Page 129 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“There’re rewards offered by the EPA and local environmental organizations. We create databases of violators and make it public on our servers. I studied all of those things Joanna mentioned, yes. Wasn’t dabbling. They’re part of the job.”

“And it does well?”

“Not great, not by your standards. But we did about fifty million last year.”

“My Lord.” After a moment Whittaker frowned. “When you went missing, why didn’t anyone from the company contact me? They’d know I’m your father.”

“I spend most of my time in the field, running the drones. I’m gone for weeks at a time.”

Kitt finished the beer and opened another. “Your articles and op-ed pages came down in favor of big oil and gas, anti-environmentalist. I didn’t think you’d want to have anything to do with me … Hey …”

Whittaker had set down his wine and was hugging his son fiercely. After a moment the son reciprocated the embrace.

Kitt asked a question out of the blue: “Will you miss the paper and the TV station when they’re gone?”

“Not at all. I can’t wait to get the foundation started.” He eyed his son closely and told him in detail what it would be doing. The young man seemed to approve.

Then Whittaker offered a coy, hopeful smile.

“What?”

Whittaker asked, “Well, I’m just thinking … How’d you like a slot on the board?”

A moment of consideration, then: “I would. I’d like that very much.”

“Say, you hungry? Do you want some food? We can stay in. Better not to go out, or even order takeaway. Damn reporters. But Isla keeps the place pretty well stocked.”

Whittaker walked into the kitchen and his son followed.

The father looked into the Sub-Zero, while the son watched, apparently amused, as if Whittaker had never gazed into a refrigerator before. Which was not far off the mark. “Omelette. It’s really the only thing I can cook.”

“That sounds good to me.”

Whittaker opened a good Rhône, a Châteauneuf-du-Pape, House of the Pope, and poured two glasses of the spicy wine.

He began cracking eggs into a bowl and then coaxing out the few bits of shell that had gotten in. It was a tricky job. Kitt made toast, buttered the slices with a rasp of blade and put them on a serving plate.

Soon the shell-free eggs sizzled and spattered in the skillet, and Averell Whittaker’s son walked to the buffet in the dining room to hunt for placemats and silverware for the table.

69

Defensive wounds.

Or, more accurately, thelackof defensive wounds.

There were only three knife slashes in the body of Alekos Gregorios—the man slashed to death in the backyard of his large Queens home.

Rhyme had earlier noted the wounds but, as he’d been asked only to analyze some trace evidence, hadn’t paid much attention to them. Then Richard Beaufort had inadvertently ignited Rhyme’s interest when he flashed his picture of the brag board.

The Locksmith was still at large, but once a mystery arose in an investigation, even one that was technically closed, Lincoln Rhyme could not let it go. He now gazed up at the whiteboard devoted to the case and considered the question.

Yes, one reason for the lack of defensive cutscouldbe that the killer had surprised him, as Rhyme had earlier speculated. But, after more thought, he asked himself: How could a stumbling, incoherent homeless man like Xavier get close enough to murder someone withthree strokes of a knife and the victim not hold his hands up, fighting to grab the blade?

It was possible, certainly, but a more likely explanation was that Gregorios knew the killer, who was physically close to him, probably because they were having a conversation. Then, in a flash, out came the knife and the slaughter began.

Known to the victim.

Could be a friend, neighbor … or a family member.

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