Page 46 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

How the hell …?

I know for a fact that Carrie didn’t call them; when they arrived she was still Sleeping Beauty and her phone had been drowned in the aquarium.

Nobody could have seen me break into the apartment or they would have called the police much earlier.

Somehow, they figured out that I was targeting her.

I consider this.

Figuring out my assault on Carrie specifically was impossible; only I knew I had a Visit to her planned. But whatisn’timpossible is that they decided I was going after someone in this neighborhood. No. On thisblock.

This has to be it. Amelia points to someone in one of those spaceman crime-scene suits and then to the Bechtel Building. And he, or she, begins to encircle the front with police tape.

Of course!

I glance at my feet.

My betraying shoes.

I picked up some dirt or mud or something telltale on one of the earlier visits here and tracked it to Annabelle Talese’s. The police traced it to the Bechtel Building. This seems incredible to me, but then to a layperson picking a SecurPoint—or, for that matter, any stout deadbolt—would be akin to magic.

I call up Google. All it takes is “crime scene” and “Amelia” and “NYPD,” and I’m inundated with references to Amelia Sachs, decorated detective, daughter of a decorated patrol officer, married to the decorated former detective, now consultant, Lincoln Rhyme.

Their specialty is forensics.

I’m furious with myself. What if this Rhyme and his wife had made the deduction earlier and sent officers here then, when I was crouched in the dank front lobby of the Bechtel Building, waiting for the chance to start my Visit?

It wouldn’t have taken long to get to the “intent” question. Once the officers discovered the tools—my stocking cap that pulls down into a full-face mask, page 3 of theDaily Heraldand, of course, the knife, technically legal though it may be—I’d be on my way to jail.

Which would be, for me, pure hell.

My hands are actually tremoring.

And that is a condition that no lockpicker can tolerate.

So, in the future, shoes with plain leather soles.

Amelia spends some time talking to Carrie Noelle in the back of the car. I can imagine the exchange, as they each try to figure out the why-me question.

I calm and focus on the situation. After Carrie—still pretty but pale and with hair askew—drives off with her ride, I edge closer to Amelia. I want to learn more about my pursuers. It’s a risk being here, though no one seems to pay me any mind. Sunglasses—and the morning is in fact sunny—a turned-up collar on my sumptuous leather jacket. On my head I’ve swapped the stocking cap for a more common Mets baseball hat. I have never been to a game, not that team, not any. My father, I happen to reflect, was too busy to take me to any amusement, especially a common one. That, however, was the least of his sins, and the fact is I would have hated his company anyway.

I notice some tension between Amelia and a man who has the smug quality of someone in power. I guess he’s a police captain or some other brass. The rotund man sports a self-conscious handlebar mustache. Maybe he fancies himself Agatha Christie’s Belgian detective Poirot. He’s dark-complexioned. Latino, I gauge. Or possibly Mediterranean.

There’s another suited man, skinny and bald, and he stands by, observing with unemotional eyes.

The exchange between them is not a full-on argument but he’slording something over her, louder than he needs to be, with the result that the nearby press continue to film.

Poirot reminds me of my father.

My impression is that police department politics are more involved than the art of crime solving.

The dispute seems to be about the evidence she has collected.

He walks to an old-time car, a Ford Torino. It’s hers. I’ve just seen her take a jacket from it and tug the garment over her appealing figure. Poirot is saying, “But before you go, indulge me.” He gestures condescendingly for her to follow.

The skinny man joins them, and a flash of sunlight fires from his smooth skull.

Poirot peers into the interior of the vehicle like a traffic cop hoping to spot some weed or an open beer. He then points to the trunk.