Page 140 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“I’ll stick to policing. It’s less stressful.”

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I’m eating a Spartan meal in a modest coffee shop—a not unpleasant place filled with professionals bent over phones, tablets, computers; gabbing blue-collar workers; lovers who’ve passed the two- or three-month mark and no longer need fancy-night-out dates.

The lighting is green and cold, but not a soul cares.

A bowl of soup, Texas toast exuding butter. Soda. Caffeine free, of course.

I’m on a device too—my computer, reading the news about the death of my workshop. All gone, many of my beloved tools and locks and keys. I’m surprised they learned about it so soon. I have a feeling that it wasn’t Joanna who gave them the address; it would be Lincoln and Amelia who somehow figured it out. (Oh, and sorry, Joanna—looks like you lost that bargaining chip.)

It’s a shame that I had to booby-trap it (and a shame too that nobody was killed in the raid). But I had no choice. Time to take my money, my most important things and favorite lock-picking and other tools and flee.

But not quite yet.

I change screens and log on to Tammybird’s channel once more.Ah, the little thing is still with us. She’s at her grandmother’s house and is thanking everyone for their support. God too, which makes me smile, since He, of course, is me. She’s going to get help. The comments continue to scroll.

Yay. Glad ur doing better!! LOL!!!

Happy for U.

Loser.

U inspired me to go talk to somebody.

Take your shirt off!

Who gives a shit, your more boring than unboxing vids.

Goodbye, Tam, I think. And go to yet another site. Now I’m watching a girl doing gymnastic maneuvers, which ten thousand other girls and young women execute daily and post on ViewNow, YouTube and the others.

I think of Dr. Patricia’s happy assessment that I’m not beyond repair, since I have a girlfriend. Of course, the way she asked the question was: “Are you seeing anybody?” And I replied that I was. “Her name is Aleksandra.”

What she didn’t know was that, yes, I was indeed “seeing” somebody, but the verb “viewing” would be more accurate. I spent hours upon hours observing the young Russian woman’s ViewNow channel. Aleksandra lives in a small suburb of Moscow and has never been to the United States. I have an intimate relationship with her, though it is one that she does not participate in. She doesn’t even know I exist.

I remember that in the comments section of a makeup tutorial someone said that she looked like a gymnast, with her slim figure andbunned hair. She replied, “All Russian girls, when we are in youths, we are ballerinas or we are gymnasts. There are no exceptions to rule.”

The girl I’m watching now, doing stretches, is talented, to be sure, though I wonder if she knows that the majority of the 7,435 views are by teenage boys and men, many middle-aged, who don’t give a shit about the floor routines or her skill on the balance beam. I suspect she does not.

For myself, I’m not even watching Roonie Soames’s contortions. I’m looking past her, confirming what I’ve learned about the apartment she shares with her mother, Taylor—the woman who surely remains troubled nightly about the question of who Ben Nelson really is and what did he want.

In particular I’m checking to see if she was concerned enough about the disappearance to change her security. I see she was not.

Hargrove Deadbolt and a knob pin and tumbler I could pick with two paper clips.

A simple alarm, no door bar.

Still no weapons—nearly always the rule in Manhattan (though there are the occasional hunters, and you might see Granddad’s ancient WWII rifle, just as accurate and deadly as it was seventy-five years ago).

And since the last time I tuned in to the girl’s videos, they have not bought a rottweiler or pit bull.

Smooth sailing for tonight’s Visit.

Now, the girl is lecturing on hamstrings.

I wonder how devastated she’ll be when she finds out that by her thoughtless postings, revealing to the world the vulnerabilities of the apartment, she’ll be responsible for her mother’s death? Roonie had already spilled to Ben Nelson that she’ll be in Wilmington for gymnastics camp. I calculate this means she’ll be gone by now. Leaving Taylor home alone tonight.

And if not … Oh, well.

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