Page 47 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

Hands on hips, she regards him closely.

More video cameras are gobbling up the scene. How ironic: I see a crew from WMG—the Whittaker Media Group channel—a part of the empire that publishes theDaily Herald.

There’s a standoff for a moment between Amelia and Poirot. It seems his condescending poke toward her trunk proves nearly to be too much for Amelia. She is a few inches taller than him, and she leans close, glaring. He doesn’t give an inch.

After a moment she pulls keys from the pocket of her black jeans. Most cars back then—the ’60s—came with two different keys: one for the ignition, one for the doors and trunk. The reason for that has been much debated, and I don’t have an answer to the mystery.

Amelia opens the trunk. Poirot glances in and doesn’t see what he’d hoped to see.

She slams the lid and walks toward the front of the car, removing her phone and making a call. Poirot remains nearby, watching herwith his arms crossed, like a principal before a high school student possibly guilty of an infraction.

Ignoring the man, Amelia finishes her call, then drops into the low car. The big engine fires up crisply and she skids into traffic.

Poirot looks after her and then walks away, his face both smug and disappointed as if hewantedto catch her in a no-no. Baldie is at his side, now on his mobile.

The Belgian detective ignores questions from the press, several of whom ask again—nearly demanding—if this was the work of the Locksmith and if, this time, he murdered anyone.

In truth, my thoughts are still on Amelia. I understand she’s married but that doesn’t stop me from picturing her alone in bed, as she sleeps in a T-shirt and boxers, on her side, a long pillow or curled duvet between her slim legs. In the video playing in my head, I’m in the room, just a few feet away, staring down, enjoying what I’m seeing, her mouth slightly open, her knees drawn up and—particularly vivid—her red hair splayed out upon the pillow, arcing and glossy, like a hawk’s unfurled wings.

25

What’s she doing here? Lincoln Rhyme wondered.

Amelia Sachs was walking into Rhyme’s town house. Apparently, given the timing, she would have come directly here from the scene on East 97th. Rhyme was surprised. He thought she’d go straight to Queens to supervise the processing of the evidence at the main lab, per fiat from Willis and Rodriguez—and ultimately, the mayor. She should be in their lab; the team needed to move fast. The Locksmith was smart, and careful, but he’d stumbled once, leading them to his next victim. Maybe he’d slipped up again, this time directing them to his home or office, or revealing his identity.

It was odd to watch her enter without the evidence cartons. Perhaps she’d come here to pick up some things she needed before going on to Queens. Even though Rhyme’s lab was a small fraction of the size of the main NYPD operation, his was better financed per square foot and had newer and in some cases more sophisticated instrumentation. If she took any—fine, she could help herself—but damnit, the city was going to pay for transport and recalibration. And he’d want a receipt.

Sachs said, “Carrie’s fine.”

“Who?”

“The vic. Carrie Noelle.”

He knew she was all right. He’d heard.

Not relevant.

“But this one was more troubling.”

“How so?”

“He moved all her knives—hid them. And shorted out her phone in the aquarium.”

Rhyme considered his wife’s words. “He didn’t want her to have a way to communicate and didn’t want her to have weapons. Because this time he was considering attacking her.”

“That’s what I think.”

“Whydidn’the?” Rhyme asked.

“Maybe he heard we were there. One of the blue-and-whites hit the siren, to move a car along. He heard it, saw us and got out fast.”

“The siren, really?” Rhyme grimaced. “At least, if that’s the case, Sachs, I suppose we saved her.”

She nodded.

“Did he leave a newspaper?”

“He did. In her underwear drawer again. Same page. Same message—in lipstick.”