A Perfect Plan

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“We got ourselves some intel that you oughta know about.”

The man sat in Lincoln Rhyme’s New York City Victorian parlor, his legs stretched out, revealing bright yellow socks. His couture was as eclectic as Rhyme remembered: today, a green suit and a plaid shirt. He wore a skinny necktie, and the background of the garment was a deep brown that matched his complexion perfectly. The foreground of the tie was dotted with tiny, embroidered toucans, green and red.

Fred Dellray was not your typical FBI agent.

“Go on.” Rhyme turned his wheelchair to more fully face the man. Rhyme frequently hired on as a forensic consultant for PERT, the FBI’s physical evidence response team, but it was unusual to be contacted by the law enforcers before a crime had occurred.

“Wish it was more, but it’s little bitty, just a hint here, a hint there. And, soon as the snoopers got wind and tried to tune in for episode number two, it was gone. Skittering like a scared bird. Or floating off like a ghost.” Dellray clicked his tongue. “Let’cha pick your own figure of speech.”

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