Page 73 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Rhyme understood this worry. But, in the end, he sided with the LPR system. It had helped them close a half-dozen cases.

“He’s red-flagged now. If any cruisers have a hit I’ll get a call.”

Spencer said, “I have a meeting with Mr. Whittaker.” A nod toward Rhyme. “Confession. I could have messengered over the file or given it to Amelia. But, to be honest, I just wanted to meet you. We had some of your books in our library in Albany. I studied them.”

“Ah,” Rhyme said.

He started for the door then stopped. “Amelia told me about the Locksmith operation. It’s sensitive. If anyone asks, you’re not involved in the case.”

“Thanks.”

With another nod, to Sachs, the large man walked into the hallway and out the door.

“I checked him out,” she said.

“Assumed you would. What’s his story?”

“Not sure,” Sachs said. “Something happened. Not the military,I think—he was a SEAL. Something more recent. PD in Albany, I’d guess.” She told him that he’d been trying to leave the Bechtel Building, armed with a brain-beating pipe, when she’d lit him up. “It was odd. I targeted him center mass. Identified myself. Had him blinded by the flashlight on my phone. But he didn’t drop his weapon. He just stood there.”

“Deer in the headlights.”

“Nope. I thought he was thinking of coming at me. Never seen anybody looking so relaxed with muzzle gaze.”

“Any idea why?”

“Scar on his head. You see it?”

“No.”

“I’d guess he was in a bad firefight. PTSD.”

Rhyme, a lab man, a crime scene man, had occasionally experienced violence in the line of work. But ironically the only serious injury he’d experienced had come from an outright accident, not a gunshot. A beam had fallen onto his neck in a construction site he was searching. He could not imagine the panic, the noise, the chaos, the horror of a firefight. Sachs—no stranger to combat—had told him that the average length was three to seven seconds, though it seemed like long minutes.

She said, “I don’t think he wants to be a security guard.”

“A well-paid one, I’ll bet.”

“He mentioned a family, so I’m sure he needs the money. But he’s like us. Blue is in his blood. He misses it.”

Then Lyle Spencer and his inner angels or demons vanished like morning mist as Rhyme’s eyes scanned the file.

“No other P.E. to analyze.” A sour glance toward the sterile portion of the lab. “Let’s read the complaints and threats. How many are there? Two million? Three? Thom! Thom! I need you to scan some documents. Let’s go!”

39

Don’t worry, there’ll be consequences.

My father might have gotten me into treatment. Lord knew, he had the money.

But instead he hired a locksmith and had three of the most expensive locks in the craftsman’s stock installed on each of the two basement doors—one into the house and the other into the garden.

They were, however, installed backward.

Anyone outside simply could use the latch to open the door; the personinside, though—which would be me—would need keys, the only copies of which my father kept with him. The locksmith was perplexed and, before he started the job, asked a few questions.

He stopped his inquiries when handed ten one-hundred-dollar bills, on top of his fee.

Our mansion was large but the cellar was not—about twenty by thirty feet with a finished bathroom and wood floors and paneling, though there was no ceiling. Just black painted beams and pipes overhead.

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