Page 88 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“He got Buryak off because he’s working for the governor and the CIA or some shit like that. Nobody believes it but it’s drawing attention to Linc. So, yeah, in answer to your question, he’s still out.”

Sachs said, “Next thing, we’ll see the Locksmith was at Ford’s Theatre the night Lincoln was shot.”

Sellitto grumbled. “Big problem is witnesses’re going to freeze up if they think we’re working with the Locksmith.”

Spencer muttered, “Jesus.”

They met the super of Kitt’s building outside and Sellitto displayed the warrant, which had been issued on the grounds both of a welfare check and that Kitt might be a material witness. The slim man, who spoke in an eastern European accent, glanced at the papers, without reading. He led them to the fifteenth floor and down a subdued copper and oak corridor to 1523.

She nodded to Spencer who placed a call to Kitt’s landline.

They could hear it ring inside. After four tones, it went silent.

“Voice mail.”

“We’re going in,” Sachs said.

The super stepped forward, but she shook her head and took the key from him and motioned him back. Standing to the side, she unlocked the door and pushed it open an inch. She handed the key back to the uneasy super and he retreated.

Sachs glanced at Sellitto, who nodded. Her hand was near her Glock. Sellitto was on the left side of the door. Spencer, a civilian, stood ten feet back, arms crossed. She wondered how many dynamic entries he’d done as a cop in Albany. His eyes, evaluating them and scanning the hallway ahead of and behind them, told her: quite a few.

Just before she pushed the door open she drew her weapon. Maybe nerves, maybe a sixth sense. Sellitto, glancing her way, paused a beat and then drew his as well.

Sachs shoved open the door. “Police! Serving a warrant! Show yourself!” They were pushing inside, weapons up, swinging the pistols back and forth, always dipping or raising the muzzles when they crossed before one another. This was as automatic as blinking.

The living space featured a large, rectangular living room/dining room, kitchen to the right. Out the window was a panoramic view of Brooklyn and looking south she could see where her own town house was, in general location, not the ancient structure itself.

His father’s living room was only marginally larger.

“Kitchen clear,” Sellitto called.

Though obvious, Sachs said, “Living room clear.”

The choreography of settled procedure.

Then on to the bedrooms, both of which were unoccupied. One, the bed unmade and cluttered, would be Kitt’s, while the other was prepared for guests but had not been used for some time.

“Bathroom clear,” Sellitto called.

“Second bathroom, clear.”

There remained one more door, on the far side of the living area. Maybe another bedroom. They regarded each other and walked to it, stood once again on either side—a somewhat futile precaution because bullets penetrate Sheetrock like this about as fast as a needle pokes through silk. She glanced and he nodded.

Door open, weapons up.

An office. Empty as well. It was small; no “clears!” were required.

“I’ll check in here.” She holstered her gun and pulled on latex gloves.

Donning gloves himself, Sellitto said that he’d go through the kitchen.

The office contained a desk and several file cabinets. She went through drawers and found office supplies, real estate listings, a catalog of drones, various computer hardware parts. Also reams of business documents, many of them government contracts, requests for proposals. Evidence of the pipe dreams of making it as a tycoon in an industry so very different from tainted journalism, she guessed.

She remembered Kitt’s cousin and father saying he had never really found a career that suited.

He’d given up on all of these, she guessed, and was now on to some other hope.

She opened all the cabinet drawers. Filled with tax and accounting and investment records.