Page 63 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Averell Whittaker nodded an affectionate greeting to the couple Sachs had just met: Joanna Whittaker, the man’s niece, and her fiancé, Martin Kemp. A nod to Lyle Spencer too.

One other person as well: Alicia Roberts was the armed guard assigned for Whittaker’s personal protection. The solidly builtblond woman, with hair in a tight bun, wore a dark suit. She seemed to be ex-military.

Sachs identified herself and shook Whittaker’s dry, firm hand. He sat, adjusted his paisley pocket square and then gestured everyone to sit. Sachs eased into the cream-colored leather chair. She and Rhyme had pursued a perpetrator to Italy not long ago and she’d had a chance to sit on some very upscale furniture. This chair would have stood up quite nicely to any of those.

When Lyle Spencer sat, the chair creaked.

The apartment was in the residential portion of Whittaker Tower. The building was commercial to the top ten floors—the Whittaker Media Group newspaper, TV and radio operations—and above that private residences. The massive living room was decorated with subdued elegance. She saw a Picasso on one wall. The artist who did that pointillism thing—Sachs could never remember—was responsible for another. From the north-facing floor-to-ceiling windows you could see the Bronx and—given the lofty height of sixty-four stories—maybe an outer ring of Westchester.

Her entire town house in Brooklyn could have been tucked tidily into this room.

Whittaker began, “This person calling himself the Locksmith, leaving the newspapers, he hasn’t hurt anyone?”

“Not in the two cases over the past couple of days. He breaks in, rearranges things and lets her know that he’s been there.”

“Lord,” Joanna said.

“We did find a small amount of blood, but no other direct evidence of violence.”

Sachs took a notepad from her inner pocket and clicked a pen to ready. She held up her Sony and, when there were nods all around, pressed Record. “The two victims say they don’t have any connection to anyone at your paper or TV channel. They don’t know whyhe’s leaving the newspapers.” She gave the names and asked, “Do they mean anything to you?”

The family members regarded one another. “No,” Whittaker said, and Joanna shook her head. Martin Kemp did as well.

Sachs asked about the progress of the legal department in pulling together the list of threatening letters and complaints the media company had received.

Whittaker replied, “Doug said it should be ready in an hour or so.” He sighed. “It will be a big file. We’ve tread on many toes for many years. And then the equal opportunity issues. Whittaker Media has not had the most diverse and felicitous workplace environment.”

Joanna said, “Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with us. Like that man who shot Reagan. Hinckley? He was inspired byThe Catcher in the Rye.But there was nothing in the book that called for violence.” The woman had long brunette hair, tied back severely into a ponytail. The strands were thin and the tail swayed when she looked over the visitors, which she did in a staccato way. Her gray eyes, beneath close-knit brows, were keen and her mien stern. Her dark navy suit was cut like a man’s. The face was square and she had a prominent nose. Sachs liked that she wore her features proudly and hadn’t given in to pressure from anyone, society included, to change her contours.

Sachs said, “Possibly.” She explained her thinking that the Locksmith might be using theHeraldas a token—to protest media’s intrusion into people’s lives.

“Ah,” Whittaker said sadly, “he’s breaking in—just the waywedo.”

Sachs shrugged. “Just a thought I had. Also, he could be planting the papers as a complete misdirection.”

“How’s that?” Martin Kemp asked. He had a voice that could earn him a slot as an FM radio host.

“He could be up to something else entirely, not involving you, and he’s focusing attention on the newspaper.”

“What would the something else be?” Whittaker asked.

“We don’t have any theories yet. We also know that you’re selling the company. Is it possible that a potential buyer hired the Locksmith to put you in a bad light, reduce the value?”

He gave a laugh, which to Sachs seemed almost sorrowful. “Buyers … Well, it might be helpful, Detective, if you knew a bit about Whittaker Media. I have to confess that the brand of journalism we offer isn’t quite up to theNew York Timesstandard.”

“Averell,” Joanna said kindly and touched his knee.

“No, she should know.” The man shrugged, which resulted in a minor wince. He continued, “Charlotte Miller. There’soneexample. Of many.”

The name was familiar, Sachs said, but she couldn’t place it.

“It was about a year ago. Aide to a U.S. congressman from Alabama. Marvin Doyle.”

That too echoed. She said nothing and let Whittaker continue. “One of those terrible things. He assaulted her. Drugs in her drink, something like that. The police investigated but there wasn’t enough evidence to go forward with a prosecution. Charlotte didn’t give up, though. She wanted to tell her story and expose him. I bought it and paid her for exclusivity. Put a top writer on it. We promised it was going to be serialized. But it never ran.”

“Why not?”

“Because I killed it. Do you know buy and bury?”

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