Joanna said, “I’m not kidding. I have friends you don’t know about. Back out now!”
Sachs nodded to another officer. “You too. Flash-bang.”
The man hesitated. “A space like that, you’ll only need one.”
Joanna was ranting, “It’ll be the biggest mistake of your life.”
Sachs smiled. “Let’s go with two. Pull the pins.”
67
Joanna Whittaker joined Kemp on her belly.
Two officers approached and cuffed them both, rolling them over and muscling them into a sitting position.
Her face wasn’t scared, or angry, or frustrated. It was completely emotionless, though would occasionally reveal pain. Apparently Averell Whittaker had delivered quite the blow. Her cheek looked to be broken.
Martin Kemp was whimpering, leaving no doubt who wore the pants in this criminal household, Sachs reflected, even if the observation was a throwback, and possibly politically incorrect.
Kitt Whittaker had been drugged. Sachs helped him onto a couch, while other officers cleared the apartment. She and Rhyme were sure that Joanna and Kemp were the only perps involved in the scheme but protocol insisted that every inch of a crime scene be rendered safe. She got the word that it was clear, and she radioed for the medics.
Soon the EMTs were in the room. Sachs performed triage, and they tended to Kitt first, determining that he did not have a life-threatening amount of opiates in his system. That would have come later, after they’d staged the scene where he killed his father and then himself.
The medicos then tended to Joanna and her fiancé — the shattered face and, in his case, hand.
“You all right?” Sachs asked Averell Whittaker, who looked at her absently and nodded. He turned his attention back to his son and asked a medical tech, “You’re sure my son’ll be all right?” He was shouting, an aftereffect of the bang part of the grenades.
“Yessir. They just gave him enough to sedate him. He’ll be fine.”
“Kitt,” Whittaker said and rested a hand on the young man’s arm. His son turned his way groggily and gave no reaction.
Kemp said, “Look, Officer, please...”
Joanna glanced at her sniveling fiancé. “You shut the hell up. If you say one word...”
So witness intimidation would be another charge. Though that was the least of the woman’s legal concerns.
A shadow in the doorway. And two other men entered the room, Lincoln Rhyme and Lyle Spencer.
Spencer saw the body of the woman personal protection guard. His face fell and he stepped to her, knelt down, taking her hand. He shook his head and stood. Spencer’s angry eyes turned toward Joanna. Maybe Alicia and Spencer had been friends, or more, in addition to colleagues. He balled up his fist and started toward the Whittaker niece, who cowered away.
Sachs intercepted him. And touched his arm. “No,” she said softly. “We’ll get it done the right way.”
He exhaled slowly and nodded.
Joanna cut an icy gaze toward Rhyme and then Sachs and asked, “How? How on earth?”
“Rhyme, I’ve got the results of that carpet sample in Kitt’s apartment. You’re going to want to see this.”
He and Spencer look Sachs’s way. She says, “Electrolytes: sodium, potassium, calcium, magnesium, bicarbonate, and phosphates, immunoglobulins, proteins, enzymes, mucins and nitrogenous products. It’s saliva.”
“Whose? Kitt’s?”
Mel Cooper is operating the fast DNA analyzer. He holds up a hand. They have a sample of Kitt’s DNA from his tooth- and hairbrushes, which she collected at his apartment.
“Come on, come on.” Rhyme is impatient, though Cooper cannot will the equipment to speed up.
Finally: “It’s his.”
Sachs says, “And one more thing. Blood. Very small trace in Kitt’s apartment. Near the doorway. The stain you spotted, Rhyme.”
Rhyme’s pulse increases; he feels it in his temple. They’re onto something here.
Another DNA test. The blood was Kitt’s as well.
Spencer says, “Not enough quantity to suggest a lethal wound. Even a twenty-two’ll leave more than that tiny stain.”
Rhyme thinks for a minute. “Run a sample through the HA.”
Mel Cooper turned on the hematology analyzer, a compact instrument the size of a bloated laptop. He runs the test and reads the results. “Mostly normal, but there’re some unusual substances present, things you don’t usually see in a normal blood analysis: creatine kinase, lactate dehydrogenase and myoglobin.”
Rhyme says, “Kitt was hit with a stun gun. Those are muscle proteins released in cases of rhabdomyolysis. Skeletal muscle damage. That’s how they subdued him. He fell and must’ve hit his head. The blood.”
Spencer says, “Or maybe he bit his lip or his hand or arm to leave some trace.”
Rhyme is nodding. “Yes, it’s a possibility.”
Sachs calls, “But who’s ‘they’?”
“Ah, the big question. Yes, yes, let’s work with the premise that Kitt’s being set up. He was kidnapped and the evidence was planted in his closet and file cabinets. By whom?” Rhyme then says slowly in a musing tone, staring at the whiteboard, “Let’s look at the big picture. What’s unexplained so far? Seawater, discovered only in Kitt’s apartment. What does that tell us?”
No one answers, but it’s a rhetorical inquiry anyway.
“Let’s keep going. Another mystery ingredient. Fertilizer. Found in the Sandleman and in the Bechtel Buildings — when you found the candy wrapper, Sachs. No, no, no...” Rhyme is grimacing. “I don’t think the Locksmith returned to the Bechtel Building at all. I think somebody else, the ultimate unsub here, returned to the building and dropped the wrapper on purpose. They kidnapped Kitt and planted the candy, the panties and other evidence in his apartment. But they inadvertently left things leading back to them. Fertilizer and seawater.”
“They?” Sachs repeats.
Rhyme says, “If it’s not Kitt, then—”
Spencer completes his thought, “—why would the Locksmith be leaving a coded newspaper page about Mary Whittaker’s death?”
“Which has the effect of pointing the finger at Kitt,” Sachs says. “And which was suggested by Joanna Whittaker.”
Rhyme says, “Who has an oceangoing yacht and a greenhouse.” He was recalling the articles he’d read online about the family. “And the wood polish we found; it’s used on vessels as well as cars.”
Spencer nods. “She raises orchids. I’ve been in her apartment in Battery Park City.”
“And,” Sachs says, “she’d have access to a whole library of past issues of the Daily Herald. She could get as many page threes of the February seventeenth issue as she wanted.”
Spencer mutters, “She’s going to kill Mr. Whittaker and Kitt. She’ll inherit the company. Shit.” He dials a number and listens. “Mr. Whittaker’s not answering.” He tries another call. After a moment his face grows stricken. “Alicia’s not either.”