But how to get in?
He set to work once more.
He had to.
Lincoln Rhyme believed it was important — because of a dead fly.
Pulaski wasn’t exactly sure how that had worked, but the man had decided that certain pesticides in the fly’s corpse suggested this building might have a connection to the Locksmith.
And it seemed pretty likely that this was the case because the door he was trying to break into had this sign painted on its wooden façade:
Pulaski tried once more, and this time one of the hinge screws seemed to move a fraction of an inch. A few minutes later one flange on the middle hinge was slightly loose. One more. The bar slipped out and whacked him in the thumb. Pain exploded.
He inhaled deeply against the sting.
He paused.
The young officer smelled a fire nearby. He turned his eyes to the stairwell, from which wisps of smoke were now curling.
Amelia Sachs pulled the hood of the crime scene overalls back, tossed her hair. For her, this unique, piquant smell of the plastic garment would forever be associated with the curious combination of challenge and tragedy. She dialed Rhyme’s number and when he answered said, “Averell Whittaker’s son Kitt — he’s the Locksmith.”
“Tell me.”
She explained what they had found hidden in the filing cabinet, all the drawers of which had false bottom panels. There were books on lock picking, sets of lock-picking tools. Panties matching the description of those stolen from Carrie Noelle’s and Annabelle Talese’s apartments. Also two copies of the February 17 edition of the Daily Herald, missing page 3.
In the closet was a pair of brandless running shoes whose tread seemed to match the pattern at the earlier scenes.
“And it looks like there’s red brick dust in the treads, Rhyme. Flecks of dried blood too.”
“He learned his lesson and went to plain soles, so he doesn’t pick up as much trace.”
“In a basket in the kitchen, Lon found a packet of green-apple Jolly Ranchers. Looks like there’s graphite on it.”
Rhyme said, “You mentioned the underwear he stole. What about the knives?”
“They’re not here.”
She was holding a small carton containing plastic and paper bags of what she’d collected. Chain-of-custody cards dangled from some items, like From... To tags on Christmas presents. She added, “But there’s not much else, no computer, no phone. He’s got to have more tools too. A workshop someplace else.”
“Any leads to where?”
“No.”
“Get the evidence in. Send out his ID on the wire. But I wouldn’t announce it publicly. That’ll spook him.”
“Agreed,” she said.
Sachs had declared the apartment a crime scene, and that would now be information accessible to everyone at OnePP. Willis would hear and send Beaufort and Rodriguez to make sure that any evidence from the scene would be logged in to the Queens lab. She’d have to move fast.
A crowd was gathering, a couple of dozen people. Reporters too. Always the press, calling questions. She ignored them.
Lon Sellitto joined her. “Still nothing on Kitt’s Audi in the vehicle recognition system.”
Sachs removed the booties and they went into an evidence bag for later examination. Occasionally key evidence was picked up from places the crime scene investigators had trod. Then the gloves came off and she blew on her hands to dry the sweat.
Sachs walked to the front of the CSU bus and spoke to the tech who was behind the wheel. She was a tall woman with mahogany-colored skin and an elaborate tattoo of an iguana on her forearm, now concealed under her jacket.
“Izzy, need you to do something for me.”
“And that tone tells me there’s something shady going on.” She was amused.
“Shady might be an overstatement. Can we go with hazy?”
“I can live with hazy. What d’you have in mind, Amelia?”
“There are going to be people at OnePP who want that evidence to get to the lab quick as a lick.”
“What my grams used to say.”
Sachs was frowning. “I may’ve heard there’re some traffic jams — accidents, maybe. Everything’s slowed up. That tunnel — it’s always dicey. And the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge? Forget it.”
Izzy said, “So what you’re saying is it might be better for me to take a different way?”
“Only a thought.”
The tech said, frowning, “Maybe the Triborough. I could go north in Manhattan, cross the bridge, then south to Queens. Maybe take Central Park West.”
“That’s an idea. And you know Mel Cooper’s visiting Lincoln Rhyme at the moment. You could say hi.”
“Mel is a dear. And that man can dance!”
“You might even show Mel what you’ve got.” She nodded at the cartons. “You know, he’s working the case. Give him a preview.”
Cooper’s name, not Rhyme’s, would go on the chain-of-custody card. One could assume that the technician had examined the evidence in the Queens lab, not Rhyme’s parlor.
Sachs grew serious. “You know there are people who’ve threatened to reprimand anybody who helps Lincoln on a case.”
“Rodriguez.” She scowled. “Always thought he was a stand-up man. But now he comes on with ‘nobody’s supposed to work with Lincoln.’ Lord, you know, Lincoln Rhyme is the whole reason I went into crime scene work.” The woman’s broad face blossomed with a coy smile. “I’ll be on my way now. Ah, all that traffic. The Queensboro, the tunnel.”
“That tunnel can be a bitch.”
“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. No application 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?”