Page 35 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“No worries, Brett.” Rhyme rarely littered conversations with pleasantries like “doing well?” or “what’s happening?,” and he didn’t now. He waited.

“I heard what happened, Lincoln. Jesus.” His face was troubled.

Rhyme couldn’t help but chuckle. “Aren’t you afraid of getting busted, Brett, talking to me? Obstruction of justice, conspiracy …treason?”

“You always did have a sense of humor. Anyway, Lincoln, as soon as I heard I called Sally Willis. I put in a word for you. Nobody’s changing their mind.”

Evans had worked his way up from patrol to gold shield and beyond. Commanding officers, or “commanders,” perched in the loftiest aeries of NYPD hierarchy.

But their power did not trump City Hall’s.

“No, it’s set in stone. Nothing to do. You can’t appeal a business decision.”

Evans mused, “The O’Neil case? Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Remember it, sure.”

Rhyme—yes, as aconsultant—had handled forensics at a scene detective third grade Evans had run near the West Side piers. In walking the grid at a warehouse, long abandoned by the ruthless Eddie O’Neil, Sachs had discovered an unusual feather. After several days of analysis and research—and eyes-closed pondering, Rhyme was able to trace it to a neighborhood pet store, where O’Neil, they learned, bought his illegally imported birds. The owner of the store—after some horse-trading (Rhyme liked the animal motif)—agreed to be a confidential informant against the mobster. O’Neil got collared minutes before a shootout with rivals that could have led to the deaths of dozens of innocent pedestrians and drivers on Ninth Avenue.

That had been the case that made Evans’s career.

“I owe you for that one. Always have. So, listen, Lincoln. I’ve got some buddies in New Jersey State Police.Theyuse consultants, no problem.” He chuckled. “And, I mean, plenty of homicide in New Jersey, right?The Sopranos.”

Rhyme had no idea what opera singers had to do with murder in New Jersey, but there was no disputing his premise.

“They’d love you on board.”

“Appreciate it, Brett,” Rhyme said, not adding that he wouldn’t take a job with that outfit, as fine as it was, because his expertise was New York City and he was not inclined to begin his education anew into infrastructure, geography and culture.

And then there was the commute …

“I also know some people at commercial forensic operations in the city,” Evans added. “That work can be just as challenging, right?”

No, it didn’t come close. He said, “I’m sure it is. But for now I just need to think about things for a bit.”

“Sure. I understand. You should know, there’re more than a few of us here think this is bullshit.”

But there were some important ones who did not.

“Thanks for the call, Brett.”

Rhyme was tired, bone tired. He summoned Thom, who escorted him upstairs in the tiny elevator and got him ready for bed.

Soon he was lying on the elaborate, mechanically operated mattress and starting to doze off. Just before sleep arrived, though, he thought: Yes, indeed he was a pawn in the chess game of state politics—a piece that had been removed from the board, without sufficient tactical forethought.

And, unable to avoid belaboring the metaphor a bit longer, he wondered: Just how would his sacrifice affect the endgame?

19

When is a truck not a truck?

Viktor Buryak was alone, cats excepted. He was jotting notes on the results of the auction and he was pleased. The wire transfers from the three bidders were already in. With Buryak, customers always paid up front.

Everyone had bought something. Welbourne, the truck. The twins, the boat. And Kevin Duggin picked up a backhoe.

Buryak was, he felt, part of a new generation of mobsters. That didn’t mean he was Gen ZZ or whatever was current, of course. Buryak was in his fifties, conservative, a traditionalist. He wore a suit every day, usually with a stylish vest. He polished his shoes. He never indulged in illegal substances—and why would he when he had tea and hisfirstfavorite beverage, fine brandy?

And neither did new generation mean developing and selling state-of-the-art designer drugs to those who were under thirty but who had a six-figure disposable income.