The Watchmaker’s Hand полностью

Rhyme continued, “First, it was what you might’ve heard in the news: activists forcing the city to convert old government property into affordable housing. But we’ve discarded that.”

“Well, I’d think so,” he said sardonically. “You should’ve called me right up front. I’d’ve told you. There are plenty of shits in the affordable housing movement and most of them are stupid. Naïve, at least. But extortion? Not their thing. And they couldn’t pull together a fee like that anyway.”

Rhyme said, “Then we were thinking of—”

Tamblyn interrupted. “An amoral real estate developer. Like me.”

“Yes. Driving down the market to pick up properties for cheap.”

A scoffing exhalation. “And how exactly would that work?”

Rhyme said, “REITs, for one.”

Tamblyn seemed perplexed at the very thought. “They’re long-term. And valuation is based on funds from operations, and interest rates. Not New York Post headlines. Next?”

Sachs came in with: “Manipulating the stock market?”

Now an outright laugh. “You can’t be serious. You want to play that game, you pick one stock, go short, get an anonymous blog, post fake stories about the dangers of electric cars or a dermatology drug, and cash out when the price dips. Then go to jail, by the way. The SEC’s been there. Falling cranes? Wall Street may hiccup, but they’ve forgotten about it come cocktail hour.”

Rhyme tried: “Delays in construction. The projects go bankrupt. A developer moves in—”

“And buys them for a song? Where did you hear that?”

“A news story...”

“Oh, oh... On the news. Of course it has to be true... Well, the last thing banks want is to own property they hold the mortgage on. The construction milestones? Nobody takes them seriously. It gets worked out.”

Rhyme’s eyes were taking in the evidence boards. He glanced absently toward the sterile portion of the parlor, where Mel Cooper was analyzing yet more trace Sachs and Pulaski had collected. His expression explained he was finding nothing new.

“Sachs, show him a list of the properties that were on the Kommunalka Project demand list.”

Tamblyn grunted. “I’m meeting someone.”

Rhyme said, “Five hours. Till another crane.”

“It’s Lucien’s. Do you know how long it takes to get a reservation?”

Sachs said, “I’ve got it.”

“Mr. Tamblyn?” Rhyme prompted.

“I’m reading, I’m reading.”

“Is there any strategic reason our perp would want those properties transferred to a corporation? Some’re former government installations. Maybe there’re records stored there? Research facilities? Some geographic reason? They’re adjacent to critical locations? Or, maybe, to keep them off the market?”

In a distracted voice, Tamblyn said, “You have quite the devious mind. Impressive. But... no.”

Rhyme asked, “Why?”

“Ninety percent of them ain’t going anywhere anytime soon. They’re frozen. On no-transfer lists.”

“No-transfer?” Sachs asked.

“They’re toxic. Literally. A couple’re Superfund. The others? Cleanup’ll take years. He had to’ve known that. Sounds like he closed his eyes and picked some property that was city owned without thinking about it.”

Rhyme asked, “So your opinion — your expert opinion — is that these crimes have nothing to do with real estate?”

“Well, this guy is your million-dollar killer, not mine, but on what you’ve given me, that’s correct. He has something else in mind entirely.”

“Mr. President.”

“Edward.”

Senator Talese stepped into the parlor. The exterior and lobby of the hotel may have been bland, but these rooms were decidedly posh.

But, then again, it was the Presidential Suite.

The commander in chief rose from a couch that was surrounded by a sea of paperwork and strode forward over the off-white sponge of carpet to grip the man’s hand. President William Boyd was a tall, angular man whose mixed-race heritage showed in the soft tone of his skin. He was known for his ready smile, which he flashed now.

Talese was senior in the opposing party and he wondered what Boyd would think if he knew that he’d just spent the last two hours strategizing about removing him from office come the election in November. Then decided the man wouldn’t care. It was all part of the game. And in fact he and Boyd had worked together frequently, beating down partisanship when they could and getting compromise legislation hammered out.

“Senator.” The tall, regal First Lady stood in the doorway.

“Mrs. Boyd.”

“How’re Emily and the girls? The grandchildren?”

“All well, thank you.” Talese noted the First Daughter, ten years old, was also in good form, fervently tapping her iPad screen.

“I’ll leave you to it.” The woman closed the double doors behind her.

The men sat. Boyd said, “Sometimes, this business, don’t you feel like a magician? Sleight of hand, misdirection. Do you know any card tricks, Edward?”

“I do, sir. I play hearts with my grandkids and I watch my loose change vanish. So the hedge fund manager I was supposed to meet — it was a disappearing act.”

“I’d hardly dig up a rich man to fund my opponent’s war chest, would I? Caught you off guard.”

“Yessir.”