Page 144 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

I thanked him for dinner, left and returned a few hours later and, with three strokes, killed him.

He did beg, yes. Though for his life, not forgiveness.

Now, Lincoln studies me. It’s an intense and chilling experience. The dark eyes probe. “I know you’re good at what you do,” he tells me and seems to mean it. “But here, how did you …”

Lincoln’s voice fades and he gives a dour laugh with a glance at the front door. “The video that Amelia made! You got the make of the lock and picked it!”

“I’m good, yes, but I wouldn’t have time to pick locks on Central Park West. I had keys to get in. I followed you down to that fire, on the lower west side. I was going to tap your assistant on the head and get images of the keys. He was lucky he left them in the ignition of the Sprinter. But I did need the video to see the type of alarm. A BRT-4200. That’s a good one. I had to program three separate jamming codes. It’s sophisticated.” He nodded at the panel. “But as you can hear—orcan’thear—it’s not really sophisticated enough.”

Lincoln closes his eyes briefly. “Sothat’show you got into the victims’ apartments. Through their videos. Annabelle Talese was an influencer. Carrie Noelle ran her toy sales operation out of her apartment.”

In his eyes there is a look that I choose to take as admiration.

“And it’s how you met Joanna Whittaker,” Lincoln says. “You watched her posts as Verum. That must have been tricky. She went to a lot of trouble to stay anonymous, I’d imagine.”

I tell him, “The challenge.” Then I click my tongue. “But I object to ‘victim,’ Lincoln. The posters are co-conspirators.”

I share my theory of social media as a form of natural selection. “I’m just culling, eliminating the oblivious and stupid and weak.”

Rhyme gives another look at the door.

“It’s just you and me. If you’re going to say your aide is back soon, I saw him leave a half hour ago. He got into his friend’s car. They kissed. I know about Thom and his partner—there were articles about his loyal service to you online. So it’s date night for them. AndAmelia’s at headquarters. I heard her tell you. Anyway, I won’t be long.”

“Yannis. Do you go by that?”

“From my last name. Greg.”

“Greg.” His voice is analytical. Without a hint of anxiety. It occurs to me that someone in his condition faces death frequently. “Are there any other victims—sorry, but theyarevictims—other than your father?”

I think about how close I came with Carrie—the shower scene. My father’s death had freed me, but Joanna had said no, and so I kept my knife in my pocket and left.

“No. Just him.”

“And now you’re going to kill me and leave town?”

While I would rather have made a Visit to Amelia Sachs’s Brooklyn apartment—the image of her hair as hawk wings simply will not go away—it was Lincoln who had to go. Had I killed her first he would have done all he could to find me.

And when he’s gone, then it will be time for my Visit with Taylor Soames.

I look Lincoln over closely. “We lock our cars, our homes, our offices, our money in banks. I know all about locks, every kind … But you’re one that I’ve never come across before.”

“Me?”

“A locked man. You’re a locked man, Lincoln. And there’s only one key to free you.”

77

Is that the murder weapon?” Lincoln asks.

“That’s right.”

“You just smeared some of his blood on the butcher knife and planted it in Xavier’s locker at the shelter.”

I nod, recalling sharpening my folding knife. It was that run-in with my father’s ribs that required the satisfying whetstone.

Lincoln says, “Brass. Alloy of copper and zinc. Sometimes with some manganese, aluminum, arsenic.

“Chemically I’ve always found the metal quite interesting—it’s a substitutional alloy. Some copper atoms are substituted for some of zinc. There’s a symmetry to it I enjoy. But why brass? It’s softer than bronze. That has a whole historic era named after it.”