Page 103 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Rhyme accompanied her, wheeling at her pace. Her Torino was parked at the end of the block.

As there was no traffic, they remained in the middle of the street; Manhattan sidewalks were difficult for Rhyme’s chair. They were narrow, cluttered with refuse bins and frequently cracked and uneven.

“You seem doubtful that Kitt’s doing it to make a political statement.”

“That’s part of it in a way. But you ask me, it’s something else, deeper, between father and son. Remember what he wrote? ‘Reckoning’?”

After a moment, she gave a laugh. He looked her way.

“His cousin or her fiancé said Kitt’s problem was he dabbled, jumped from job to job. Looks like he finally found the one thing he’s good at. Lock picking and home invasion. He’s not bad at arson either.”

They were going west, against traffic, so there was no need to worry about approaching vehicles behind them. Still, Amelia Sachs had been a street cop, patrolling places like the Deuce—West 42nd Street—before it became the Disneyland that it was today. And so situational awareness ranked high among her innate survival skills. She glanced about frequently, eyes constantly moving. Instinct.

Now, they came to an intersection and she looked down a side street.

And froze.

“What is it?”

“Block away, a gray Cadillac.”

She reminded Rhyme about the possible surveillance at the Carrie Noelle scene.

“It wasn’t here an hour ago. And this isn’t a new-Cadillac kind of street.”

“No.”

They heard a sound behind them, a vehicle. A battered white van started their way.

Rhyme asked, “At Carrie’s? You make the driver?”

“Never got a good look. Male. Hat, maybe. That’s it.” She unbuttoned her jacket, so her Glock was exposed. She scanned both sidesof the street, over and between the cars that lined the curb. “Something feels wrong here. Rhyme, move to the curb.”

He did.

Sachs stepped into the middle of the cobblestoned street, crouching slightly, like a soldier looking for a sniper nest or a hidey-hole from which an attacker might emerge.

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Lincoln Rhyme, his chair banked against the curb, between two cars, watched Amelia Sachs, moving slowly toward the entrance to a narrow alley.

But apparently she saw no sign of any threat from there or any of the windows facing the street.

Then Rhyme focused on the approaching white Econoline.

Wasthatthe threat?

“Sachs! The van!”

She turned as it grew closer. Her hand started to draw her Glock.

Just then the vehicle eased to a stop. The doors opened and two men got out. One was large, tall, in his forties. He wore a black beret. The Caddie driver? Rhyme wondered. She’d mentioned a hat.

The other was smaller—age impossible to tell.

“Detective Sachs, Captain Rhyme,” the taller one said. He stepped forward. Sachs kept her hand gripping her weapon.

They approached, both keeping their hands visible. In his right he was displaying something. What was it? A wallet?