleucine, lysine and methionine. Also, plenty of lipids, mostly cholesterol and lecithin, then vitamin A, vitamins B2, B6, B12, niacin, pantothenic acid and folic acid. Large amounts of calcium, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium."

"Tasty," Rhyme said.

Cooper was nodding. "It's food, sure. But what?"

Though his sensations of taste hadn't changed after the accident, food was to Lincoln Rhyme essentially fuel and he didn't get much pleasure out of it, unlike, of course, whisky.

"Thom?" There was no response so he took a deep breath. Before he could call again, the aide stuck his head in the door.

"Everything okay?"

"Why do you keep asking that?"

"What do you want?"

"Lemon juice, vegetable oil and egg."

"You're hungry?"

"No, no, no. What would those ingredients be found in?"

"Mayonnaise."

Rhyme lifted an eye to Cooper, who shook his head. "Lumpy and kind of pinkish."

The aide reconsidered. "Then I'd go with taramasalata."

"What? Is that a restaurant?"

Thom laughed. "It's a Greek appetizer. A spread."

"Caviar, right? You eat it with bread."

Thom replied to Sachs, "Well, it is fish eggs, but cod, not sturgeon. So it's not technically caviar."

Rhyme was giving a nod. "Ah, the elevated saline. Fish. Sure. Is it common?"

"In Greek restaurants and grocery stores and delis."

"Is there anyplace more common than others? A Greek area of the city?"

"Queens," Pulaski said, who lived in the borough. "Astoria. Lots of Greek restaurants there."

"Can I get back now?" Thom asked.

"Yes, yes, yes…"

"Thanks," Sachs called.

The aide waved a gloved hand, Playtex yellow, and disappeared.

Sellitto asked, "Maybe he's been staking out someplace in Queens for the next attack."

Rhyme shrugged, one of the few gestures he could still perform. He reflected: The perp would have to prepare the location, that was true. Still, he was leaning in a different direction.

Sachs caught his eye. "You're thinking, Algonquin's headquarters're in Astoria, right?"

"Exactly. And everything's pointing to it being an inside job." He asked, "Who's in charge of the company?"

Ron Pulaski said he'd had a conversation with the workers outside the substation. "They mentioned the president and CEO. The name's Jessen. Andy Jessen. Everybody seemed a little afraid of him."

Rhyme kept his eyes on the charts for a moment and then said, "Sachs, how'd you like to go for a drive in your fancy new wheels?"

"You bet." She called, and arranged with the CEO's assistant for a meeting in a half hour.

It was then that Sellitto's cell rang. He pulled it out and took a look at caller ID. "Algonquin." He hit a button. "Detective Sellitto." Rhyme noticed his face went still as he listened. Then he said, "You're sure?… Okay. Who'd have access?… Thanks." He disconnected. "Son of a bitch."

"What?"

"That was the supply division supervisor. He said one of the Algonquin warehouses in Harlem was burglarized last week. Hundred and eighteen Street. They thought it was an employee pilfering. Perp used a key. It wasn't broken into."

Pulaski asked, "And whoever it was stole the cable?"

Sellitto nodded. "And those split bolts."

But Rhyme could see another message in the detective's round face. "How much?" he asked, his voice a whisper. "How much wire did he steal?"

"You got it, Linc. Seventy-five feet of cable and a dozen bolts. What the hell was McDaniel talking about, a onetime thing? That's bullshit. This UNSUB's going to keep right on going."

– Victim (deceased): Luis Martin, assistant manager in music store. -No friction ridge prints on any surface. -Shrapnel from molten metal, as a result of the arc flash. -0-gauge insulated aluminum strand cable. -Bennington Electrical Manufacturing, AM-MV-60, rated up to 60,000v. -Cut by hand with hacksaw, new blade, broken tooth. -Two "split bolts," 3 / 4 -inch holes in them. -Untraceable. -Distinctive tool marks on bolts. -Brass "bus" bar, fixed to cable with two 1 / 4 -inch bolts. -All untraceable. -Boot prints. -Albertson-Fenwick Model E-20 for electrical work, size 11. -Metal grating cut to allow access to substation, distinctive tool marks from bolt cutter. -Access door and frame from basement. -DNA obtained. Sent out for testing. -Greek food, taramasalata. -Blond hair, 1 inch long, natural, from someone 50 or under, discovered in coffee shop across the street from substation. -Sent out for tox-chem screening. -Mineral trace: volcanic ash. -Not naturally found in New York area. -Exhibits, museums, geology schools? -Algonquin Control Center software accessed by internal codes, not outside hackers.

– Male. -40's. -Probably white. -Possibly glasses and cap. -Possibly with short, blond hair. -Dark blue overalls, similar to those worn by Algonquin workers. -Knows electrical systems very well. -Boot print suggests no physical condition affecting posture or gait. -Possibly same person who stole 75 feet of similar Bennington cable and 12 split bolts. More attacks in mind? Access to Algonquin warehouse where theft occurred with key. -Likely he is Algonquin employee or has contact with one. -Terrorist connection? Relation to Justice For [unknown]? Terror group? Individual named Rahman involved? Coded references to monetary disbursements, personnel movements and something "big."

That was the word that came to mind as Amelia Sachs climbed out of her Torino Cobra in the parking lot of Algonquin Consolidated Power and Light in Astoria, Queens. The facility covered a number of blocks but it was anchored by a complicated, soaring building made of grim red and gray panels that rose two hundred feet into the air. The massive edifice dwarfed the employees now leaving at the end of the day, walking through dollhouse doorways in the panoramic sheets of the walls.

Pipes evacuated the building in dozens of places and, as she'd expected, there were wires everywhere, only "wires" didn't quite suit. These were thick and inflexible cables, some insulated, some silver gray bare metal glistening under security lights. They must have carried hundreds of thousands of volts from the guts of the building through a series of metallic and, she supposed, ceramic or other insulated fittings, into even more complicated scaffoldings and supports and towers. They divided and ran in different courses, like bones extending from the arm to the hand to the fingers.

Tilting her head back, she saw high above her the four towers of the smokestacks, also grimy red and sooty gray, blinking with warning lights bright in the hazy dusk. She'd been aware of the stacks for years, of course; no one who'd been to New York even once missed them, the dominant feature of the bland industrial shore of the East River. But she'd never been this close and they now captivated her, piercing the dull sky. She remembered, in winter, seeing exhaust of smoke or steam, but now there was nothing escaping except heat or invisible gas, distorting with ripples the smooth plain of the heavens above.

Sachs heard some voices and looked over the parking lot to see a crowd of maybe fifty protesters standing in a large cluster. Posters were held aloft and there was a little amiable chanting, probably complaining about the big bad wolf of the oil-guzzling power company. They didn't notice that she'd arrived here in a car that used five times as much black gold as one of their Priuses.