Page 142 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Lincoln Rhyme was in an alien space.

His kitchen.

He had never cared much for cooking. He certainly didn’t mind a good meal now and then, but to him food was largely fuel. If anything interested him, it was the chemistry of the process. Thom, an expert with whisk and blade and flame, had told him how yolks thicken and yeast inflates and oil and liquid—chemical enemies—become allies when headed for a salad.

He had suggested that his aide might want to write a book about the science of cooking. Thom had replied it was about a hundred years too late.

His phone hummed.

“Sachs.”

“I’m downtown,” she was saying through the speaker. “The war room. We’ve had over three hundred calls about my broadcast.”

He wouldn’t’ve expected that many.

“Anything useful?”

“Some possible spottings. Mostly people on Argyle Street, near the Sebastiano Company.”

“And?”

“Still checking them out. We looked over the security videos around Joanna’s apartment but if the Locksmith was ever there, he managed to avoid the cameras. There was a blind spot at the service entrance.” She chuckled. “One caller said she knows the Locksmith’s an alien. And I don’t mean immigration-wise.”

“They do come out of the woodwork.”

She grew serious. “Have you heard about the Verum situation?”

“No. I’m in the dark, being a member of the Hidden.”

“Seems like Joanna—well, her alter ego—has thousands of followers. They’re not happy their beloved leader’s in jail. Lot of online traffic, threats. Some riots. No kidding.”

“This case’s been one for the books, Sachs. When’ll you be home?”

“Late. Two, three. Sooner if we get a lead and nail him.”

“Optimist … ’Night.”

He disconnected and looked around him.

The kitchen was paneled and windowed like any from a hundred and fifty years ago, but the many devices arrayed and installed here were state of the art—not unlike his parlor, forty feet away.

He noted oddly shaped knives and ladles and spatulas. There was a round wooden cylinder with inch and centimeter markings burnt into it. Ah, a rolling pin.

He was not here, however, to ponder the mysteries of turning flora and fauna into edibles. Whisky was his mission, a quite nice Glenmorangie, the eighteen-year-old version. He lifted down the bottle and wedged it between his legs, then sliced through the paper seal with a short, sharp knife. The cork stopper proved a bit more challenging but in thirty seconds it was out. He poured a glass and he didn’t spill a drop.

He set the bottle back on the counter and took a small sip.

Heavenly.

Driving via left ring finger, he turned the chair and motored into the hallway. He passed through the doorway into the dining room, a formal place with elaborate crown molding and a table that sat eight. The legs ended in lion paws gripping a ball—a flourish that Rhyme had always found ironic, since his own toes could grip nothing and probably never would. It was one of the many observations that had so pained him in the first months of his altered condition and that he now considered with amusement, if at all.

How perspectives change …

He and Amelia had had a very pleasant meal here just before the Buryak case and the Locksmith investigation roared to life.

With the chair moving nearly silently over the smooth oak floors, Rhyme steered into the hallway and then turned right through the open doorway of the larger of the two front parlors, the one that contained the lab.

There he braked to a stop and lowered the glass from which he was about to take a sip.

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