Page 26 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Just like he wasn’t a people cop, Rhyme wasn’t a motive cop either. The why of crimes usually didn’t draw his interest unless it helped uncover relevant evidence. Whether you kill for money, kill for passion or kill because you’re a schizophrenic off your meds and believe you’re saving the world from zombies, to Rhyme the reasons were irrelevant. Yet the “odd” nature of the case made Rhyme curious about the man’s purpose.

He asked if his wife had any theories about what he was up to.

Sachs thought for a moment. “I see it going two ways. One, he’s got a political or philosophical beef with theHerald, or maybe all media. They invade people’s lives—and that’s why he’s breaking in. It’s a message in itself. Remember, Benny was talking about lock-picking conventions? He said some pickers were like hackers. Open-society activists.”

Rhyme asked, “And number two?”

“The paper’s a red herring. Nothing to do with his real mission. He’s an illusionist and’s got something else entirely going on.”

Rhyme smiled. “I was just thinking of the Watchmaker.”

“So was I.”

“Let’s keep going with the evidence.”

Slowly, despite the Locksmith’s care, they made some discoveries that could be linked to the perp—by comparing them to control samples Sachs had taken from Talese’s apartment. These included diesel fuel and silane, which was a cleanser, fragments of asphalt,sandstone, tiny slivers of white porcelain and rubber, small pieces of copper wire.

Rhyme mused, “Old electrical systems, early twentieth century. Porcelain’s shattered by blunt force.”

After another run of trace through the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer, Cooper called, “Found triclosan, ammonium laureth sulfate, lauryl polyglucose, sodium chloride, pentasodium pentetate, magnesium and sodium bisulfite, D&C Orange dye number four.”

Rhyme said, “Dish detergent.”

Sachs shook her head. “Not so helpful, that.”

“Maybenot,” Rhyme said slowly. “Where was it, Mel?”

“Mixed into the soil from his shoes.”

“Ah. Interesting. Dishwater on your hands, on your clothing. But how often do youwalk throughit? At home, rarely. Working in a restaurant kitchen, yes, but I have a feeling he’s not a busboy or dishwasher.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “Where, where …” Rhyme’s lids opened quickly. He asked Sachs and Cooper, “Do you know about the gates in Central Park?”

Neither of them did.

He explained that when the park was being developed in the mid-1800s, twenty sandstone gates were built, though they were more entrances than gates, since they had no physical barrier such as bars. Each was named in honor of a group, an activity, a calling—among them Artisans, Women, Warriors, Mariners, Inventors. There was even a Stranger Gate.

“Every year in May, the city scrubs the gates with diluted dish detergent. It cleans sandstone but doesn’t damage the rock—it’s very soft. Then they hose down the surfaces, leaving pools of detergent on sidewalks.”

Ever since he began with the NYPD many years ago, Rhyme had made it a professional mission to learn as many of the intricacies ofthe city as he possibly could. As he wrote in his book, “You need to know the geography and workings of the city the way a doctor knows the bones and organs of the human body.”

“We’re onto something here,” he whispered. “More. Keep going. I want more.”

Cooper, bending over the lab’s compound microscope, said, “Have something here. I’ll put it on the screen.”

After some keyboard taps, a number of grainy objects appeared on the monitor. The image was of what Cooper was looking at through the eyepiece: bits of some red substance, the shape of grains of sand. According to the scale at the bottom of the monitor, they would be the size of dust particles.

“From his shoe again?”

“That’s right.”

“GC it,” Rhyme ordered. “I want the composition.”

After analyzing a sample, Cooper said, “Silica, alumina, lime, iron oxide and magnesia. In descending amounts.”

Rhyme announced, “Brick. Silica’s sand, alumina’s clay. The red comes from the iron and lower baking temperatures of nineteenth-century furnaces. So it’s old.”

“Well,” Cooper said slowly, with emphasis in his voice, “one other substance.” He looked toward Rhyme. “Dried blood. Ninety-nine percent sure it was on his shoe. Amelia got samples in two places.”

“Species?”