The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(46)

Though the site wasn’t that populated, it was noisy. The drills were powered by raucous diesel engines and bulldozers rolled about, picking up debris and dropping it into dump trucks, with huge bangs.

The supervisor had said a minute and he was true to his word. A stocky man, in tan Carhartt overalls and orange safety vest, approached. He wore tinted, stylish glasses whose earpieces were attached to a bright-red retainer, and his yellow hard hat jutted forward, high on his head.

Introductions were made and hands shaken and the supervisor—his name was Albert Schoal—glanced out of the gate toward the protesters. “So, what’s it this time?” he yelled over the sound of the machinery.

“I’m sorry?”

“The complaint.”

She lifted a querying eyebrow.

Schoal asked, “Didn’t somebody file a complaint?” His voice was weary. So were his eyes, behind the gray lenses.

“That’s not why I’m here. Why would somebody file a complaint?”

“Oh. Sorry. It’s one of their tactics. Somebody calls nine one one—from a pay phone or throwaway mobile, natch—and says one of my guys was selling dope to somebody. Or exposed himself. Somebody complained that our guys were killing pigeons but nobody gave a you-know-what.”

“Who’s ‘their’? As in ‘their tactics.’”

“Protesters. The group’s called One Earth. They do it to harass us.”

She said, “Shapiro. Yeah, I met him.”

The supervisor sighed. “Ezekiel. What’d he do to earn your attention?”

“Stopped a delivery truck.”

“Oh, that’s one of their favorites. Graffiti too. And false alarms. Even set fire to some trash cans. No damage but it brought the fire department and clogged the street.”

Though Shapiro was some distance away now, Sachs could see that the scrawny man was worked up. He radiated intensity and passion. Arms waving, head raised high, he led his followers in an indecipherable chant.

“What’s their issue?” she asked. “Fracking? I saw a poster.”

A look of disgust crossed Schoal’s face. “Ridiculous. We build near-surface, closed-loop geothermal. We don’t pump anything into the ground. We don’t suck anything out of the ground. The solution’s contained in pipes. It never leaves the system. And the odds of a rupture are as small as a roach’s ass. I sometimes think they don’t have a damn clue what we’re doing. They just need something to protest. Like, oh, it’s Sunday, I’m bored, let’s hug a tree and go make hardworking people’s lives miserable.”

Roach’s ass?

“Anyway, so, if none of ’em made any bullshit reports, what can I do for you, Detective?”

She first asked if Schoal had been working on Friday. She wasn’t going to share any information if there was a chance that he was the person Forty-Seven had met with. But Schoal wasn’t on that day. Thursday and Friday were his “weekend.”

“I’m not so senior.” He said this with a wry grimace. “That’s why I’m working Sundays. Day of Rest. Ha!”

She explained that a suspect in a homicide had, they believed, walked out of the jobsite Friday afternoon, though telling him nothing about the nature of the killings.

“One of our people? Jesus.”

“I doubt it. It looks like he exited, was walking to the subway and remembered he was carrying a hard hat and safety vest. He turned around, threw them out and then got on the train.”

“Yeah, nobody in the business’d throw out a hat. A vest maybe but not a hat. What was he doing here?”

She told him the two theories. Using the site as a shortcut, to avoid the CCTV cameras along Cadman Plaza—all the government buildings. Or meeting somebody in the site, possibly to buy a weapon.

Schoal thought the shortcut idea wouldn’t make sense. The entrance she’d come through and another, a half block away, for trucks, were the only ways to get inside. “You basically come out of the site the same place you walked in.”

As for the second theory, he said, “We screen our people good. For drugs, drinking. I mean, it’s New York City construction. Some of my boys might be connected and might have a gun or two to sell. Can’t use metal detectors when your crew brings twenty pounds of tools with ’em every day.”

She glanced around the site. “You have cameras here?”

“Only the supply storage area and the tool rooms. Where thieves’d be more likely to hit. But they’re on the other side of the yard. He came out here, this gate, they wouldn’ta caught him. So, whatta you want to do, Detective?”

“Canvass your folks, find out if anybody saw him on Friday. I’ve got a rough description.”

“Sure, I’ll help you. Play cop. My brother’s on the force in Boston. South Bay.”

“That’d be great.”

“We’ll suit you up. Reggie?” he called to a worker just passing nearby. “Hard hat and vest for the lady.” He paused. “For the detective. Ain’t the best fashion choice, the vest, but rules is rules.”

She pulled on the orange garment and donned the hat—after banding her hair up in a ponytail. Thought about taking a selfie to send to Rhyme and her mother.

Then decided: Naw.