Page 89 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

She started to close one and noted the tops of the files were slightly higher than the lip of the cabinet; they brushed against it. When she lifted out several folders, and shone her pocket flashlight down into the drawer, she saw why.

A false bottom.

Maybe where he hid drugs.

She lifted out all the files and with her knife pried up the white plastic sheet.

“Lon. Take a look at this.”

48

The lock was bigger than he’d expected.

Ron Pulaski, still breathing hard after the climb to this, the top floor of the building, was now trying to jimmy the hunk of a padlock with a twenty-four-inch crowbar.

It didn’t budge.

He stepped back. And surveyed the wall. This was the only office on this side of the hallway and there was only one door. Across the hall were two other offices, but they were completely empty and showed no signs of recent habitation. The prints leading from the stairs to this shop door, though, indicated that somebody had been here recently—maybe the past week.

But how to get in?

He set to work once more.

He had to.

Lincoln Rhyme believed it was important—because of a dead fly.

Pulaski wasn’t exactly sure how that had worked, but the man haddecided that certain pesticides in the fly’s corpse suggested this building might have a connection to the Locksmith.

And it seemed pretty likely that this was the case because the door he was trying to break into had this sign painted on its wooden façade:

DEVSWENSEN’SLOCKSERVICES

INSTALLATION

REPAIR

LOCK-OUTSERVICES—RESIDENTIAL, COMMERCIAL ANDVEHICLECLASSES ANDINSTRUCTION

Pulaski tried once more, and this time one of the hinge screws seemed to move a fraction of an inch. A few minutes later one flange on the middle hinge was slightly loose. One more. The bar slipped out and whacked him in the thumb. Pain exploded.

He inhaled deeply against the sting.

He paused.

The young officer smelled a fire nearby. He turned his eyes to the stairwell, from which wisps of smoke were now curling.

Amelia Sachs pulled the hood of the crime scene overalls back, tossed her hair. For her, this unique, piquant smell of the plastic garment would forever be associated with the curious combination of challenge and tragedy. She dialed Rhyme’s number and when he answered said, “Averell Whittaker’s son Kitt—he’s the Locksmith.”

“Tell me.”

She explained what they had found hidden in the filing cabinet, all the drawers of which had false bottom panels. There were books on lock picking, sets of lock-picking tools. Panties matching the description of those stolen from Carrie Noelle’s and AnnabelleTalese’s apartments. Also two copies of the February 17 edition of theDaily Herald, missing page 3.

In the closet was a pair of brandless running shoes whose tread seemed to match the pattern at the earlier scenes.

“And it looks like there’s red brick dust in the treads, Rhyme. Flecks of dried blood too.”

“He learned his lesson and went to plain soles, so he doesn’t pick up as much trace.”

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