Page 55 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“It was NYPD evidence inside. I could see the bags. Chain-of-custody cards.”

“Why do you think it’s about me?”

Douglass looked at him, as if Buryak had missed something. “You did hear, didn’t you? … Oh, no, sure. You don’t watch the news.”

Buryak was impassioned about the commodity he sold: factual information, hard, verifiable data. Not speculation, not rumor, not guesses.

Media …

Douglass continued, “Rhyme got fired. He’s not working for the department anymore.”

“Because—”

“He screwed up at your trial, and that fucked with the mayor’s ratings. So whatever they’re up to, it can’t be an official NYPD case. You were right, I think—about what your research picked up in the prosecutor’s office. He’s gunning for you.”

“He is an arrogant prick. And now he’s lost his job. All the more reason to bring me down.”

Brick approached. Buryak bent to pull her onto his lap, but she walked away. He remembered that villain from the James Bond movies, holding the cat. The cat just sat there and took the creepy stroking. It wasn’t a Maine Coon; they had minds of their own. You could pet them if they wanted to be petted. Otherwise, forget it.

Buryak sipped tea. When Douglass had first started working for him, he’d been offered a beverage. He declined. On the second visit, he did the same. Buryak had stopped offering.

Buryak said, “That trial made me quite tense. I wish I could just get a little peace. Maria has a masseuse she goes to, Palm Beach, when she is upset. Ah, what I wouldn’t give for a little peace…”

The man had mastered the language of speaking as if a prosecutor was listening to every word.

Aaron Douglass had, in turn, masteredunderstandingthe language of Buryak. It was like a code, perfectly clear when you had the key.

Now, Buryak was sending an unequivocal message to Douglass, who easily translated: Find muscle, somebody good and discreet, and make sure that person “corrects” the situation with this Rhyme and his wife, all the while keeping Buryak insulated.

“There’s a masseur I use sometimes,” Douglass said. “He’s very good. And I know he’s available. I’ll call him now.”

“A massage, yes, yes.” Buryak stretched and rose. He glanced at the cats. “Better feed my livestock now. Do you have pets, Aaron?”

A very brief hesitation.

Was he thinking of the wisdom of giving away some personal information?

“No.”

“Ah, they can add a great deal to your life.”

“I’ll remember that.”

28

As Sachs piloted the Torino to a curb on East 97th Street she was aware of flash of white: a Lexus SUV turned quickly west on a cross street and drove out of sight.

She believed she’d seen it earlier, close to Rhyme’s town house. Had this vehicle been following her? She’d had her eye out for the gray Cadillac, which she hadn’t seen, but she now wondered if she was being double-teamed.

By whom? And why?

Nothing to do about it. Except stay aware.

She parked up the street from the Bechtel Building and tossed the NYPD official business placard on the dash, then stepped out. Sticking to shadows and looking around frequently for gray sedans or white SUVs—and any other pedestrian surveillance—she made her way to the building. A few doors down, she paused and studied it carefully, with an eye out for threats.

Human threats, she meant. The building itself—oh, it was agiven that the place was a death trap. The stone façade, three stories tall, was pitted and soot stained, and the crowning cornice piece into which was carvedBechtelwas cracked horizontally. It seemed that not much beyond a gust of wind could topple the broken portion and send it crashing to earth. The glass was missing from most windows. A portion of the north wall had collapsed into a vacant lot, and sizable chunks of ceiling and walls had come down inside.

She saw no movement.

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