Now, an hour later, I’m on crowded 97th Street, along with curious spectators and the press.
I learn that I was right; this is no coincidence. A tall redhead detective — there’s a gold badge on her hip — is talking to a young blond officer in a uniform. He calls her Amelia and he’s Ron and she mentions Carrie Noelle by name.
In fact, there she is, mouse-timid in the back of a squad car.
How the hell...?
I know for a fact that Carrie didn’t call them; when they arrived she was still Sleeping Beauty and her phone had been drowned in the aquarium.
Nobody could have seen me break into the apartment or they would have called the police much earlier.
Somehow, they figured out that I was targeting her.
I consider this.
Figuring out my assault on Carrie specifically was impossible; only I knew I had a Visit to her planned. But what isn’t impossible is that they decided I was going after someone in this neighborhood. No. On this block.
This has to be it. Amelia points to someone in one of those spaceman crime-scene suits and then to the Bechtel Building. And he, or she, begins to encircle the front with police tape.
Of course!
I glance at my feet.
My betraying shoes.
I picked up some dirt or mud or something telltale on one of the earlier visits here and tracked it to Annabelle Talese’s. The police traced it to the Bechtel Building. This seems incredible to me, but then to a layperson picking a SecurPoint — or, for that matter, any stout deadbolt — would be akin to magic.
I call up Google. All it takes is “crime scene” and “Amelia” and “NYPD,” and I’m inundated with references to Amelia Sachs, decorated detective, daughter of a decorated patrol officer, married to the decorated former detective, now consultant, Lincoln Rhyme.
Their specialty is forensics.
I’m furious with myself. What if this Rhyme and his wife had made the deduction earlier and sent officers here then, when I was crouched in the dank front lobby of the Bechtel Building, waiting for the chance to start my Visit?
It wouldn’t have taken long to get to the “intent” question. Once the officers discovered the tools — my stocking cap that pulls down into a full-face mask, page 3 of the Daily Herald and, of course, the knife, technically legal though it may be — I’d be on my way to jail.
Which would be, for me, pure hell.
My hands are actually tremoring.
And that is a condition that no lockpicker can tolerate.
So, in the future, shoes with plain leather soles.
Amelia spends some time talking to Carrie Noelle in the back of the car. I can imagine the exchange, as they each try to figure out the why-me question.
I calm and focus on the situation. After Carrie — still pretty but pale and with hair askew — drives off with her ride, I edge closer to Amelia. I want to learn more about my pursuers. It’s a risk being here, though no one seems to pay me any mind. Sunglasses — and the morning is in fact sunny — a turned-up collar on my sumptuous leather jacket. On my head I’ve swapped the stocking cap for a more common Mets baseball hat. I have never been to a game, not that team, not any. My father, I happen to reflect, was too busy to take me to any amusement, especially a common one. That, however, was the least of his sins, and the fact is I would have hated his company anyway.
I notice some tension between Amelia and a man who has the smug quality of someone in power. I guess he’s a police captain or some other brass. The rotund man sports a self-conscious handlebar mustache. Maybe he fancies himself Agatha Christie’s Belgian detective Poirot. He’s dark-complexioned. Latino, I gauge. Or possibly Mediterranean.
There’s another suited man, skinny and bald, and he stands by, observing with unemotional eyes.
The exchange between them is not a full-on argument but he’s lording something over her, louder than he needs to be, with the result that the nearby press continue to film.
Poirot reminds me of my father.
My impression is that police department politics are more involved than the art of crime solving.
The dispute seems to be about the evidence she has collected.
He walks to an old-time car, a Ford Torino. It’s hers. I’ve just seen her take a jacket from it and tug the garment over her appealing figure. Poirot is saying, “But before you go, indulge me.” He gestures condescendingly for her to follow.
The skinny man joins them, and a flash of sunlight fires from his smooth skull.
Poirot peers into the interior of the vehicle like a traffic cop hoping to spot some weed or an open beer. He then points to the trunk.
Hands on hips, she regards him closely.
More video cameras are gobbling up the scene. How ironic: I see a crew from WMG — the Whittaker Media Group channel — a part of the empire that publishes the Daily Herald.
There’s a standoff for a moment between Amelia and Poirot. It seems his condescending poke toward her trunk proves nearly to be too much for Amelia. She is a few inches taller than him, and she leans close, glaring. He doesn’t give an inch.
After a moment she pulls keys from the pocket of her black jeans. Most cars back then — the ’60s — came with two different keys: one for the ignition, one for the doors and trunk. The reason for that has been much debated, and I don’t have an answer to the mystery.
Amelia opens the trunk. Poirot glances in and doesn’t see what he’d hoped to see.
She slams the lid and walks toward the front of the car, removing her phone and making a call. Poirot remains nearby, watching her with his arms crossed, like a principal before a high school student possibly guilty of an infraction.
Ignoring the man, Amelia finishes her call, then drops into the low car. The big engine fires up crisply and she skids into traffic.
Poirot looks after her and then walks away, his face both smug and disappointed as if he wanted to catch her in a no-no. Baldie is at his side, now on his mobile.
The Belgian detective ignores questions from the press, several of whom ask again — nearly demanding — if this was the work of the Locksmith and if, this time, he murdered anyone.
In truth, my thoughts are still on Amelia. I understand she’s married but that doesn’t stop me from picturing her alone in bed, as she sleeps in a T-shirt and boxers, on her side, a long pillow or curled duvet between her slim legs. In the video playing in my head, I’m in the room, just a few feet away, staring down, enjoying what I’m seeing, her mouth slightly open, her knees drawn up and — particularly vivid — her red hair splayed out upon the pillow, arcing and glossy, like a hawk’s unfurled wings.
25
What’s she doing here? Lincoln Rhyme wondered.
Amelia Sachs was walking into Rhyme’s town house. Apparently, given the timing, she would have come directly here from the scene on East 97th. Rhyme was surprised. He thought she’d go straight to Queens to supervise the processing of the evidence at the main lab, per fiat from Willis and Rodriguez — and ultimately, the mayor. She should be in their lab; the team needed to move fast. The Locksmith was smart, and careful, but he’d stumbled once, leading them to his next victim. Maybe he’d slipped up again, this time directing them to his home or office, or revealing his identity.
It was odd to watch her enter without the evidence cartons. Perhaps she’d come here to pick up some things she needed before going on to Queens. Even though Rhyme’s lab was a small fraction of the size of the main NYPD operation, his was better financed per square foot and had newer and in some cases more sophisticated instrumentation. If she took any — fine, she could help herself — but damn it, the city was going to pay for transport and recalibration. And he’d want a receipt.