Page 139 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“Sheldon Gibbons. It does. Neighbors and his wife and—more important—phone records and security cams confirm it. Funny. He looked the sleaziest but turned out to be the most authentic journalist of the bunch. He’s writing an exposé on Joanna.”

“What’s the rookie’s status?”

“Finishing up soon.”

Pulaski was walking the grid down at Joanna’s apartment in Battery Park City and running her yacht too. They had no way of knowing when the Locksmith had been there last—a week or two, possibly. If he’d been there at all. There was little chance that thepair had committed to paper or bytes any identifying information about the Locksmith, and they would have communicated on burner phones. Rhyme had hoped for some trace evidence, at least.

This did not seem likely, though. Pulaski had reported it was obvious that an energetic cleaning crew had descended on the sumptuous living space not long ago. Whether this was for the purpose of eradicating any evidentiary connection between herself and the Locksmith, or simply Joanna’s fastidious ways, the end result was the same.

In the sterile portion of the lab Mel Cooper was finishing up with the evidence collected at the apartment of Averell Whittaker, though Rhyme guessed there would be little helpful. The Locksmith himself would never have been to the abode.

And this was the case, Cooper reported.

Rhyme said, “Get on home. But make an appearance at the lab in Queens. Remember we’re renegade.”

Beaufort, Potter and Mayor Harrison still had a price on Rhyme’s head and that of anyone working with him.

Cooper stepped out of the lab, and tossed out his gloves, cap and booties, then dropped the white cotton lab jacket into a wicker bin, for Thom to launder. He stepped into the first-floor bathroom, where he scrubbed up. Then, calling “Bye,” he left via the back door.

A man’s voice called from the lobby of the town house. “We’re ready for you, Detective.”

Rhyme called, “Go get him, Sachs.”

She gave a brief laugh and walked into the front hallway of the town house.

Rhyme piloted his chair to the parlor doorway.

The film crew—three young men, in jeans and work shirts or T’s—had set up a fancy video camera on a substantial tripod. One handed her a lapel mike and she pinned it to the front of her blouse.

A small monitor sat on a portable metal table. On this was beingbroadcast a press conference down at One Police Plaza. The point man was Commanding Officer Brett Evans—the supporter of Rhyme during the Buryak-acquittal incident. He was talking about the arrest of Joanna Whittaker and her fiancé, Martin Kemp, in the attempted murder of their uncle, as well as for the kidnapping of Kitt, whom they were going to frame for the death.

Sachs said to the lead cameraman, “You going to do the five, four, three thing with your fingers?”

The producer smiled. “You want me to?”

“Sure.”

She took a deep breath. Amelia Sachs was a woman who had driven cars well over 150 miles an hour, who had been shot at, and on more than one occasion faced burial alive—her greatest fear—without a runaway pulse. And she’d been a fashion model for some of the biggest clothing and makeup companies in the world—but those assignments didn’t involve speaking lines; she simply had to remain still and look sultry. Now, Rhyme thought she was nervous … and irritated with herself for feeling that way.

Rhyme smiled at her. She gave a faint laugh and turned back, to stare down the camera.

“Okay, coming up.”

On the screen Evans was saying, “And we’d like to enlist the aid of everyone in the tri-state area to find this dangerous criminal. I’ve asked one of our detectives to give you a description of the Locksmith and some other information. If you see anyone who you think might be him, call nine one one immediately. And do not, I repeat, do not attempt to apprehend him on your own. Now to Detective Amelia Sachs, NYPD.”

The monitor went silent, the red light came on, and the finger-counting engineer did his thing.

“Good evening.” Sachs didn’t have a script but didn’t need one.She stood beside a whiteboard on which Mel Cooper, who had fine handwriting, had penned the bullet-point descriptors of the Locksmith. She recited them now. His sex, his build, his shoe size, his MO, his obsession with locks, his likely interest in lock-picking conventions, his connection to the Sebastiano Bakery Supply building on Argyle Street. He’d driven an Audi A6 recently, and he’d been known to visit certain locations—the sites of the recent intrusions and the Sandleman Building.

She added, “Now, we’re making headway in the NYPD crime scene lab in Queens.”

The improvised line was clever.

“We’re analyzing some solid evidence we’ve just discovered. We expect a breakthrough soon, but evidence is only part of the solution in finding this man. We need witnesses. We needyou.” She nodded, and the little red eye on the camera went out.

She exhaled long.

“Good job.” The cameraman lifted an eyebrow. “Hey, Detective, you ever get tired of the cop thing you might want to think about acting.”

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