Page 112 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“I’m not going to answer that question.”

“I’m giving you the opportunity to counter her claim that you lied about the trip.”

“I … the girl, she was eighteen. It was just …”

“Did you tell your wife that you were going to the Adirondacks with her attorney’s daughter?”

“No, I fucking didn’t, okay?”

“When you two got to the Rosemont Inn—”

“This interview is over with.”

“I’m running the story. This is your last chance to comment.”

And on and on.

That job had been so much fun. Making the foolish squirm.

Seeing her byline too. That was a rush.

She looked over at the coffee table, which was stacked with documents about the Foundation for Ethical Journalism.

Nothing like it presently existed, at least not in the scale her uncle envisioned—and quite the scale it would be, since he was using ninety percent of the proceeds of his multibillion-dollar media empire to fund the nonprofit.

And what would her father, Lawrence, have thought about his brother’s grand plan?

Not much, she knew. He’d found nothing wrong in journalism as titillation and leer, which both brothers seemed to be fine with for so many years. The indisputable fact was that far more people cared about sex scandals and conspiracies than cared about the G20 or an antitrust investigation into Facebook.

Unless of course there were sex scandals and conspiracies at the G20 and within the halls of the SEC.

Joanna smiled at that thought, since, perhaps, there were. And they were just waiting to be reported on.

Her phone sang with a text. It was from her fiancé, Martin Kemp.

Just here, coming up now.

She replied:

Okay.

Joanna rose and walked to the front alcove.

Alicia looked up from the padded bench she was seated on, where she’d been reading emails or texts. “Ms. Whittaker, can I help you with anything?”

“No, nothing.”

From inside her jacket Joanna pulled the lengthy, razor-edge butcher knife and holding the handle in a plastic bag, she drew the blade quickly around the woman’s neck, once, twice and then again, severing veins and arteries.

Spitting blood, choking, eyes wide, the woman reached for her gun, but Joanna had dropped the knife and was holding the guard’s arm still with one hand. With the other, protected by the bag, she pulled the weapon from its holster and slid it far away from her reach, across the floor.

“Why?” Alicia whispered.

Joanna didn’t answer. Her thoughts had moved on.

BUMP KEY

[MAY 23, FIVE DAYS EARLIER, 3 A.M.]

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