Page 133 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Anyway, now he had to hold the door open for Mrs. Jankowski, who—even though her late husband owned a string of dental practices—tipped him five lousy dollars every Christmas.

The oldkurvë …

Amelia Sachs continued along 82nd Street, cell pressed against her ear, noting how the buildings grew more modest with every block.

More deserted regarding passersby too.

Her nemesis—arthritis—had largely improved in recent years, but her mission now required her to walk briskly and she was feeling the pain in her left limb.

“No,” she was saying into the phone. “They’re not sure about the arraignment.”

At the corner of York Avenue and 82nd, she turned north and continued walking, though somewhat more slowly.

She approached a warehouse she knew. It was here, last year, she’d nailed a human trafficker and rescued three young women he’d smuggled into the country from El Salvador for a sex ring.

She looked the place over. It was much the same, though in better shape than then. Apparently it had been bought or rented by a coffee bean supply company. The scent on the air told her this without her seeing any product.

The loading dock was recessed and as she passed, she turned inside quickly, dropped the phone into her jacket and lifted herswitchblade knife from her right hip pocket. Flicked it open and, counting to three, stepped out fast, grabbing the man who had been following her from Whittaker Tower.

Sheldon Gibbons, the reporter, gasped.

She held the knife up and spun him around.

“What the hell?”

“Quiet!”

She put the knife away, ratcheted on cuffs and turned him back to face her.

Eyeing him closely, she said, “I’m curious. Didyoudecide to call yourself the Locksmith? Or was that Joanna Whittaker’s idea?”

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Jesus. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Amelia Sachs frisked Gibbons and found only wallet, phone, keys and digital recorder.

She was explaining: “Something didn’t seem quite right. You just happened to know I was a cop at Whittaker’s building. And you just happened to be at Kitt’s?”

“I do my research. I know all the cops that’re media fodder. I don’t mean that in a bad way. The press like you. Former model turns detective! Good material. Inspiring for the young girls out there.” The words came rat-a-tat. “And at Kitt’s? I have a police scanner. I heard the call.”

This made some sense but she said, “I called Frontpage Media, the publisher ofInsideLook.You don’t work there. The number on your business card goes to a burner. They’d never heard of you.”

“It’s helpful to have a publication’s label. I go undercover for my stories. Just like cops do. You’re accusing me of being the Locksmith and you didn’t even check my alibi.”

“That’ll be on the agenda.”

“All right. The truth?”

Sachs wondered if her face tightened into a sardonic expression. Never heardthatbefore.

“I was following you because I want to interview Averell Whittaker and his son. They’re in hiding. Nobody at the company’ll talk to me. The press department’s shut me out. I thought you were going to see them. I’m writing an exposé about Joanna. She used to be the wicked witch of the media world when she worked for her father. Bullying employees, sources, playing politicians against each other.”

Sachs kept an eye on his arms. If he were the Locksmith, this would be an easy escape. Distract her, slip the cuffs and swing, or turn and run, deciding to risk the chance of a Taser.

“And I’ve talked to employees at the charity she runs. She’s the same way there—a Nazi. And how’s this? One of the accounting people thinks she’s cooking the books. Using contributions to fund some of her projects on the side. Probably that Verum thing she does.”

“Give me a publisher’s name.”