Page 32 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

As each person spoke, a red outline appeared around the window. The program was similar to Zoom, but had been created by Buryak’s IT people and was virtually unhackable. As far as tracing went, if you rode the coattails of the proxies, you ended up somewhere in Europe but there the trail would end.

In the upper left was Harry Welbourne, a sinewy and sour fifty-five-year-old. He radiated impatience, here and in person. He would be in his office in Newark. In the lower left was Kevin Duggin, whose face, very dark, was as round as Welbourne’s was narrow. There was no telling where youthful, muscular Duggin might be. His businesses were scattered throughout East New York and Brownsville. But judging from the background—a Miró-like modern painting—he was probably in either his town house in Harlem or his house on the South Shore of Long Island. In the final occupied window were the Twins—Buryak always thought of them in upper case. Stoddard and Steven Boscombe. Both of the thirty-seven-year-olds wore their blond hair shoulder-length and middle-parted.

The center window was black.

“I heard about the verdict, Viktor. Congratulations, man.” This was from Stoddard. Fortunately—for those wishing to tell themapart, if not for the man himself—Steven’s cheek was disfigured by a two-inch-long scar.

Duggin was nodding. “I feel for you, man. Been there. Nothing worse than sweating out those verdicts. Who was the ADA?”

“Prick named Sellars.”

Stoddard: “Murphy had to go. No loss to the world there. Wonder who did it.”

“Don’t have a clue. It’s being looked into.”

Welbourne rarely spoke and he didn’t now.

Buryak said, “Let us get down to business, okay?” He’d been in the U.S. for thirty years. His Ukrainian accent had all but vanished and his English was flawless. Occasionally, though, he tended to speak more formally than colloquially.

“Got my checkbook,” Duggin said.

Stoddard offered, “You’re playing with the big boys now.” His brother snickered.

Welbourne might have grunted. Buryak couldn’t tell.

“First lot …” He typed and a picture of a yellow articulated dump truck appeared. “This is a Volvo, ten years old. Payload capacity 28 short tons. Gross weight 104,499 pounds. Max engine gross power 315, gross torque 1,505. Max speed of 33 miles per hour. As you can see it’s in fair condition. The reserve bid is fifty thousand dollars, and I’ll accept increases of five.”

“Fifty,” the Twins said simultaneously. Their high voices, coupled with their cold blue eyes, made the stereo effect just plain eerie.

Duggin: “Five five.”

“Sixty,” scarfaced Steve said.

In his rich baritone voice Duggin said, “Sixty-five.”

Buryak was watching Welbourne, who was looking at another part of the screen. His eyes narrowed. He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to someone off camera.

The Twins regarded each other and chimed in with, “Seventy.”

Buryak said, “Come, please. It is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. This truck can turn your businesses clean around. Did you hear? Three fifteen horsepower? Three fifteen!”

He enjoyed playing auctioneer.

Duggin said, “Come on, you motherfuckers. You’re killing me. Seventy-five.”

No one looked at the camera; Duggin and the twins were gazing at their upper left-hand corners, trying to see if they could get a clue as to what Welbourne was up to. The New Jerseyan was reading another portion of the screen, maybe some personal information, a spreadsheet or a website. He jotted another note and handed it off.

The brothers muted their call and began conferring.

“It’s at seventy-five, Harry.”

“I’m aware.”

“You heard that torque.”

“I heard.”

“Viktor, my friend,” Duggin said, “ain’t it time to bang the gavel?”

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