The insect’s demise had given them a lead, possibly, if not an earthshattering breakthrough. A search revealed that only one product contained the “bad guys” in the same proportions as those found in the dead fly. It was Fume-Assure, and it was used by large-scale fumigation companies, of which a half-dozen operated in Manhattan. One helpful executive, intrigued at being part of a police investigation, explained that that particular insecticide was used almost exclusively for fumigating old, unoccupied buildings, which would be renovated and put up for sale.
“You can’t tent in Manhattan but you seal the windows and doors. Pump this stuff in. Let it sit for a week then vent.”
“Apartment buildings? Offices?”
“Anything. High-rise, low-rise.”
In Rhyme’s mind, the chain went: The fly was found within the Locksmith’s footprint at the Bechtel Building. No one would have fumigated a building that was about to be torn down, so it was most likely that he had picked it up someplace else. Could that location be helpful? No way of knowing. But Rhyme decided to make the assumption that it was. Why not? The case wasn’t overflowing with leads. So, they would look for an old building that was unoccupied and up for sale. He wouldn’t live there, unless he was a squatter, which didn’t seem likely, but would have another connection with it. Maybe staking out the next victim.
Or perhaps, it now occurred to Rhyme, it was a building somehow related to his profession.
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.”
Part Three
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 back often aching from spending hours hunched over a workbench or computer — in a chair that I will replace 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.
What I’m about to do would correspond to using a bump key.
Brute force.
That’s my only option, no matter the risk — to me or to whoever might die in the process.
A half hour later, I am in an area of downtown Manhattan where a number of buildings are being razed for yet more commercial/residential developments.
My destination, ahead of me, is the ancient Sandleman Building, on the top floor of which is Dev Swensen’s long-closed shop. After my father opened my eyes to the esoteric world of lock picking, I eventually learned of Swensen, a lanky, wild-haired Scandinavian. He was renowned for his picking skills but he existed far outside the mainstream of the community. The blond former pro snowboarder was eccentric and politically active — extremely libertarian. He believed in open access to everything. There should be no secrets, governmental or otherwise. And so over the years he learned how to pick virtually any lock in existence. He was never caught but it was suspected that he picked the locks of hundreds of military installations, banks, corporate headquarters, media outlets and politicians’ and executives’ homes. He never entered a single facility. He simply turned what was closed into what was open, and then he left.
I studied for several years with Swensen, coming regularly to his shop in the Sandleman Building. We became friends.
Swensen did more than locksmithing, however. He was also a renowned computer hacker. Using an alias, he had spent years breaking into government databases and private accounts and published whatever he found.
No secrets...
Then three years ago he learned he was about to be arrested for some hacks. He took his go-bag and fled to Norway, leaving behind everything (the brass knife was a farewell present to me). The authorities seized his shop but they had no interest in the locksmithing tools and equipment, only the computers and storage devices. After they left, they simply sealed the place up, leaving all items nondigital untouched, apparently waiting for his family or business associates to remove everything. But there was no family and Swensen’s shop was forgotten.