Page 13 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Rhyme had dictated a memo to the detectives in the 112 House, a copy of which was on the board.

When mixed together, sodium chlorite and citric acid combine to create chlorine dioxide, ClO2, a common disinfectant and cleanser. However, ClO2also is used as a fraudulent cure-all for a number of diseases, including AIDS and cancer. When sold as a quack cure, ClO2generally has added to it a flavoring agent, such as lemon, cinnamon or—as is present here—cherry syrup.

Should any persons of interest be identified and found to possess any cherry-flavored ClO2, it would not be unreasonable to pursue additional investigation into their whereabouts at the time of the homicide and, if a warrant could be obtained, additional evidence that might link the unsub to the scene.

The response, not long after, was from Detective Tye Kelly:

Holy shit, Captain Rhyme. We owe you a bottle of whatever you drink, up to and including Johnnie Walker Blue.

Rhyme then noted the front door to the town house opening. He heard the sticky rush of traffic speeding along Central Park West.

“How did it go?” Amelia Sachs asked, entering the parlor from the hallway. Meaning not the Gregorios case, he understood, but his testimony at the Buryak trial.

“It went,” Rhyme said to his wife. He gave a shrug, one of the few gestures he was capable of. “We’ll just have to see.”

Amelia Sachs, tall and trim, brushed her long red hair off of her face.

She bent down and kissed him on the mouth. He smelled the sweet/sour aroma of gunshot residue. She said, “You look, hm, troubled.”

He grimaced. “The defense lawyer. I just don’t know. Was he good, or not? Don’t know.”

“I won’t ask how long you think the deliberations’ll be.”

Sachs, a seasoned NYPD detective, had herself testified in hundreds of trials. She knew the pointlessness of the inquiry.

“How’d it go foryou?” he asked.

Sachs competed in practical shooting matches, also known as dynamic or action shooting. Contestants moved from station to station, firing at paper or steel targets, with the score based on best aim, fastest time and the power of the rounds. Shooters would fire from prone, kneeling and standing positions and often did not know ahead of time the configuration of the stations or where the targets would be. There was considerable improvisation in practical shooting.

Sachs enjoyed firearm competitions, or just plain practicing on the range, as much as she enjoyed surging around the track, or through city traffic, behind the wheel of her red muscle car, a Ford Torino.

“Not so great,” she replied to his question.

“Meaning?”

“Second.” A shrug that echoed his.

“Weren’t there fifty people competing?”

Her shoulders rose again.

Sachs was her own toughest critic, though she did admit, “The guy got first place? He does it full-time.”

Rhyme had learned from her that marksmen could make good money on the competition circuit—not from prizes but from sponsorships and teaching classes.

Thom brought in mugs of coffee and a platter of cookies.

At the moment, though, Rhyme had little thirst—not for coffee, at least.

“No,” Thom said.

Rhyme frowned. “I don’t recall asking a question.”

“No, but your eyes did.”

“Thinking I was looking at the single malt? I wasn’t.”

He had been.

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