Page 81 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

A trace of his IP address, though, ended at a proxy in Europe.

He added, “And the psych department chimed in. They think it’s somebody connected to the group because of the profile. The Locksmith steals underwear. That suggests he’s sexualizing women. And the knife he takes: he wants to hurt them, subconsciously.”

“Doesn’t seem all that subconscious,” Rhyme observed.

Sellitto added that the reporter who’d written the story and the editor who’d assigned and approved it had left Whittaker and were not returning calls. They were no longer in New York.

As for the WMG legal department file that Doug Hubert had prepared, not a single one of the 495 complaints and letters of threat pointed the spotlight toward a perp like the Locksmith.

Most of the employee complaints were about equal employment, diversity and discrimination. A few OSHA issues. The threatening letters from those who had been the target of articles raised the issue of defamation, and the majority were sent by attorneys. The Locksmith’s assault on the company—if that’s what the home invasions were—wouldn’t arise out of any conflict he’d put his real name to via a lawyer’s letter. The others’ grievances came out of journalistic sins the paper had committed, but were minor, and the remedy was retraction.

“Waste of time,” Rhyme had muttered. He had returned to his waiting state: skeptical of all crime-solving techniques that did not involve evidence. The witch-doctory of psychological profiling, for instance.

Sellitto continued, “On the forensic side, I’m not getting shit from Queens.”

The NYPD lab had its set of the evidence from the Carrie Noelle scene, though nothing from the man’s second visit to the Bechtel Building. The techs there were top notch but the Locksmith was one of thousands of cases they were running. Rhyme could dedicate himself fully to the investigation—even if illegally.

“So,” Sellitto grumbled. “Do not get your ass busted. You’re our only source for the nitty-gritty.”

“By which I assume you mean incisive forensic analysis.”

“I’m serious, Linc. There’re people who want heads to roll.”

“As quickly as clichés.”

Sachs said, “We’re being careful.”

Sellitto scoffed, “You know what’s inevitable?”

“Death and taxes is always a good answer, though, of course, that’s a cliché too.”

“Ifwecollar the Locksmith, the question’s going to come up how we did it. And since Queens isn’t giving me squat, the whole world’ll be looking right at you, Linc.”

“Allow me one more hackneyed turn of phrase: we’ll cross that bridge when.”

“Well, let me just say, forewarned is forearmed.”

“Touché, Lon.”

They disconnected.

Sellitto was right. But what choice did they really have? This man had to be stopped before he put to use one of those knives he was so fond of.

Sachs took a call and jotted some notes. She edited an entry note on the whiteboard, replacing the number 22 with 26.

R. Pulaski, canvass of locksmiths/locksmith schools in tri-state area.

26 canvassed, no connection to anyone fitting profile of Locksmith.

Rhyme asked, “Mel? That graphite on the Jolly Rancher wrapper? You ever run it?”

The tech had not, other than to confirm it was professional grade, and he did so now.

Rhyme then was looking at some pictures of trace on the flat-screen monitor. The tiny slivers of deep yellow metal had taken his attention.

“What?” Sachs noted his gaze.

“That brass. We know it’s been machined. Metals don’tshed.”