Page 153 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“So back to fucking square one with him.”

“Well, about that …” Rhyme said absently and glanced at his phone.

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Sitting in her Torino in a very pleasant portion of Queens, Amelia Sachs heard a crackle on her walkie-talkie.

“Detective Five Eight Eight Five, be advised, subject has been spotted in his car, heading toward home. Two blocks away. K.”

“Five Eight Eight Five,” she transmitted. “Is he alone? K.”

“Affirmative. K.”

Hell. She’d hoped to net two birds with one bust but this was the far more important avian and they couldn’t wait any longer.

She dropped the Torino into gear and drove forward, then turned the corner and stopped. She was across the street from an elegant estate, nestled in some fine landscaping. She killed the engine.

“Five Eight Eight Five. I’m ten twenty-three. I have visual on subject’s vehicle. Block and a half away. Get ready to move in. K.” She watched the white Mercedes sedan cruise smoothly toward her.

The four teams, in unmarkeds, responded they were ready.

She lifted the radio to her face, smelling the familiar pungent scent the devices off-gassed. “Five Eight Eight Five. He’s at the intersection Holly and June. K.”

Two minutes later the Mercedes pulled up to his front gate and Sachs saw his hand reach up to the visor and press the button on the remote to open the scrolly black metal gate.

Nothing happened. The receiver had been disabled by an NYPD tactical officer a half hour ago.

“Move in, move in, move in!” Sachs shouted, sprinting to the Mercedes. Her Glock was aimed at the driver’s head. The other cars skidded up, one blocking him in. In just a few seconds, nine officers surrounded the Mercedes.

“Unlock the door!” she shouted.

The driver did.

“I want to see your hands at all times. You understand. At every second!”

And nodding, Viktor Buryak climbed out, arms raised. While the other officers covered her, Sachs frisked him.

As a beefy officer cuffed him, Buryak gave a wry laugh. “You’re kidding me. Whatever Evans or anybody says, they’re lying. You got no tapes, nothing. And what’s all this goddamn SWAT shit for?”

Sachs didn’t respond. She read him his rights on the charge of murder in the second degree.

In the office of Mayor Tony Harrison, Lincoln Rhyme disconnected the call from Amelia Sachs.

He nodded to Al Rodriguez, then said to him, the mayor and Beaufort, “Buryak’s in custody and going to be transferred to Garner County on homicide charges.”

Rhyme believed the mayor actually gasped.

Rodriguez said, “Buryak always kept himself at arm’s length from anything that could implicate him. But for years we kept looking—and that included searching for any felonies or deaths within ten miles of Buryak’s offices and homes—his mansion in Forest Hillsand his vacation house in Garner County. Couple months ago, we found one, a contractor in Garner died in a car crash coming home from a job last year. It was written up as accidental but it was suspicious. It happened on a clear afternoon on a straightaway—and just three miles from Buryak’s country house.”

Rhyme said, “We got credit card receipts that showed that Buryak bought a couple thousand dollars’ worth of building supplies around the time of the death. Just a theory: Had the contractor been working on his house and seen something incriminating? And had Buryak moved fast to eliminate the man and stage the accident?”

Rodriguez continued, “It all could have been a coincidence. But Amelia Sachs and Ron Pulaski drove up there and worked the scene. They found evidence linking Buryak to the worker’s death.”

“After all that time?”

Rhyme chose not to lecture the mayor about the skill of those two particular forensic scientists. He himself had been of some help too.

“We made him in March,” Rodriguez continued, “and could’ve moved on him at any time, but we had to keep him in play to find our mole. Once we had Evans, it was okay to roll Buryak up.”

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