Page 115 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“I just go by Greg.”

“Nice to meet you, Greg,” she said with a chill, wry smile. “My name’s Joanna Whittaker.”

60

This young man was, it seemed, a content moderator for a video upload platform, one that Joanna used regularly for the Verum posts, ViewNow.

It was a poor man’s YouTube.

“So you’re the one who deletes them, right?”

He winced and gave her a perplexed look. “Your posts’re lies, conspiracy theories, nonsense. The Hidden want to start a new civil war? They’re infiltrating the schools, they’re subverting religion, the voting process. You slander politicians and celebrities and CEOs. ‘Say your prayers and stay prepared’? You don’t think some bad things could come from posting that? They breach our community standards.”

“But deleting them wasn’t enough for you. They offended you and you wanted to kill me.”

Now he laughed. “Those are mycompany’sstandards. Personally? I couldn’t care less what you say.”

“Then why?”

His thin shoulders rise and fall. “The challenge.”

“Explain.”

“You have an EverStrong deadbolt, SPC alarm. I’ve never cracked them before. And then there’s the precaution you took to keep from being recognized. It was like waving a red flag at me. You took down all the pictures from the walls when you posted. The videos are ninety-nine percent pixelated. You use voice distortion. I tracked through one proxy but got stalled in Bulgaria.”

“Then how?”

“You claim you’re in California—to lead people off, I’m sure.”

A nod.

“But in one of your early posts you left the curtain open. I got a screen shot of the view outside the window—the harbor. I could see the New Jersey waterfront. I checked out angles of sight. You had to be in Battery Park. I could also see the brass topper of a flagpole about even with your window. I wandered around the neighborhood and found it—on top of a government building two hundred feet in the air. That meant you were about on the twentieth floor. Only one building near here is that tall and has that view—this one.”

“But—”

“In one of your posts I saw a blue Coach backpack on the floor.”

Joanna glanced to where that very backpack, a present from her fiancé, now sat. She wasn’t happy at her lapse.

“I just waited in the lobby a couple of nights until I saw you with the backpack. Then I followed you up here. I was dressed like a repairman. You looked at me once and didn’t pay any attention.”

She thought back and had a vague recollection of someone—perhaps.

“I saw your locks and the sign: ‘Protected by SPS Security.’ That’s a bad idea, by the way.”

“That explains why you wanted to break in. Why did you want to kill me?”

He considered this for a lengthy moment. “I needed to,” he repeated.

“Where are the police on all of your … activities?”

“I’ve only done it a half-dozen times. I imagine some people’ve called nine one one, when they realize I’ve broken in. But I’m always very, very careful.” He held up his hands, encased in gloves, and Joanna noted the stocking cap.

“Doesanyoneknow you’re here? Anyone on earth?” She asked this sternly, the tone that sent shivers down the spines of the interviewees when she was a reporter and now of her underlings at the Whittaker charity.

“No.”

“There’s a security camera downstairs.”