Page 91 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“Sure can be, Amelia.” The woman turned and whistled—it was really quite piercing. The other CSU tech, an older Anglo, turned and jogged to the bus and jumped into shotgun. Sachs slammed the rear doors shut and thumped the side with her palm.

The vehicle’s tires actually spun and squealed and off-gassed pale smoke. With blue lights flashing, it skidded onto the street, under Izzy’s expert touch.

Ignoring reporters’ calls about what had happened, she walked to Lyle Spencer, who was standing beside the Torino.

Sachs said, “You shocked at the news? About Kitt?”

Spencer exhaled air through puffed-out cheeks. “Putting it mildly. You heard, a lot of friction in the family, the estrangement. But never in a million years …”

“If you were going to have a workshop/safe house, how would you handle it?”

Spencer said, “Something small, off the books. I’d pay cash. Noapplication process or credit check. With Kitt’s resources, trust fund, he could pay whatever the landlord wanted.”

“I didn’t see anything inside that gave me any clues. Let’s hope Lincoln’ll find something in the evidence to narrow it down.”

A cheerful voice called: “Detective. We have to stop meeting like this.”

She turned to see the man she’d labeled a ferret.

The reporter. Sheldon Gibbons. A name as memorable as his face.

How the hell had he found her?

He was armed with his digital recorder once more. While other reporters would jab their cameras and recorders forward like fencers and pepper their subjects with shouted questions, Gibbons was calm, almost eerily calm, though he still spoke quickly. “Kitt Whittaker lives in that building. First, you were talking to his father and Joanna—did you mention she was there, at the tower the other day? I don’t remember?”

There was no response.

“Well, now you’re here, but in crime-scene regalia. Is he all right? Has he been assaulted?”

“You do remember, I don’t make comments for the press?”

“Has he been injured—maybe by the father of the Hunter Mill student who was killed? That fake satanic cult story. You know about it?” It would be utterly exhausting to listen to this man for any length of time.

“No comment. There’ll be a press conference later, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure of that too. But I happen to be herenow. Why wasn’t there a guard on Kitt, in light of the Locksmith’s threats? Are you guarding Joanna too? And Averell himself?”

“Go away,” Spencer grumbled ominously as he stared at Gibbons.

The reporter held up a hand and said in a smooth voice, “FirstAmendment. I have a right to be here. Who’re you? I saw you with Detective Sachs earlier. Are you NYPD? Do you work for Whittaker Media?”

Spencer said nothing.

“Have you heard what Verum, the vlogger, is saying—that the NYPD has been infiltrated and is purposely not investigating the Locksmith case vigorously? I knowyou’reinvolved in that case, Detective.”

Gibbons looked around with narrowed eyes. “Hm. No ambulance or medical examiner. I guess Kitt isn’t hurt. Or dead. Has he gone missing, by any chance?”

The reporter suddenly ceased to exist to Sachs. She noted that Lon Sellitto had taken a call and was staring at the ground, his usually expressionless face a mask of concern.

He disconnected and sighed.

“Lon?”

The rumpled detective turned to her. “Amelia … I have to tell you. It’s Ron.”

49

Sachs skidded her Grand Torino off Hudson Street and aimed toward the Sandleman Building, rising about ten or twelve stories into the gray sky. It was narrow and grimy. A large banner readFor Sale. Commercial.

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