Rhyme says, “That’s our answer. Call Lon and get an ESU tac team together. Hurry. We’re out of time.”
Now, in Averell Whittaker’s soaring apartment, Lincoln Rhyme responded to Joanna’s question — how on earth? — by offering a droll look that said, Figure it out yourself... or don’t.
Amelia Sachs — the officiating police officer present — now got to work. She walked up to Joanna and Kemp, who were sitting on the floor. The woman glared. “I want a chair.”
It was as if Joanna hadn’t even spoken. Sachs said, “We need to know the identity of the real Locksmith and where to find him.”
“Why would I know that?” She looked aghast.
Sachs said evenly, “Because you hired him.” She glanced at the knives stolen from the apartments of Annabelle Talese and Carrie Noelle, one of which was bloody; a plastic bag was around the handle. “And we can prove it. The knives won’t have your prints on them but the bag will.”
Silence.
“Tell us. And we can work something out with the DA.”
Joanna Whittaker offered a sly smile. “I think it’s time for the lawyer.”
68
“How’s your arm?” Kitt asked his father.
Averell Whittaker looked at the limb. The fall, from Joanna’s shove, hadn’t done more than bruise the tissue. But it had taken the wind out of him, and the discoloration was impressive.
“Not bad,” he said to his son. “And you’re feeling...?”
“Groggy. Still the headache. In my apartment Jo or Martin Tased me.” He touched a scab on his head. “I fell. Then they injected me with something.” His voice was a whisper. “My cousin. My own cousin.”
They were in Whittaker’s Sag Harbor getaway, a six-bedroom Tudor on Long Island Sound. The property was in the name of a trust. The press didn’t know about it. The vultures were still staking out the high-rise on Park Avenue.
This house echoed with memories. He and Mary had built the place — the planning and construction occupied one of the happiest few years in their lives. The couple and Kitt had spent many a weekend here. Along with his brother, Lawrence, and dear Betty.
Joanna too.
Whittaker was staring out the window at the sparkles on the waves. Long Island Sound was a sloppy body of water, at least near the North Shore. Dun-colored and rocky and home to an infestation of horseshoe crabs, perhaps the most space-alien sea creature that ever existed.
“What was it like? Where they kept you?”
“It was their boat. Your old yacht. The one you gave Uncle Lawrence.” He shrugged, suggesting what he’d endured wasn’t that bad. But it would have been. Whittaker knew the conditions would have been nearly unbearable. He would have been chained or somehow restrained. And there’d been the cloud of impending death hanging over him.
The hopelessness he would have felt.
And betrayal.
Kitt and Joanna had never been particularly close — she hewed to her uncle’s and father’s society life, while he had no interest. But, my God, they’d shared dozens of holiday dinners. Spent family vacation time in Curaçao, Saint Martin, Guadalupe, Cap d’Antibes.
“Kitt. I made a mistake. A terrible mistake.”
His son sipped his beer. His lips were parched, and Whittaker boiled with anger again at what his niece and her spineless fiancé had done.
“Your mother...”
He knew that Kitt had not engineered this terrible crime, but that didn’t change the fact that Joanna’s premise was true: Kitt had disappeared from the family because of that terrible day years ago, March 2, when Whittaker had sat in his office and, after agonizing negotiations, signed the purchase deal to buy the TV station chain and had not been in St. Theresa Hospital.
“Go on.”
And he proceeded to confess about the acquisition. Then added, “I’ve only wanted to apologize and beg you to forgive me.”
The young man seemed perplexed. “Because you weren’t at Mother’s bedside?”
Whittaker nodded and felt his eyes fill with tears.
“You do know that she lapsed into unconsciousness a couple of days before she passed. In fact, you were one of the last people to see her awake — that Saturday. You were there all night, holding her hand. The day she died, when I was there, she was asleep. The doctor said she’d never regain consciousness.”
“My God, no. I didn’t know that.”
Kitt offered a pallid laugh. “And to be honest? I wouldn’t’ve wanted you there anyway. What would we have had to talk about? Oh, Father, our lives went in such different directions. I never hated you, resented you. We were just entirely different people.”
“I blamed myself. I neglected you. It was my fault you never had a career. I should have given you guidance.”
“Never had a career?”
“Joanna said you jumped from job to job. Computers, drones, real estate, videography, oil and gas... One thing after another.”
Now the laugh was hearty. “But I have a career and I have you to thank for it.”
Averell Whittaker was frowning.
The handsome young man brushed his long hair from his forehead. “The truth, Father? I didn’t respect what you and Uncle Lawrence did. The paper, the TV station? You weren’t... helping people. I went in a different direction.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“I’m CEO of a nonprofit I created. We use drones to look for environmental violations.”
“I never heard about it.”
“I use a different name. Mother’s maiden name.”
“What does it do?”
“There’re rewards offered by the EPA and local environmental organizations. We create databases of violators and make it public on our servers. I studied all of those things Joanna mentioned, yes. Wasn’t dabbling. They’re part of the job.”
“And it does well?”
“Not great, not by your standards. But we did about fifty million last year.”
“My Lord.” After a moment Whittaker frowned. “When you went missing, why didn’t anyone from the company contact me? They’d know I’m your father.”
“I spend most of my time in the field, running the drones. I’m gone for weeks at a time.”
Kitt finished the beer and opened another. “Your articles and op-ed pages came down in favor of big oil and gas, anti-environmentalist. I didn’t think you’d want to have anything to do with me... Hey...”
Whittaker had set down his wine and was hugging his son fiercely. After a moment the son reciprocated the embrace.
Kitt asked a question out of the blue: “Will you miss the paper and the TV station when they’re gone?”
“Not at all. I can’t wait to get the foundation started.” He eyed his son closely and told him in detail what it would be doing. The young man seemed to approve.
Then Whittaker offered a coy, hopeful smile.
“What?”
Whittaker asked, “Well, I’m just thinking... How’d you like a slot on the board?”
A moment of consideration, then: “I would. I’d like that very much.”
“Say, you hungry? Do you want some food? We can stay in. Better not to go out, or even order takeaway. Damn reporters. But Isla keeps the place pretty well stocked.”
Whittaker walked into the kitchen and his son followed.
The father looked into the Sub-Zero, while the son watched, apparently amused, as if Whittaker had never gazed into a refrigerator before. Which was not far off the mark. “Omelette. It’s really the only thing I can cook.”