Page 14 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“It’s too early.”

There was no medical opinion that Rhyme had ever seen about those afflicted by quadriplegia limiting their intake of alcohol, and even if such studies existed, he would have ignored them.

“It was a difficult morning. The trial. You were there.”

“Too early,” Thom pronounced and set the mug of coffee on the table beside where Rhyme had parked his chair. “And, by the way, I thought you handled it well. On the stand.”

A sigh—too dramatically loud, Rhyme had to admit. He looked at the bottle, which the aide had left in the parlor but was too high to reach. Damn it. Of course it was well within Sachs’s reach but in matters of Rhyme’s health, she deferred to Thom—at least, most of the time. This morning would not be an exception, apparently.

He lifted the mug and sipped. He grudgingly admitted to himself that the brew was pretty good. He replaced the cup, not spilling a drop. With surgery and relentless therapy, he now had nearly complete control of his right arm and hand. The advancements for patients suffering from spinal cord injuries had accelerated greatly in recent years and Rhyme’s several doctors had presented him variousoptions to improve his state even more. He was not averse to doing so but knew he would resent the time that the procedure and recovery would steal away from his investigating work.

For now he was content with the functioning of the limb—and, by twist of fate, his left ring finger, which might seem an ineffectual appendage, but the digit could pilot the wheelchair expertly. Leaving his right hand to grip evidence … or a glass of twelve-year-old scotch.

Though not today.

He debated calling ADA Sellars. But why bother? The prosecutor would call when he heard something.

His phone hummed, and he told it to answer.

“Lon.”

The voice grumbled: “Got an odd one I could use some help with, Linc. Amelia?”

“I’m here too, Lon.”

In Lincoln Rhyme’s town house, phones were always on speaker.

“You both free?”

Rhyme said, “First. Define ‘odd.’”

“Aw, lemme do it in person. I’m pulling up now.”

7

Upper East Side.

I’m walking from the subway station, not fast, not slow. Blending into the crowds, I move north.

Anyone glancing at me would see nothing out of the ordinary: abundant dark hair, longish, more unruly than curly. My body is slim, lanky. My fingers are long and my ears are bigger than I’d like. I think that’s why I get few haircuts, to cover up the flaw. I also wear stocking caps a lot. In New York City, you can get away with this kind of head covering most of the year. If you’re thirty or under, like me. (One difference: mine pulls down into a ski mask.)

I’m in those running shoes that are similar to the ones worn by Los Zetas. They were made in China and are an off-brand. They’re comfortable enough. Mostly I wear these because I heard that police sometimes have a database of shoe tread marks and it would be easier to identify and trace a well-known style. Maybe I’m overthinking but what can it hurt?

At the moment I’m wearing blue jeans and, under a black windbreaker, a dress shirt, pink, a nice one; it was a present from a girlfriend, now former. This puts me in mind of Aleksandra. She isn’t former; she’s very present. Coincidentally she mentioned not long ago that pink happens to be her favorite color.

In one of my sessions with Dr. Patricia she found hope for me when, in answer to her question as to whether I was seeing anyone, I said yes and told her about Aleksandra. “She’s pretty, Russian, a professional makeup artist. She’s built like a dancer. She used to be one when she was little.”

From Aleksandra I learned that all Russian girls are either dancers or gymnasts when they’re young. “There are no exceptions to rule,” she announced, her expression charmingly professorial.

I turn on 97th Street and, when no one is looking, slip through a chain-link fence and into the half-collapsed building that smells of mold, brick dust, urine.

It was formerly owned by a Bechtel, or Bechtels plural, whoever the family might be, according to the carving in the crown of the structure.

The place is pretty disgusting but suits my needs perfectly: it overlooks the service entrance to the apartment building that will be the site of my Visit tonight.

This shadowy neighborhood is the East Nineties. It’s a transitional area. To me it has a thin, gloomy quality. It’s illuminated by no direct sun, only reflected light. The word “diluted” comes to mind.

I have entered carefully, keeping an eye out for occupants. If there are any they’re strung out on meth or heroin or crack, if anyone still does crack, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be witnesses. I have my knife, of course, but I hardly want to use it—who needs that fuss?