Page 86 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

He commanded his phone: “Text Pulaski.” The screen dutifully appeared and the blink of the cursor encouraged him to continue:

In addition to looking for existing locksmiths with connections to LS, look for those that have closed or gone out of business, especially those in old, unoccupied buildings, possibly ones for sale.

A moment later, the young officer responded.

Will do.

They closed up shop for the night and a half hour later Rhyme was in bed, Sachs beside him, already asleep. As he closed his eyes and let his head ease against his wife’s, smelling a floral shampoo, he reflected that deductions arising from the fly’s demise were somewhat unlikely, but that didn’t mean they weren’t worth considering. After all, “long shot” was a phrase that could be applied to nearly all aspects of policing, especially that odd and esoteric art form known as forensic science.

“Friends: Poor New York. The Locksmith is still at large and I have discovered why. I got access to a classified report from the highest sources. The Locksmith is working with the authorities. He breaks into your apartments and houses and plants listening devices, and their signals go directly to the CIA and FBI and other top-secret agencies deep in the bowels of nondescript office buildings in Washington. If he’s crazy, he’s crazy like a fox. But don’t think you’re safe. He murdered two people when they discovered him planting the bugs.

“Demand that the authorities answer for this. And buy surveillance detectors!

“Say your prayers and stay prepared!

“My name is Verum, Latin for ‘true.’ That is what my message is. What you do with it is up to you.”

PIN TUMBLER KEY

[MAY 28, 6 A.M.]

46

In my workshop, I awake early, chilled.

In two senses: From the draft in the old bakery supply building.

And from a thought.

Specifically the image of red-haired Detective Amelia as she went about her meticulous business at the crime scene outside Carrie Noelle’s apartment.

She seemed sharp, giving no-nonsense orders and carefully assessing the bags of evidence, which I am pretty sure, but not positive, contain nothing that can lead them to me.

But I’m not taking any chances. After all, she and her husband, this Lincoln Rhyme, placed me at Carrie’s as if by magic.

It wasn’t magic, however. It was cold science that they practiced. While there is a mysticism about locks and keys, which derives from what or who the lock is guarding, the workings of the devices run by the laws of nature.

I need to take precautions.

I roll from the bed. The simple futon is hard, good for a backoften aching from spending hours hunched over a workbench or computer—in a chair that Iwillreplace with the ergonomic one. I really will. Someday.

I hit the bathroom, my bare feet stinging on the chill black-and-white hexagonal tiles. Then I dress and make some decaf coffee and eat half a bagel with cream cheese, considering the problem I face.

If this problem were a lock to which I had no key I would first consider: Do I need to open it? Can I do without what’s in the apartment or steamer trunk or car that the lock is guarding? If yes, then I move on.

But if what’s being protected is significant and, especially, life-threatening, then I decide that I need to take on the task of picking.

In this case, the lock—well, the problem—is the danger of the police finding my identity.

Yes, there is a place containing damning evidence, and redheaded Amelia and the wheelchair-bound Lincoln Rhyme could in fact find it.

How could I have been so careless?

What’s the solution going to be?

The three types of lock picking: the snap gun, a snake rake or a bump key.

In this instance, I don’t have time for the subtle approach.

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