Page 127 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

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 theDaily 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.”

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.