Page 15 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

But the structure is unoccupied, as it was on my last two visitshere. Not surprising. It looks like the whole place could come down at any minute.

I am, though, concerned about the trash here. The Chinese shoe tread is anonymous, yes, but I don’t know how effective the rubber is in protecting against tainted hypodermic needles.

I gaze out, looking over the occasional passerby. I’m an expert at watching people and because of that I am an expert at knowing when I’m being watched. Right now, I’m not. I’m hidden behind the panes of glass, just like I’m hidden to those who post on ViewNow—invisible, but always watching.

I study her building: dun-colored stone, aluminum trim around the windows, a weatherworn green canopy leading to the street. Ten stories. Not many young people here, or retirees. This part of town—while pale and nondescript, architecturally bland—is expensive.

But Carrie Noelle can afford it. Her business is, by all accounts, successful.

Being here now is part of the way I approach my Visits. Always planning ahead.

There are two ways to pick locks: The crude approach involves either using a snap gun—which you stick into a keyway and pull the trigger until the lock opens—or bumping, bluntly pounding a key blank until you defeat the device. The second approach is rake picking—the subtle, theartist’sapproach. My approach.

Similarly there are two ways to approach breaking and entering. Some burglars improvise. They show up at the home and just see what happens.

I’m incapable of that. My Visits involve exhaustive preparation. I need to know about security in the building, front door, service door, cameras in lobbies and hallways or outside, doormen, vantage points, homeless men or women stationed nearby, who, like crankheads, might be stoned or crazy or drunk, but who can have just fine memories and describe me to a tee.

Curiously, I learned not long ago, serial killers too are divided into two categories: disorganized and organized offenders.

I see now that nothing has changed. No new cameras in or around Carrie’s building. No homeless squatters in adjacent doorways. A simple Webb-Miller on the service entrance. Which hardly even counts. I call such locks hiccups.

One more thing to check.

And I have to wait but a moment. Ms. Carrie Noelle, in person, walks into view, returning from a lunch date I knew she had scheduled.

She is tall, in her mid-thirties. Her outfit today is jeans and a leather jacket. Running shoes, orange and stylish, not gaudy. Her chestnut hair’s tied back in a ponytail. Not model beautiful but quite pretty. The woman walks in smooth strides. There’s an athleticism about her. Catlike. She not only resembles but she moves just as elegantly as my gorgeous Aleksandra.

Every Russian girl, she is gymnast or dancer growing up …

Carrie is walking along the sidewalk in front of the Bechtel Building. She passes the window, not ten feet away but doesn’t glance in.

And the final element of the prep: I confirm that she’s alone. Carrie isn’t on the arm of a man who would complicate my Visit. (I’d say manorwoman, but I know that she’s straight.)

Of course she could have a suitor stop by later tonight, but that hasn’t been her style.

All by her lonesome.

She proceeds to the front of her building. She greets a neighbor, a retiree, he seems. He’s walking toward the entrance too. Theysmile—hers is radiant—and they exchange a few words. With his key he opens the door (a silly Henderson pin tumbler).

The bags she carts are cumbersome and, gentleman that he must be, he volunteers to help her. She hands one over. As he takes it he glances in and once again smiles, lifting an impressed eyebrow.

Which says to me that the recipient of whatever is inside will be delighted with the purchase. On the other hand, noting the logo of the store on the bag, aren’t childrenalwaysoverjoyed when their parents put that very special new toy into their little hands?

8

Rumpled” was the go-to word in describing Lon Sellitto, the middle-aged detective first grade who had been the criminalist’s partner years ago, before Rhyme moved to Crime Scene and, later, ascended to be the head of NYPD Investigation and Resources Division, which included the CSU.

Pressing his mobile to his ear, the stocky man with thinning hair of a shade that could best be described as brown-gray made his way into the parlor, nodding greetings to Rhyme and Sachs, as he steamed toward the cookies. He tucked the phone between cheek and shoulder and broke one in half carefully, then set the larger portion back on the tray before negating the show of willpower by scarfing down the surviving half.

He was apparently on hold. He said to no one, “Oatmeal. Raisins. Damn, that man can bake.” He glanced toward Sachs. “You ever bake?”

She seemed perplexed, as if she’d been asked that old saw abouthow many angels fit on the head of a pin, or however it went. “Once, I think. No, that was something else.”

Sellitto asked, “How’d the trial go?”

Rhyme grumbled, “No earthly idea. It’s in the jury’s hands now.” His voice conveyed the message that he didn’t want to think about, much less discuss, the trial. He said, “‘Odd’? You said, ‘odd.’” The criminalist’s heart was beginning to thud a bit faster—as always, the messenger was his temple. Lincoln Rhyme lived for “odd,” along with “unusual” and “challenging.” “Inexplicable” too. A case where Thug A shoots Thug B, who’s then caught with the murder weapon ten minutes later, did not intrigue. His worst enemy was not a psychotic killer but boredom. Before the accident, and after, to be bored was to die a little.

Amelia Sachs was also eyeing the visitor with some anticipation, it appeared. She was assigned to Major Cases—where Sellitto was a supervising lieutenant. She could catch a job for anybody at MC who needed her but she worked most frequently for Sellitto—and she always did when Rhyme was brought on as consultant.

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