Page 34 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

He looked up. Thom handed him a glass. Inside was amber-colored liquor. He smelled peat … but not too much. One of his favorite Glenmorangies, and a double pour. His aide, who’d been fired as often as he’d quit yet was still here, could read moods.

He sipped. It helped some, but Lincoln Rhyme’s fiercest genre of anger was reserved for stupidity, even more so than corruption and deceit.

And with this sociopath roaming the streets of the city for reasons unknown, it was reckless in the extreme to sideline him.

He and Thom were alone in the town house. Cooper had packed up the evidence and had taken it to Queens. Amelia Sachs was at Major Cases. She’d gone down there to hand deliver a particular missive to Lon Sellitto.

His phone hummed and not the sound but his glance at the caller ID made his heart stir.

“Lon. Tell me.”

The pause delivered the answer.

“Sorry, Linc. They’re not budging. I got all the way to the commissioner.”

Rhyme had figured this would be the answer. In fact, he nearly smiled at the image of the rotund, rumpled detective lieutenant insisting his way into the commissioner’s office and pleading the case for Lincoln Rhyme’s reinstatement. Sellitto would have wanted to mutter, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” But, of course, hewould have brought all the negotiating skills of a seasoned homicide detective to the game.

“I found something else. You heard about this blogger? Verum?”

“No.”

“Crank conspiracy guy. Posts online, these videos about politics, society, all kinds of bullshit. Lies, but people eat them up. He’s got thousands of followers online.”

“‘Verum’? Latin for ‘true.’ Except what he says isn’t.”

“You got it. Looks like he’s in California, maybe L.A., but he’s been posting about New York. There’s this conspiracy he calls the Hidden. Some movement trying to destroy American institutions. He said that’s why Buryak got off. The trial was thrown.”

“I’m part of a secret state, hm? I missed the thank-you cards from Buryak for doing my part to set him free.”

“And then he’s saying that the police aren’t doing enough to stop the Locksmith because they’re part of it too. City Hall.”

Ah, he got it now. Rhyme barked a sour laugh. “It’s not the brass, is it, Lon? The ban-the-consultants didn’t come from the brass; it was the mayor. He wanted me out because of the election. I’m a fall guy.”

Rhyme knew next to nothing about politics—it didn’t affect his universe of forensic science—but he did know a special election for governor was coming up soon, and Mayor Harrison—a Bronx-born lifelong shirtsleeve politician—was going head-to-head with billionaire businessman Edward Roland, who lived in a posh portion of Westchester County.

“Looks like it.” Sellitto scoffed.

So, Rhyme found himself a pawn in a political contest, a role he didn’t think he’d ever played before.

“Listen, Lon, you seen Amelia yet?”

“She dropped it off.” His voice was low.

“You take credit. Don’t tell anybody it came from me.”

“Fuck, Linc. I take credit all the time for shit you come up with.”

“Night, Lon.”

The call was disconnected.

He was staring at the Locksmith whiteboard when his computer dinged with the sound of an incoming email. It was a Zoom invitation from a man he hadn’t spoken to in some time. NYPD Commanding Officer Brett Evans—the same rank as somber Rodriguez, of the handlebar affectation.

Rhyme took another sip of scotch and, manually this time, clicked on the link.

Soon he was looking at a man in his mid-fifties. Evans was the epitome of police brass. He had a lined, lean face, broad shoulders and hair going gray. His eyes were forever calm. This was a chest-up-only angle but Rhyme remembered him as having slim legs. “Dapper” was the word that came to mind.

“Lincoln, sorry to bother you at night.”

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