Page 87 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

What I’m about to do would correspond to using a bump key.

Brute force.

That’s my only option, no matter the risk—to me or to whoever might die in the process.

A half hour later, I am in an area of downtown Manhattan where a number of buildings are being razed for yet more commercial/residential developments.

My destination, ahead of me, is the ancient Sandleman Building, on the top floor of which is Dev Swensen’s long-closed shop. Aftermy father opened my eyes to the esoteric world of lock picking, I eventually learned of Swensen, a lanky, wild-haired Scandinavian. He was renowned for his picking skills but he existed far outside the mainstream of the community. The blond former pro snowboarder was eccentric and politically active—extremely libertarian. He believed in open access to everything. There should be no secrets, governmental or otherwise. And so over the years he learned how to pick virtually any lock in existence. He was never caught but it was suspected that he picked the locks of hundreds of military installations, banks, corporate headquarters, media outlets and politicians’ and executives’ homes. He never entered a single facility. He simply turned what was closed into what was open, and then he left.

I studied for several years with Swensen, coming regularly to his shop in the Sandleman Building. We became friends.

Swensen did more than locksmithing, however. He was also a renowned computer hacker. Using an alias, he had spent years breaking into government databases and private accounts and published whatever he found.

No secrets …

Then three years ago he learned he was about to be arrested for some hacks. He took his go-bag and fled to Norway, leaving behind everything (the brass knife was a farewell present to me). The authorities seized his shop but they had no interest in the locksmithing tools and equipment, only the computers and storage devices. After they left, they simply sealed the place up, leaving all items nondigital untouched, apparently waiting for his family or business associates to remove everything. But there was no family and Swensen’s shop was forgotten.

Not by me, though.

I kept returning, hiking up to the twelfth floor of the deserted building. Originally I was going to take Swensen’s books on lockpicking—a wonderful library—and help myself to tools and hardware. I grew interested, though, in what was against the back wall: a collection of safes and safe doors. Dial locks were something I had little experience in, so I returned frequently to the shop to practice safecracking, using Swensen’s notebooks to learn the art.

But I was careless. I brought food and drink. As I practiced on the safes, I never wore gloves. I left receipts and possibly even mail!

Now, on this overcast, damp morning, in a workman’s yellow jacket, hard hat, clear gloves and smooth-soled shoes—no telltale treads—I walk to the chain-link gate barring entry to the back of the building, carrying the two-gallon can of gasoline. The padlock is one of those with a combination, so it takes time—twenty or so seconds—to open it. Another look around. No people. No cameras.

Then into the loading dock of the building, where I shut off the electricity at the main panel and the water supply, to disable the alarm and the sprinklers—if there are any. Then I pour the fragrant gasoline onto a pile of wood scrap at the foot of the stairway. I use a candle lighter to ignite the liquid and instantly a rage of flames sweeps through the scrap pile and starts upward. Forty minutes from now every micron of trace I’ve left will be gone forever.

47

Kitt Whittaker lived in a high-rise about five blocks from his father’s complex on the Upper East Side.

Sachs’s Torino pulled up at the same time as Sellitto’s NYPD unmarked. Lyle Spencer, the autoless former racer, was on foot.

The officers got out and Sachs looked up at the building, a slab of shiny glass and metal.

Sellitto brushed at his gray overcoat as if trying to smooth the wrinkles. His expression was sour. “I got a call from downtown. You heard about this asshole? He goes by Verum.”

Spencer said, “He posts some kind of conspiracy crap.”

“Never heard of him,” Sachs said.

Sellitto continued, “He says we’re working with the Locksmith. Some deep movement. Called the Hidden.”

“Us, the police? Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s planting bugs in the apartments and he’s killed a couple of people who’ve found him.”

“Listening devices?” Sachs sounded incredulous.

“All bullshit,” Spencer said.

“Yeah, sure. But tell that to the seven thousand five hundred and fifty people who’ve called OnePP and their local precincts to complain. The mayor, commissioner … they’re livid. That number by the way came directly from Dep Com Sally Willis.”

“Livid enough to put Lincoln back on duty?”

“That’s part of it too. He’s working for the Hidden. I told him earlier.”

“What?”