Page 150 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

They continued down the hall to the office of Commanding Officer Brett Evans, the man who had volunteered to set Rhyme up with work in New Jersey and who had run interference for him with Potter and Beaufort.

Thom opened the door and they entered the ante office.

“You must be Mr. Rhyme,” the personal assistant said. She was in her thirties, with quite dark skin and deep, black eyes. She wore a stylish lavender suit and Rhyme noted on the large desk two criminal law casebooks into which were wedged yellow pads, thick with scrawls. He wondered which law school she was attending at night.

“Ms. Williams,” he said, noting the placard. “We’re early.”

She was completely unfazed that he was in a complicated wheelchair. “Commander Evans’s on the phone. It should just be a minute or two.”

It was just a moment later that Rhyme heard the door open once more and a voice said, “Lincoln.”

He turned. Commander Al Rodriguez was accompanied by two large, unsmiling detectives. The jacket of one of the men was tugged back, perhaps so he could have easy access to his boxy gun. The goldshields looked Rhyme over and nodded. Rodriguez glanced at Thom. Rhyme couldn’t remember if they’d been introduced. Maybe. He didn’t bother to do so now.

“Sad day,” Rodriguez said.

Rhyme was silent. There was no point in denying or validating the comment; Rhyme was interested in emotion only to the extent that blood at a crime scene contained increased testosterone and decreased cortisol, which suggested the bleeder had been angry or agitated, which might in turn allow a helpful inference about what had happened.

Other than that? Observations about feelings good or feelings bad were invariably a waste of time.

The personal assistant, Williams, appeared uncertain. “Commander Rodriguez. Commander Evans has a meeting with Mr. Rhyme in a few minutes. Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’m going to need you to step into the hall,” he said firmly.

“I … why?”

“It’s official business.” He shot her a particular look and she gathered up mobile and purse and stepped out.

When the door closed Rodriguez said to Rhyme, “Let’s get it over with.”

The criminalist nodded.

They pushed into Evans’s office—first Rodriguez, then the other detectives, then Rhyme, followed by Thom. The room was a large space on whose wood-paneled walls were hung photos and paintings of former NYPD brass.

Evans, as distinguished as ever, looked up, blinking in surprise. But the reaction faded quickly. A brief sigh. A tightening of his lips. He stood.

“You’re not armed, are you, Brett?”

He shook his head.

Still, Rodriguez nodded at the detectives who stepped forward and frisked him. Rodriguez himself cuffed the commander.

“Brett Evans, you’re under arrest for obstruction of justice, conspiracy, larceny, accepting bribes. There’ll be other charges added later. Including homicides.” Rodriguez gave him the Miranda warning.

Evans offered a soft laugh. “It’s been so long since I’ve arrested anyone that I don’t think I could do that without a prompt.”

“You want to waive your right to an attorney?”

“I don’t believe I will.”

Rodriguez said to the detectives, “Central Booking. Lieutenant Sellitto’ll be there. He’s familiar with the charges.”

“Sure, Al.”

Evans was led out silently by the two big men.

Rodriguez pinched his handlebar mustache and said to Rhyme, “You ready to meet the mayor?”

He nodded. “This should be interesting.”

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