Page 141 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

I now memorize the layout of the apartment and click the computer to sleep. I finish the last scoops of soup—it’s quite hearty and flavorful—and think about the fate of an innocent woman.

But then I correct myself.

Innocent?

Of course not. Oh, she did nothing todeservewhat will happen, but neither does the gazelle who carelessly strays too far from the herd or doesn’t act on the molecules of predator musk because those last few leaves are hard to resist. The idea of justice is singularly human and not a neat fit for every situation where one starts the day alive and ends it dead.

Ah, Taylor …

I feel the weight of the brass knife in my back pocket. Picture it hovering over flesh.

Picture itwithinflesh.

The check comes and I pay, and step into the New York City night, filled with the scent of exhaust, garlic from an Italian restaurant, the perfume on the necks of the female halves of couples walking by in date euphoria.

In a few minutes I’m at my car—not Kitt Whittaker’s Audi, but my own more modest Toyota. In the backseat, I unzip a canvas bag and extract brown overalls. I tug them on and zip up. I walk around to the trunk and open it.

There’s a carton, which looks like something a UPS man would deliver, and I slip into it an RF alarm-disabling device.

Down goes the trunk and, after a scan of the area, I walk several blocks to the subway and board a train. I mount earbuds, as if listening to music, but I’m not. I’m studying fellow passengers. Wondering about where they live, what are their apartments like, what do theyand their partners look like and sound like when making dinner or making love.

I’m opening up their lives. Their secrets are mine …

We arrive at the station, and I step from the car onto the platform, into the salty, hot-rubber-scented air of the New York City subway.

And then to the surface.

A few blocks from the exit, I walk past the front door I will soon break into, eyeing it casually, looking for threats.

None.

All I see are people jogging, eating snacks, walking arm in arm, trudging, focused and self-protective.

No one notices me.

I’m a parcel deliveryman.

One of thousands in New York.

I’m invisible.

I lean against a substantial tree, pretending to make a phone call, until I decide that the threat to me is minimal.

Clutching the box, I climb to the door. Reaching into the carton, I press the switch on the RF transmitter, sending out its stream of radio waves to confound the alarm on the other side of the wood.

I pat my back pocket to make sure the brass knife is accessible. I then remove the two keys I made earlier.

I’ve seasoned them with graphite and they work perfectly in the locks.

I open the door, step inside.

A slow, deep breath … but the tense five seconds come and go; the radio jammer has worked its magic. The alarm remains silent as I ease the door shut.

There’s no click this time. No risk of another 2019.

I take the knife from my pocket and open it, making sure that this act too remains completely silent.

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