Page 50 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Pulaski said, “Maybe some of your ego’s rubbing off on us, Lincoln.”

Sachs then said, “We never did askyou, of course. Your ass is on the line too. What do you say?”

The three were looking his way.

Rhyme, not a man of many words but rarely speechless, said nothing for a moment. Finally: “Thank you.”

26

Rhyme was listening to Sachs’s description of the Carrie Noelle home invasion.

“He did the same thing as at Annabelle’s. Moved personal effects, stole underwear and a knife. No dessert, but he drank some of her wine.”

“Left the glass?”

“He did.”

Rhyme grunted affirmatively, thinking: Possibly DNA.

Sachs pulled on booties, gloves, a cap and a white lab jacket and stepped into the sterile portion of the parlor, where Mel Cooper was logging the evidence in and signing his name on the chain-of-custody cards.

The items that the Locksmith touched were a doll, some clothes, a wine bottle and glass, a wooden block and the knives it had contained, a tube of lipstick, a children’s mobile in a second bedroom that served as a storeroom for the toys she blogged about and sold online.

“He started it playing.”

Cooper said, “Must have freaked her out. Imagine.”

She said, “Had to let that go to Queens, the mobile. Couldn’t cut it in half, her phone too, but we’ve got almost everything else.”

“Footprints?”

“Everything but the bathroom was carpeted, and there he stood on the rug.”

“Friction ridges?” Rhyme called. This was just a formality, and Sachs and Cooper confirmed he’d worn gloves and left no fingerprints.

“I want that DNA,” he said. “Check the wineglass.”

Sachs handed Cooper the heavy goblet. “Couldn’t afford for that to go to the lab. I wanted it here.”

Rhyme agreed. “Hold it up,” he called.

The tech lifted it to the camera and Rhyme wheeled to a large monitor. He noted a smear around the lip.

“Swab it and give me the analysis.”

Cooper did as instructed. Soon he had an answer. “Sodium carbonate peroxyhydrate.”

“Goddamn it.”

Pulaski, the scribe manning the whiteboard, looked his way.

Rhyme continued, “It’s oxygen bleach.”

“Hell,” Sachs muttered.

“What’s the matter?” the young patrol officer asked.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Rhyme grumbled. “He can’t leave touch DNA because he’s wearing gloves, and he’s got some head covering so we can’t get a hair. The only chance to snag his DNA was from imbibing the vic’s wine. And he cleaned the rim off with one of the few substances in the universe that destroy deoxyribonucleic acid.”

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