The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(133)

Rhyme snapped in response, “Rodney, for God’s sake. Turn down the music.”

“You do know that’s Jimmy Page.”

A sigh. Which the Computer Crimes expert couldn’t possibly hear, owing to the raw decibels.

“All right. Just saying. Did you know that Led Zeppelin holds the number two record for most albums sold in the U.S.?” Szarnek dimmed the volume. Somewhat. You’d expect him to have shoulder-length curly hair, inked skin and body piercings and wear shirts open to the navel—if that’s what heavy-metal band lead guitarists still looked like. In fact, though, he fit the image of the computer nerd he was.

Amelia Sachs walked into the parlor, bent down and kissed Rhyme.

Szarnek said, “Found some things you’ll want to know about the Kimberlite Affair.”

“That’s what you’re calling it?” Sachs asked. Her voice was amused.

“I kind of like it. Don’t you? Nice ring. K, here’s what I’m talking about. You sent me the number of that lawyer’s burner phone, Carreras-López? I checked the log. A lot of calls were to the folks who got rounded up at the courthouse and helipad and in the hoosegow.”

“The what?”

“A jail. Like in old-time Westerns. The pokey.”

“Rodney. Get to the point.”

“But this’s interesting. Most of the calls and texts were to and from somebody in Paris. In the Sixth Arrondissement. That means ‘district.’”

“I know,” Sachs said.

“In and around the Jardin du Luxembourg. That’s a garden. But you probably know that too.”

“That I didn’t know.”

Szarnek added, “Whoever it was, the lawyer called and texted him or her a lot over the past few weeks. Almost like he was reporting in.”

“Maybe a consultant,” Sachs said, walking to the evidence cartons on an examination table. “You thought the lawyer was Mr. Y, who planned it all out. Might have been this person.”

“Could be.”

“Rhyme,” Sachs said, lifting an evidence bag. It was Carreras-López’s day planner. Pasted inside the cover was a Post-it note with the name Fran?ois Letemps. A series of numbers was beside it. Account numbers maybe.

French name. Was he the man on the other end of the line in Paris?

Szarnek said, “Now, here’s the weird part.”

In an already weird case.

“The texts were encrypted with exactly the same algorithm you were asking about a few days ago. Duodenal. Using numbers zero through nine plus the upside-down two and three. Never rains but it pours.”

Jesus. Rhyme’s eyes slowly eased to the evidence boards.

“And no chance of cracking it?”

“About the same as me appearing on Dancing with the Stars.”

“The hell is that?”

“Let’s say impossible.”

“I’ve got to go.” Rhyme disconnected and shouted to Mel Cooper, “That package we got from the Alternative Intelligence Service? The international delivery?”

It had arrived last night but Rhyme had been too preoccupied with the case to look at it.

Cooper sliced open the box. There was no letter, only a note from Daryl Mulbry.

Here you go. Any thoughts would be helpful.

Cooper lifted a small evidence envelope. Inside was the small crescent of metal that had tested positive for radiation, though not of any dangerous dosage. Rhyme now studied it.

He recalled that Mulbry was concerned that the bit of springy metal might be a timer in a dirty bomb—part of a mechanical detonator, intended to avoid the countermeasures to defeat an electronic one.

This, Rhyme now knew, was not correct.

But the truth behind the bit of metal was, in a way, even more troubling.

Rhyme placed a call to Mulbry now.

“Lincoln! How are you?”

“Not much time here. Maybe have a situation. That bit of metal you sent me?”

“Yes.” The man’s voice was sober.

“Let me ask a couple more questions.”

“Of course.”

“You found anything more about your suspect, the man who dropped it?”

“We finally found the café he was hanging out in when he made a lot of his calls. It was—”

“Near the Jardin du Luxembourg.”

“Mon dieu, Lincoln. Yes. How—”

“And what did the EVIDINT unit find?”

“Nothing. No prints, no usable trace, no DNA. Just a description.”

“Which is?”

“White male, forties, fifties. Spoke perfect French but possibly with an American accent.”

Rhyme’s head rested back against the leather pad. Thoughts swirled. “It’s not a bomb, Daryl. No terrorist issues.”

“No?”

“You don’t have anything to worry about.” He paused. “I do.”

“You? That’s a bit cryptic.”

“I’ll send you a detailed report,” Rhyme told him. They disconnected.

He was now looking over the charts. Impossible. But on the other hand…

“Rhyme, what is it?” Sachs asked. She’d be noting the frown.

He didn’t answer but called Rodney Szarnek back and asked for the number of the phone that Carreras-López had repeatedly called in Paris.