Page 48 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“The hell’s that about? I’m voting it’s a misdirection.”

And then recalled that his vote would not be counting for anything in the investigation.

The doorbell sounded and Rhyme and Sachs glanced at the security monitor. Thom had heard too and he appeared in the hallway, looking neat and trim, as he always did. Dark slacks and a blue dress shirt, a blue and purple floral tie. “Answer it?” he asked, noting thatthey continued to look at the monitor and had not unlocked the door themselves.

The caller was a large, tanned man, with a shaved, or naturally bald, head. After a moment he held up a gold NYPD shield.

Sachs and Rhyme shared a glance. She said, “Don’t know him.”

On his chair arm controller, Rhyme hit the intercom.

“Help you?”

“Captain Rhyme?”

“That’s right, Detective.”

“You have a minute?”

A pause. “Sure.” A nod to Thom, who walked to the door and unlatched it.

A moment later the man, with broad shoulders and a handsome, thoughtful face was in the parlor, looking past Rhyme and Sachs, who stepped away and typed on her phone. He said, “Well, that’s impressive.”

He meant the lab.

Rhyme knew. Nothing to comment on.

The large man turned and nodded to Sachs and Rhyme. She slipped her phone away and focused on the visitor.

“Detective.” A glance to Sachs. Then back to Rhyme: “This won’t take long, Captain. I’m Richard Beaufort, the One One Two. I’m following up on the Buryak case.”

We, the jury, find the defendant not guilty …

“Are you?” Rhyme reminded himself to keep a lid on the impatience and anger.

“Yessir. I’m contacting everyone involved in the trial and putting together a file of all the documentation they have about it. Pain in the ass, I know. For me too. Do you have anything here? Evidentiary reports, anything like that? Copies are fine. You can keep the originals.”

“Postmortem, hm?” Rhyme wheeled closer to Beaufort, who towered. The height disparity was one thing about his condition that had been so very hard to get used to: he was always lower than those around him. Rhyme’s personality had been forceful—if not domineering—and being looked down at was a blow. Oddly, though, over the years he’d come to realize that he actually hadmorepower in the chair; those talking to, or arguing with, him lowered their heads, which was, in a way, an act of submission.

“I honestly don’t know what they have in mind, sir. I was just told to collect any documentation.”

“I think we gave the prosecutor everything.” He looked to Sachs, who nodded. Then Rhyme said, “But there are some evidence charts we did, flow diagrams, you know. It’s secondary material. Would they want that?”

“I think they would. Is that a scanning electron microscope?” He walked to the glass partition. “And a chromatograph. In a Central Park West town house. I’ll be damned.”

Rhyme continued, “They’re photos—digital—of the charts. Like those.” Rhyme pointed and Beaufort looked toward the whiteboards on easels. One was of the Locksmith case, the others about the Buryak and the Gregorios case—the murder by the homeless man. There were crime scene photos of the bloody body. They were explicit and bright and stark. Beaufort gave no reaction.

He asked, “A thumb drive, or something?”

“Sure.” He wheeled to the computer, instructed it to call up the Buryak file. He scrolled through to find the JPGs of the charts and, after Sachs had loaded a blank thumb drive into the USB slot, copied the files and pasted them. She handed the drive to Beaufort.

“Thanks, Captain, Detective …” He pocketed the small rectangle. “Appreciate it.” He started to leave, then paused. “I’m sorry about what happened.”

The Hindenburg? World War Two? The Great Recession? Rhyme reined himself in and said, “Thanks.”

“They didn’t ask me but I would’ve told them it’s a bad idea. We need you, a lot of the line people say so. Brass too.”

“You take care, Detective,” Rhyme said.

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