23
Lincoln Rhyme.
That was the answer to Carrie Noelle’s question.
“We had leads that the Locksmith might have some connection to your block.”
Sachs let it go at that and didn’t share that, as his last act as a criminalist, before he was furloughed, Rhyme considered the evidence collected thus far: the dish detergent, shards of old-time porcelain insulator, the brick dust. Then he’d composed the memo that Sachs — his “special envoy” — had taken downtown to hand deliver to Lon Sellitto, as email couldn’t be trusted. The instructions were to have the lieutenant send patrol officers in Midtown North, the 19, 20, 23, 24 and 28 Houses to search for a demo site involving an old, red-brick building. Those police precincts bordered Central Park, which Rhyme had targeted as a focal point because of the dish detergent used in cleaning the park’s gates.
Early this morning, 4:30 a.m., Sellitto got a report of a possible location. A patrolman responded, telling the lieutenant that his beat included the red-brick Bechtel Building on East 97th, half demolished and awaiting a new developer, since the existing one was in bankruptcy. They knew of the structure because it was the site of drug activity and they would occasionally roust the pushers. The resourceful officer had sent pictures of that and surrounding buildings.
Sellitto had in turn forwarded them to Sachs, keeping Rhyme out of the chain, though in the predawn hours she had, of course, shared everything with her husband.
“He doesn’t live in the place,” Rhyme had said as he lay in bed. “And if there’s no active demo going on, he doesn’t work there.”
“Which means he might be using it for surveillance.” Sachs had pointed to one of the pictures — of the apartment at 501 East 97th. “The service door’s right across from one of the windows.”
“Get down there now.”
Twenty minutes later she’d pulled up in front of the Bechtel Building, meeting Ron Pulaski and two blue-and-whites. They’d done no more than huddle to come up with a plan of action, when a call came in from Dispatch, reporting a break-in, in the very building she was gazing at.
She, Pulaski and the uniforms had responded, covering the exits and hurrying upstairs where a hysterical Carrie Noelle sat in a neighbors’ apartment. Escorted by Pulaski downstairs, she’d waited in the back of the squad car while Sachs and the ECTs walked the grid.
The woman described a break-in that was identical to Annabelle Talese’s. She had no idea when the suspect had left.
Sachs asked Noelle the same questions that she’d asked Talese — about stalkers, exes, anyone who might wish her harm.
Sachs suspected the answers would be the same as welclass="underline" Noelle could think of no one who had a motive to harm or threaten her or invade her home. Which gave credence to the theory that the intrusions were most likely random, though his purpose was still a mystery.
“It was so terrible,” Noelle whispered. “My job, I sell collectible toys. He put a doll in bed next to me. And he turned on that mobile, you know, over a baby’s crib? The Brahms ‘Lullaby.’ I’ll never be able to hear that music again.” Noelle dug for a tissue in her purse and dabbed her eyes. She opened a bottle of some medication and took two pills, swallowing them dry.
Thirty feet away, Evidence Collection Technician Sonja Montez had removed the Tyvek coveralls. Stripping off the cocoon had revealed a striking woman of dark complexion, bright pink lipstick and blue eyeshadow. She wore a striped black and red blouse and burgundy side-zippered slacks. She caught Sachs’s eye and gave a thumbs-up. Meaning the evidence was in the CSU bus, all the chain-of-custody cards filled out.
Sachs noted a car pulling up. It was roughly the same shade as the Cadillac and, at first, she tensed, but then noted it was a different make. A woman was behind the wheel. She spoke to a uniformed officer and he guided her to the curb. She parked and climbed out. Noelle’s sister, it seemed.
Noelle asked, “Is it okay if I go now? I don’t want to be anywhere near here.”
Sachs recalled Annabelle Talese’s words.
He stole my home. I loved it so much, and he took it away from me...
“Of course. I’ll call if I have any more questions. And if you think of anything else, let me know.” They had exchanged cards.
It was then that she heard a male voice. “Detective Sachs.”
She turned to see Commander Alonzo Rodriguez walking toward her. His dark eyes, close-set in a round and balding head, took in the evidence in the back of the CS bus. With him was a slim man — also balding — in a fine suit. Sachs knew him. Abraham Potter. He had some job in the mayor’s office, probably an aide. He looked imperious but she suspected he didn’t possess particular power, and was probably a skilled tattletale.
Camera crews were filming their way. Rodriguez seemed more than aware of that.
With a faux smile beneath his odd, stringy mustache, he said, “I know there was a little friction in yesterday’s meeting. I just wanted to say one thing.”
“Okay.”
“When word comes down from on top, there’s not a lot that can be done about it.”
“Is there anything I can help you with, Commander?”
He cleared his throat. “Detective, there’s an officer at the crime scene lab in Queens. He’s expecting that evidence” — a nod at the cartons — “to be logged in, in thirty minutes, with all the chain-of-custody cards duly executed.”
“Noted.”
“You know the consequences if that doesn’t happen.”
She didn’t answer.
“You’ve given all the evidence you’ve collected to the collection technicians.” A nod at the bus.
“Yes,” she said coolly.
Then in Rodriguez’s moonish face, split in half by the handlebar, a smile, of sorts, appeared. He walked toward her car. “But before you go, indulge me.” And he gestured her to follow with a crooked finger.
24
At 5:04 a.m., with Carrie Noelle snoozing contentedly one room away, I turned on the hanging mobile in the room where she stored the children’s toys she sold online.
I heard the bleat of a police siren and looked out the window to see several police squad cars and unmarked ones driven by plainclothes cops descending in front of the Bechtel and Carrie’s apartment buildings.
I thought, again, of 2019. The disaster.
And my palms, in the expensive clear surgical gloves, began to sweat. My heart to pound.
Then more officers were descending on the block where the Bechtel Building stood. They were looking round.
Looking for me?
Impossible.
Or perhaps not.
The more I considered it, the more I believed this wasn’t a coincidence.
Those in the lock industry don’t believe in omens. Locksmithing is science, it’s mechanics, it’s physics. Pins retreat because we make them retreat. The third time — or the thirtieth — is the charm only because that’s the time we’ve achieved just the right combination of tension and raking.
Then, with the bleat of a siren, I heard Carrie stir in her bedroom.
Out!
I took all of the knives from the butcher block, slipped one in my bag, along with the panties I’d taken earlier, and hid the others in the freezer. This would slow her down because she’d think I’m armed — if I took just one, she might not notice.
Then a look out of Carrie’s front door. The hall was empty, so I left. This time without relocking the SecurPoint 85. No time for dramatic flourishes.
I couldn’t leave by the front door to the street, so I did via the back window. Breaking a window to escape is like bumping a lock. But I comfort myself with the thought that it was painted shut; there was no lock to pick. As I climbed out I reflected that I probably shed evidence, but, fortunately, there was a hose on the ground, beside some trash bags. I pointed the nozzle at where I landed and turned the stream on full. Hairs and DNA that I might have left would soon be down the storm drain.