Saturday, 4:00 p.m., to Saturday, 10:15 p.m. 10 page

“I thought that woman—”

“T.J.,” Rhyme said.

“T.J.,” Sachs continued. “I just thought how sad it was—if she had any pets she wouldn’t be coming home to them and playing with them anymore. I didn’t think about her boyfriends or husbands. I thought about pets.”

“But why that thought? Dogs, pets. Why?”

“I don’t know why.”

Silence.

Finally she said, “I suppose seeing her tied up there ... And I was thinking how he stood to the side to watch her. Just standing between the oil tanks. It was like he was watching an animal in a pen.”

Rhyme glanced at the sine waves on the GC-MS computer screen.

Animals ...

Nitrogen ...

“Shit!” Rhyme blurted.

Heads turned toward him.

“It’s shit.” Staring at the screen.

“Yes, of course!” Cooper said, replastering his strands of hair. “All the nitrogen. It’s manure. And it’s old manure at that.”

Suddenly Lincoln Rhyme had one of those moments he’d reflected on earlier. The thought just burst into his mind. The image was of lambs.

Sellitto asked, “Lincoln, you okay?”

A lamb, sauntering down the street.

It was like he was watching an animal ...

“Thom,” Sellitto was saying, “is he all right?”

... in a pen.

Rhyme could picture the carefree animal. A bell around its neck, a dozen others behind.

“Lincoln,” Thom said urgently. “You’re sweating. Are you all right?”

“Shhhhh,” the criminalist ordered.

He felt the tickle running down his face. Inspiration and heart failure; the symptoms are oddly similar. Think, think ...

Bones, wooden posts and manure ...

“Yes!” he whispered. A Judas lamb, leading the flock to slaughter.

“Stockyards,” Rhyme announced to the room. “She’s being held in a stockyard.”

THIRTEEN

“THERE ARE NO STOCKYARDS IN MANHATTAN.”

“The past, Lon,” Rhyme reminded him. “Old things turn him on. Get his juices flowing. We should think of old stockyards. The older the better.”

In researching his book, Rhyme had read about a murder that gentleman mobster Owney Madden was accused of committing: gunning down a rival bootlegger outside his Hell’s Kitchen townhouse. Madden was never convicted—not for this particular murder, at any rate. He took the stand and, in his melodious British-accented voice, lectured the courtroom about betrayal. “This entire case has been trumped up by my rivals, who are speaking lies about me. Your honor, do you know what they remind me of? In my neighborhood, in Hell’s Kitchen, the flocks of lambs were led through the streets from the stockyards to the slaughterhouses on Forty-second Street. And you know who led them? Not a dog, not a man. But one of theirs. A Judas lamb with a bell around its neck. He’d lead the flock up that ramp. But then he’d stop and the rest of them would go on inside. I’m an innocent lamb and those witnesses against me, they’re the Judases.”

Rhyme continued. “Call the library, Banks. They must have a historian.”

The young detective flipped open his cellular phone and called. His voice dropped a tone or two as he spoke. After he explained what they needed he stopped speaking and gazed at the map of the city.

“Well?” Rhyme asked.

“They’re finding someone. They’ve got—” He lowered his head as someone answered and the young man repeated his request. He started nodding and announced to the room, “I’ve got two locations ... no, three.”

UNSUB 823

Appearance

Residence

Vehicle

Other

• Caucasian male, slight build

•Dark clothing

• Old gloves, reddish kidskin

• Aftershave; to cover up other scent?

• Ski mask? Navy blue?

• Prob. has safe house

• Yellow Cab

• knows CS proc.

• possibly has record

• knows FR prints

• gun = .32 Colt

• Ties vics w/ unusual knots

• “Old” appeals to him

“Who is it?” Rhyme barked. “Who’re you talking to?”

“The curator of the city archives. ... He says there’ve been three major stockyard areas in Manhattan. One on the West Side, around Sixtieth Street ... One in Harlem in the 1930s or ’40s. And on the Lower East Side during the Revolution.”

“We need addresses, Banks. Addresses!”

Listening.

“He’s not sure.”

“Why can’t he look it up? Tell him to look it up!”

Banks responded, “He heard you, sir. ... He says, in what? Look them up in what? They didn’t have Yellow Pages back then. He’s looking at old—”

“Demographic maps of commercial neighborhoods without street names,” Rhyme groused. “Obviously. Have him guess.”

“That’s what he’s doing. He’s guessing.”

Rhyme called, “Well, we need him to guess fast.”

Banks listened, nodding.

“What, what, what, what?”

“Around Sixtieth Street and Tenth,” the young officer said. A moment later: “Lexington near the Harlem River ... And then ... where the Delancey farm was. Is that near Delancey Street?—”

“Of course it is. From Little Italy all the way to the East River. Lots of territory. Miles. Can’t he narrow it down?”

“Around Catherine Street. Lafayette ... Walker. He’s not sure.”

“Near the courthouses,” Sellitto said and told Banks, “Get Haumann’s teams moving. Divide ’em up. Hit all three neighborhoods.”

The young detective made the call, then looked up. “What now?”

“We wait,” Rhyme said.

Sellitto muttered, “I fucking hate waiting.”

Sachs asked Rhyme, “Can I use your phone?”

Rhyme nodded toward the one on his bedside table.

She hesitated. “You have one in there?” She pointed to the hallway.

Rhyme nodded.

With perfect posture she walked out of the bedroom. In the hallway mirror he could see her, solemn, making the precious phone call. Who? he wondered. Boyfriend, husband? Day-care center? Why had she hesitated before mentioning her “friend” when she told them about the collie? There was a story behind that, Rhyme bet.

Whomever she was calling wasn’t there. He noticed her eyes turn to dark-blue pebbles when there was no answer. She looked up and caught Rhyme gazing at her in the dusty glass. She turned her back. The phone slipped to the cradle and she returned to his room.

There was silence for a full five minutes. Rhyme lacked the mechanism most people have for bleeding off tension. He’d been a manic pacer when he was mobile, drove the officers in IRD crazy. Now, his eyes energetically scanned the Randel map of the city as Sachs dug beneath her Patrol cap and scratched at her scalp. Invisible Mel Cooper cataloged evidence, calm as a surgeon.

All but one of the people in the room jumped inordinately when Sellitto’s phone brayed. He listened; his face broke into a grin.

“Got it!” One of Haumann’s squads is at Eleventh and Sixtieth. They can hear a woman’s screams coming from somewhere around there. They dunno where for sure. They’re doing a door-to-door.”

“Get your running shoes on,” Rhyme ordered Sachs.

He saw her face sag. She glanced at Rhyme’s phone, as if it might be ringing with a reprieve call from the governor at any minute. Then a look at Sellitto, who was poring over the ESU tactical map of the West Side.

“Amelia,” Rhyme said, “we lost one. That’s too bad. But we don’t have to lose any more.”

“If you saw her,” she whispered. “If you only saw what he did to her—”

“Oh, but I have, Amelia,” he said evenly, his eyes relentless and challenging. “I’ve seen what happened to T.J. I’ve seen what happens to bodies left in hot trunks for a month. I’ve seen what a pound of C4 does to arms and legs and faces. I worked the Happy Land social club fire. Over eighty people burned to death. We took Polaroids of the vics’ faces, or what was left of them, for their families to identify—because there’s no way in hell a human being could walk past those rows of bodies and stay sane. Except us. We didn’t have any choice.” He inhaled against the excruciating pain that swept through his neck. “See, if you’re going to get by in this business, Amelia ... If you’re going to get by in life, you’re going to have to learn to give up the dead.”

One by one the others in the room had stopped what they were doing and were looking at the two of them.

No pleasantries now from Amelia Sachs. No polite smiles. She tried for a moment to make her gaze cryptic. But it was transparent as glass. Her fury at him—out of proportion to his comment—roiled through her; her long face folded under the dark energy. She swept aside a lock of lazy red hair and snatched the headset from the table. At the top of the stairs she paused and looked at him with a withering glance, reminding Rhyme that there was nothing colder than a beautiful woman’s cold smile.

And for some reason he found himself thinking: Welcome back, Amelia.

“Whatcha got? You got goodies, you got a story, you got pictures?”

The Scruff sat in a bar on the East Side of Manhattan, Third Avenue—which is to the city what strip malls are to the ’burbs. This was a dingy tavern, soon to be rockin’ with Yuppies on the make. But now it was the refuge of badly dressed locals, eating suppers of questionable fish and limp salads.

The lean man, skin like knotty ebony, wore a very white shirt and a very green suit. He leaned closer to the Scruff. “You got news, you got secret codes, you got letters? You got shit?”

“Man. Ha.”

“You’re not laughing when you say ha,” said Fred Dellray, really D’Ellret but that had been generations ago. He was six foot four, rarely smiled despite the Jabberwocky banter, and was a star special agent in the Manhattan office of the FBI.

“No, man. I’m not laughing.”

“So what’ve you got?” Dellray squeezed the end of a cigarette, which perched over his left ear.

“It takes time, man.” The Scruff, a short man, scratched his greasy hair.

“But you ain’t got time. Time is precious, time is fleeing, and time is one thing you. Ain’t. Got.”

Dellray put his huge hand under the table, on which sat two coffees, and squeezed the Scruff’s thigh until he whined.

Six months ago the skinny little guy had been caught trying to sell automatic M-16s to a couple of right-wing crazies, who—whether they actually were or not—also happened to be undercover BATF agents.

The feds hadn’t wanted the Scruff himself of course, the greasy little wild-eyed thing. They wanted whoever was supplying the guns. ATF swam upstream a ways but no great busts were forthcoming and so they gave him to Dellray, the Bureau’s Numero Uno snitch handler, to see if he might be some use. So far, though, he’d proved to be just an irritating, mousy little skel who didn’t, apparently, have news, secret codes or even shit for the feds.

“The only way we’re dropping down a charge, any charge, is you give us something beautiful and sticky. Are we all together on that?”

“I don’t have nothing for youse guys right now is what I’m saying. Just now.”

“Not true, not true. You gotchaself somethin’. I can see it in your face. You’re knowing something, mon.”

A bus pulled up outside, with a hiss of brake air. A crowd of Pakistanis climbed from the open door.

“Man, that fucking UN conference,” the Scruff muttered, “what the fuck they coming here for? This city’s too crowded already. All them foreigners.”

“ ‘Fucking conference.’ You little skel, you little turd,” Dellray snapped. “Whatcha got against world peace?”

“Nothin’.”

“Now, tell me something good.”

“I don’t know nothin’ good.”

“Who you talking to here?” Dellray grinning devilishly. “I’m the Chameleon. I can smile’n be happy or I can frown and play squeezie.”

“No, man, no,” the Scruff squealed. “Shit, that hurts. Cut it out.”

The bartender looked over at them and a short glance from Dellray sent him back to polishing polished glasses.

“All right, maybe I know one thing. But I need help. I need—”

“Squeezie time again.”

“Fuck you, man. Just fuck you!”

“Oh, that’s mighty smart dialogue,” Dellray shot back. “You sound like in those bad movies, you know, the bad guy and the good guy finally meet. Like Stallone and somebody. And all they can say to each other is, ‘Fuck you, man.’ ‘No, fuck you.’ ‘No, fuck you.’ Now, you’re gonna tell me something useful. Are we all together on that?”

And just stared at the Scruff until he gave up.

“Okay, here’s what it is. I’m trusting you, man. I’m—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatcha got?”

“I was talking to Jackie, you know Jackie?”

“I know Jackie.”

“An’ he was telling me.”

“What was he telling you?”

“He was telling me he heard anything anybody got coming in or going out this week, don’t do it the airports.”

“So what was coming in or going out? More 16s?”

“I told you, man, there wasn’t nothing I had. I’m telling you what Jackie—”

“Told you.”

“Right, man. Just in general, you know?” The Scruff turned big brown eyes on Dellray. “Would I lie to you?”

“Don’t ever lose your dignity,” the agent warned solemnly, pointing a stern finger at the Scruff’s chest. “Now what’s this about airports. Which one? Kennedy, La Guardia?”

“I don’t know. All I know is word’s up that somebody was gonna be at a airport here. Somebody who was pretty bad.”

“Gimme a name.”

“Don’t got a name.”

“Where’s Jackie?”

“Dunno. South Africa, I think. Maybe Liberia.”

“What’s all this mean?” Dellray squeezed his cigarette again.

“I guess just there was a chance something was going down, you know, so nobody should be having shipments coming in then.”

“You guess.” The Scruff cringed but Dellray wasn’t thinking about tormenting the little man any longer. He was hearing alarm bells: Jackie—an arms broker both Bureaus had known about for a year—might have heard something from one of his clients, soldiers in Africa and Central Europe and militia cells in America, about some terrorist hit at the airports. Dellray normally wouldn’t’ve thought anything about this, except for that kidnapping at JFK last night. He hadn’t paid much attention to it—it was NYPD’s case. But now he was also thinking about that botched fragging at the UNESCO meeting in London the other day.

“Yo boy dint tell you anything more?”

“No, man. Nothing more. Hey, I’m hungry. Can we eat somethin’?”

“Remember what I told you about dignity? Quit moaning.” Dellray stood up. “I gotta make a call.”

The RRV skidded to a stop on Sixtieth Street.

Sachs snagged the crime-scene suitcase, the PoliLight and the big twelve-volt flashlight.

“Did you get her in time?” Sachs called to an ESU trooper. “Is she all right?”

No one answered at first. Then she heard the screams.

“What’s going on?” she muttered, running breathless up to the large door, which had been battered in by Emergency Services. It opened onto a wide driveway that descended underneath an abandoned brick building. “She’s still there?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?” demanded a shocked Amelia Sachs.

“They told us not to go in.”

“Not to go in? She’s screaming. Can’t you hear her?”

An ESU cop said, “They told us to wait for you.”

They. No, not they at all. Lincoln Rhyme. That son of a bitch.

“We were supposed to find her,” the officer said. “You’re supposed to go in.”

She clicked the headset on. “Rhyme!” she barked. “Are you there?”

No answer ... You goddamn coward.

Give up the dead ... Sonofabitch! As furious as she’d been storming down the stairs in his townhouse a few minutes ago, she was twice as angry now.

Sachs glanced behind her and noticed a medic standing beside an EMS bus.

“You, come with me.”

He took a step forward and saw her draw her weapon. He stopped.

“Whoa, time out,” the medic said. “I don’t have to go in until the area’s secure.”

“Now! Move!” She spun around and he must have seen more muzzle than he wanted. He grimaced and hurried after her.

From underground they heard: “Aiiiii! Hilfe!” Then sobbing.

Jesus. Sachs started to run toward the looming doorway, twelve feet high, smoky blackness inside.

She heard in her head: You’re him, Amelia. What are you thinking?

Go away, she said silently.

But Lincoln Rhyme didn’t go away.

You’re a killer and a kidnapper, Amelia. Where would you walk, what would you touch?

Forget it! I’m going to save her. Hell with the crime scene ...

“Mein Gott! Fleece! Some-von, pleece help!”

Go, Sachs shouted to herself. Sprint! He’s not in here. You’re safe. Get her, go ...

She picked up the pace, her utility belt clanking as she ran. Then, twenty feet down the tunnel, she pulled up. Debating. She didn’t like which side won.

“Oh, fuck,” she spat out. She set down the suitcase and opened it up. She blurted to the medic, “You, what’s your name?”

The uneasy young man answered, “Tad Walsh. I mean, what’s going on?” He glanced down into the murk.

“Oh ... Bitte, helfen Sie mir!”

“Cover me,” Sachs whispered.

“Cover you? Wait a minute, I don’t do that.”

“Take the gun, all right?”

“What’m I supposed to cover you from?”

Thrusting the automatic into his hand, she dropped to her knees. “Safety’s off. Be careful.”

She grabbed two rubber bands and slipped them over her shoes. Taking the pistol back she ordered him to do the same.

With unsteady hands he slipped the bands on.

“I’m just thinking—”

“Quiet. He could still be here.”

“Wait a minute now, ma’am,” the medic whispered. “This ain’t in my job description.”

“It’s not in mine either. Hold the light.” She handed him the flashlight.

“But if he’s here he’s probably gonna shoot at the light. I mean, that’s what I’d shoot at.”

“Then hold it up high. Over my shoulder. I’ll go in front. If anybody gets shot it’ll be me.”

“Then whatta I do?” Tad sounded like a teenager.

“I myself’d run like hell,” Sachs muttered. “Now follow me. And keep that beam steady.”

Lugging the black CS suitcase in her left hand, holding her weapon in front of her, she gazed at the floor as they moved into the darkness. She saw the familiar broom marks again, just like at the other scene.

“Bitte nicht, bitte nicht, bitte ...” There was a brief scream, then silence.

“What the hell’s going on down there?” Tad whispered.

“Shhhh,” Sachs hissed.

They walked slowly. Sachs blew on her fingers gripping the Clock—to dry the slick sweat—and carefully eyed the random targets of wooden pillars, shadows and discarded machinery picked out by the flashlight held unsteadily in Tad’s hand.

She found no footprints.

Of course not. He’s smart.

But we’re smart too, she heard Lincoln Rhyme say in her thoughts. And she told him to shut up.

Slower now.

Five more feet. A pause. Then moving slowly forward. Trying to ignore the girl’s moans. She felt it again—that sensation of being watched, the slippery crawl of the iron sights tracking you. The body armor, she reflected, wouldn’t stop a full-metal jacket. Half the bad guys used Black Talons anyway—so a leg or arm shot would kill you just as efficiently as a chest hit. And a lot more painfully. Nick had told her how one of those bullets could open up a human body; one of his partners, hit by two of the vicious slugs, had died in his arms.

Above and behind ...

Thinking of him, she remembered one night, lying against Nick’s solid chest, gazing at the silhouette of his handsome Italian face on her pillow as he told her about hostage-rescue entry—“Somebody inside wants to nail you when you go in they’ll do it from above and behind ...”

“Shit.” She dropped to a crouch, spinning around and aiming the Glock toward the ceiling, ready to empty the entire clip.

“What?” Tad whispered, cowering. “What?”

The emptiness gaped at her.

“Nothing.” And breathed deeply, stood up.

“Don’t do that.”

There was a gurgling noise ahead of them.

“Jesus,” came Tad’s high voice again. “I hate this.”

This guy’s a pussy, she thought. I know that ’cause he’s saying everything I want to.

She stopped. “Shine the light up there. Ahead.”

“Oh, my everloving ...”

Sachs finally understood the hairs she’d found at the last scene. She remembered the look that had passed between Sellitto and Rhyme. He’d known then what the unsub had planned. He’d known this was what was happening to her—and still he’d told ESU to wait. She hated him that much more.

In front of them a pudgy girl lolled on the floor, in a pool of blood. She glanced toward the light with glazed eyes and passed out. Just as a huge black rat—big as a housecat—crawled up onto her belly and moved toward the girl’s fleshy throat. It bared its dingy teeth to take a bite from the girl’s chin.

Sachs smoothly lifted the chunky black Glock, her left palm circling under the butt for support. She aimed carefully.

Shooting is breathing.

Inhale, out. Squeeze.

Sachs fired her weapon for the first time in the line of duty. Four shots. The huge black rat standing on the girl’s chest exploded. She hit one more on the floor behind and another one that, panicking, raced toward Sachs and the medic. The others vanished silently, fast as water on sand.

“Jesus,” the medic said. “You could’ve hit the girl.”

“From thirty feet?” Sachs snorted. “Not hardly.”

The radio burst to life and Haumann asked if they were under fire.

“Negative,” Sachs replied. “Just shooing a few rats.”

“Roger, K.”

She took the flashlight from the medic and shining it low, started forward.

“It’s all right, miss,” Sachs called. “You’ll be all right.”

The girl’s eyes opened, head flipping from side to side.

“Bitte, bitte ...”

She was very pale. Her blue eyes clung to Sachs, as if she was afraid to look away. “Bitte, bitte ... Pleece ...” Her voice rose to a wild keening and she began to sob and thrash in terror as the medic pressed bandages on her wounds.

Sachs cradled her bloody blond head, whispering, “You’ll be all right, honey, you’ll be all right, you’ll be all right. ...”

FOURTEEN

THE OFFICE, HIGH ABOVE DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN, looked out over Jersey. The crap in the air made the sunset absolutely beautiful.

“We gotta.”

“We can’t.”

“Gotta,” Fred Dellray repeated and sipped his coffee—even worse than in the restaurant where the Scruff and he’d been sitting not long before. “Take it away from ’em. They’ll live with it.”

“It’s a local case,” responded the FBI’s assistant special agent in charge of the Manhattan office. The ASAC was a meticulous man who could never work undercover—because when you saw him you thought, Oh, look, an FBI agent.

“It’s not local. They’re treating it local. But it’s a big case.”

“We’re down eighty men because of the UN thing.”

“And this’s related to it,” Dellray said. “I’m positive.”

“Then we’ll tell UN Security. Let everybody ... Oh, don’t give me that look.”

“UN Security? UN Security? Say, you ever heara the words oxy-moron? ... Billy, you see that picture? Of the scene this morning? The hand comin’ outa the dirt, and all the skin cut offa that finger? That’s a sick fuck out there.”

“NYPD’s keeping us informed,” the ASAC said smartly. “We’ve got Behavioral on call if they want.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ on the merry cross. ‘Behavioral on call’? We gotta catch this ripper, Billy. Catch him. Not figger out his tick-tocky workings.”

“Tell me what your snitch said again.”

Dellray knew a crack in a rock when he saw one. Wasn’t going to let it seal up again. Rapid fire now: about the Scruff and Jackie in Johannesburg or Monrovia and the hushed word throughout the illicit arms trade that something was going down at a New York airport this week so stay clear. “It’s him,” Dellray said. “Gotta be.”

“NYPD’s got a task force together.”

“Not Anti-Terror. I made calls. Nobody at A-T there knows zippo about it. To NYPD it’s dead tourists equal bad public relations.’ I want this case, Billy.” And Fred Dellray said the one word he’d never uttered in his eight years of undercover work. “Please.”

“What grounds’re you talking?”

“Oh-oh, bullshit question,” Dellray said, stroking his index finger like a scolding teacher. “Lessee. We got ourselves that spiffy new anti-terrorism bill. But that’s not enough for you, you want jurisdiction? I’ll give you jurisdiction. A Port Authority felony. Kidnapping. I can fucking argue that this prick’s driving a taxi so he’s affecting interstate commerce. We don’t want to play those games, do we, Billy?”

“You’re not listening, Dellray. I can recite the U.S. Code in my sleep, thank you. I want to know if we’re going to take over, what we tell people and make everybody happy. ’Cause remember, after this unsub’s bagged and tagged we’re going to have to keep working with NYPD. I’m not going to send my big brother to beat up their big brother even though I can. Anytime I want. Lon Sellitto’s running the case and he’s a good man.”

“A lieutenant?” Dellray snorted. He tugged the cigarette out from behind his ear and held it under his nostrils for a moment.

“Jim Polling’s in charge.”

Dellray reared back with mock horror. “Polling? Little Adolph? The ‘You-have-the-right-to-remain-silent-’cause-I’ma-hit-you-upside-the-motherfuckin’-head’ Polling? Him?”

The ASAC had no response for that. He said, “Sellitto’s good. A real workhorse. I’ve been with him on two OC task forces.”

“That unsub’s grabbing bodies right and left and this here boy’s betting he’s going to work his way up.”

“Meaning?”

“We got senators in town. We got congressmen, we got heads of state. I think these folk he’s grabbing now’re just for practice.”

“You been talking to Behavioral and not telling me?”

“It’s what I smell.” Dellray couldn’t resist touching his lean nose.

The ASAC blew air from his clean-shaven-federal-agent cheeks. “Who’s the CI?”

Dellray had trouble thinking of the Scruff as a confidential informant, which sounded like something out of a Dashiell Hammett novel. Most CIs were skels, short for skeletons, meaning scrawny, disgusting little hustlers. Which fit the Scruff to a T.

“He’s a tick,” Dellray admitted. “But Jackie, this guy he heard it from’s solid.”

“I know you want it, Fred. I understand.” The ASAC said this with some sympathy. Because he knew exactly what was behind Dellray’s request.

Even as a boy in Brooklyn, Dellray had wanted to be a cop. It hadn’t mattered much to him what kind of cop as long as he could spend twenty-four hours a day doing it. But soon after joining the Bureau he found his calling—undercover work.

Teamed with his straight man and guardian angel Toby Dolittle, Dellray was responsible for sending a large number of perps away for a very long time—the sentences totaled close to a thousand years. (“They kin call us the Millennium Team, Toby-o,” he declared to his partner once.) The clue to Dellray’s success was his nickname: “the Chameleon.” Bestowed after—in the space of twenty-four hours—he played a brain-dead cluckhead in a Harlem crack house and a Haitian dignitary at a dinner in the Panamanian consulate, complete with diagonal red ribbon on his chest and impenetrable accent. The two of them were regularly loaned out to ATF or DEA and, occasionally, city police departments. Drugs and guns were their specialty though they had a minor in ’jacked merchandise.

The irony of undercover work is that the better you are, the earlier the retirement. Word gets around and the big boys, the perps worth going after, become harder to fox. Dolittle and Dellray found themselves working less in the field and more as handlers of informants and other undercover agents. And while it wasn’t Dellray’s first choice—nothing excited him like the street—it still got him out of the office more often than most SAs in the Bureau. It had never occurred to him to request a transfer.

Until two years ago—a warm April morning in New York. Dellray was just about to leave the office to catch a plane at La Guardia when he got a phone call from the assistant director of the Bureau in Washington. The FBI is a nest of hierarchy and Dellray couldn’t imagine why the big man himself was calling. Until he heard the AD’s somber voice break the news that Toby Dolittle, along with an assistant U.S. attorney from Manhattan, had been on the ground floor of the Oklahoma City, federal building that morning, preparing for the deposition session that Dellray himself was just about to depart for.

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 626