Page 45 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

With a faux smile beneath his odd, stringy mustache, he said, “I know there was a little friction in yesterday’s meeting. I just wanted to say one thing.”

“Okay.”

“When word comes down from on top, there’s not a lot that can be done about it.”

“Is there anything I can help you with, Commander?”

He cleared his throat. “Detective, there’s an officer at the crime scene lab in Queens. He’s expecting that evidence”—a nod at the cartons—“to be logged in, in thirty minutes, with all the chain-of-custody cards duly executed.”

“Noted.”

“You know the consequences if that doesn’t happen.”

She didn’t answer.

“You’ve given all the evidence you’ve collected to the collection technicians.” A nod at the bus.

“Yes,” she said coolly.

Then in Rodriguez’s moonish face, split in half by the handlebar, a smile, of sorts, appeared. He walked toward her car. “But before you go, indulge me.” And he gestured her to follow with a crooked finger.

24

At 5:04 a.m., with Carrie Noelle snoozing contentedly one room away, I turned on the hanging mobile in the room where she stored the children’s toys she sold online.

I heard the bleat of a police siren and looked out the window to see several police squad cars and unmarked ones driven by plainclothes cops descending in front of the Bechtel and Carrie’s apartment buildings.

I thought, again, of 2019. The disaster.

And my palms, in the expensive clear surgical gloves, began to sweat. My heart to pound.

Then more officers were descending on the block where the Bechtel Building stood. They were looking round.

Looking forme?

Impossible.

Or perhaps not.

The more I considered it, the more I believed this wasn’t a coincidence.

Those in the lock industry don’t believe in omens. Locksmithing is science, it’s mechanics, it’s physics. Pins retreat because we make them retreat. The third time—or the thirtieth—is the charm only because that’s the time we’ve achieved just the right combination of tension and raking.

Then, with the bleat of a siren, I heard Carrie stir in her bedroom.

Out!

I took all of the knives from the butcher block, slipped one in my bag, along with the panties I’d taken earlier, and hid the others in the freezer. This would slow her down because she’d think I’m armed—if I took just one, she might not notice.

Then a look out of Carrie’s front door. The hall was empty, so I left. This time without relocking the SecurPoint 85. No time for dramatic flourishes.

I couldn’t leave by the front door to the street, so I did via the back window. Breaking a window to escape is like bumping a lock. But I comfort myself with the thought that it was painted shut; there was no lock to pick. As I climbed out I reflected that I probably shed evidence, but, fortunately, there was a hose on the ground, beside some trash bags. I pointed the nozzle at where I landed and turned the stream on full. Hairs and DNA that I might have left would soon be down the storm drain.

Now, an hour later, I’m on crowded 97th Street, along with curious spectators and the press.

I learn that I was right; this is no coincidence. A tall redhead detective—there’s a gold badge on her hip—is talking to a young blond officer in a uniform. He calls her Amelia and he’s Ron and she mentions Carrie Noelle by name.

In fact, there she is, mouse-timid in the back of a squad car.

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