Джеффри Дивер - The Midnight Lock

Click.

Eyes open. Twenty-eight seconds.

I’m filled with indescribable warmth.

Well, Carrie, it appears that you’re going to have some company tonight.

“Friends: The Hidden have a new way to strike. The news made it all the way out here to the West Coast: in New York a vicious organized crime boss was found not guilty of murder, which there’s no doubt he committed. And how did this happen? The state’s expert witness intentionally got him off because he manipulated the evidence!

“And why? Because this criminal has ties to senior politicians and, more frightening, employees of our national security agencies.

“Yet another weapon the Hidden wield to subvert justice!

“I’ve found a classified report that states that this is the dozenth time in the last few months the police have bungled investigations or prosecutors have dropped the ball.

“But of course they haven’t ‘bungled’ anything. They’re infiltrated by the Hidden, which decides what is and is not justice.

“New York is hardly alone. In Minnesota, the Health and Human Services Division of domestic abuse shelters had been infiltrated by the Hidden and used as a cover for sex trafficking. In Orlando the Hidden have formed alliances with gangs, paying them to riot and to burn the businesses of legitimate, hardworking Americans. And no one is ever prosecuted.

“Say your prayers and stay prepared!

“My name is Verum, Latin for ‘true.’ That is what my message is. What you do with it is up to you.”

Rhyme’s phone hummed. He noted the area code and exchange.

What was this about?

He shared a glance with Sachs, who turned the volume of the TV down. They’d been watching the breaking story of the Buryak verdict. The mobster in the glorious suit and colorful vest was shown walking out of court. He wasn’t smiling. His brow was furrowed, as if the trial had been an irritating distraction and he was once again concentrating on projects that lay ahead.

Rhyme ordered the phone to answer. “Yes?”

“Mr. Rhyme?” a woman’s matter-of-fact voice asked.

“That’s right.”

“Commissioner Willis would like to set up a Zoom call. Are you free?”

Another glance between the two of them.

“When?” he asked.

“Now.”

“Send me the link.” He gave his email address.

“Thank you.”

They disconnected.

“What’s up?” Cooper asked.

“No idea.”

“What do you know about Willis?” he asked them both.

Cooper shook his head. Sachs said, “Sally Willis, first deputy commissioner.”

The NYPD has two sides. One, headed by the chief of department, handles criminal investigations. It includes the detective and patrol bureaus. The other is civilian; it takes care of all non-criminal administrative matters. The first deputy commissioner heads this operation.

Sachs continued, “She’s tough. She came out of Internal Affairs. At IAB, she was by the book. She’d write you up for pocketing a bribe or wearing white socks. Made no difference.”

The footwear reference, Rhyme knew, meant citing an officer for a minor uniform violation.

“Known as the Iron Maiden.”

Lovely.

A moment later the pulsing tone echoed through the parlor. Rhyme said, “Command. Email.”

A window popped up on a large screen.

“Command. Open.” Then, after the Zoom invitation appeared, Rhyme said, “Command. Cursor to hyperlink. Command. Enter.”

He joined with computer audio and clicked on the video camera icon and a red light on the webcam glowed. A moment later he was looking at a nondescript conference room, presumably somewhere in One Police Plaza. The wide-angle shot revealed several people around the end of a conference table. A blond woman in her mid to late fifties was in the center.

He knew the other two. To her right was a solidly built Black man of about forty-five. Francis Duvalier was a senior assistant district attorney. Rhyme had testified in some of his trials; he was good and a preferred prosecutor for high-profile cases. The other was Alonzo Rodriguez, whose official title was commanding officer at large in the Detective Bureau. He was round and balding and his face was squat, distinguished by an odd attempt at a handlebar mustache. All three were in dark jackets and white shirts. The men wore ties in different shades of blue. Willis wore a pearl choker.

“Captain Rhyme, I’m First Deputy Commissioner Willis.” Her voice was gravelly. Rhyme noted she used the mouthful of a title. Others might have said “Dep Com” or just their first name.

Noted too that she’d used his title as well. Perhaps a sign of deference, perhaps not.

“Commissioner. And Francis, Al.”

“Lincoln,” they said simultaneously.

The trio was stony faced.

Rhyme said, “I’m here with Detectives Sachs and Cooper.”

“Good.”

A curious comment. He waited.

“Captain Rhyme, first, I think I can speak for the entire department when I say we truly appreciate your contributions to investigations and prosecutions over the years.”

He tipped his head again.

“I assume you’ve heard about the Viktor Buryak verdict.”

“I have.”

She looked at Duvalier, who said, “Lincoln, there was a jury poll taken after the verdict.” He was hesitating, which Rhyme had never known him to do. “Eight members of the jury said the reason they couldn’t convict was because of your testimony. They said that the evidence was questionable.”

Rhyme was silent.

The man continued, “You and I, we both know that juries can be tough to figure. But that many of them, focusing on the same issue?”

Willis continued, “Somehow, the poll went public. I guess some jurors talked to the press. It became an issue. There’ve been stories: a man nearly convicted of murder on the basis of erroneous evidence. You know we’ve had problems in the past.”

She was referring to incidents in the NYPD lab where evidence technicians were sloppy or lazy, or who in a few cases were bribed to intentionally alter evidence.

“Captain, we needed to do something. To shore up the department’s credibility. This comes from the top. I’ve met with some people here, including the commissioner. It’s been approved by the chief of department too. We’ve come to a decision. A press release is going out as we speak. Effective immediately, the NYPD will no longer be using civilian consultants in criminal investigations.”

Rhyme said coolly, “If I’m not mistaken, you wanted me on the Locksmith case. Weren’t you feeling that he’d thrown the home invasion in your face and you wanted him collared as fast as possible? Was I mistaken about that?”

The trio looked toward one another uneasily. Willis continued, “Circumstances changed.”

Amelia Sachs was blunter. “Bullshit.”

“Detective Sachs, this decision was not made lightly. And it’s not just you, Captain Rhyme. No outside contractors at all — not for investigative work.”

Sachs persisted: “So you’ll shoot yourself in the foot because of the... what? Optics? One mistake out of thousands, and you hit us with this?”

“Detective, maybe in the future we might be able to put some quality control measures into place and revisit the decision. A year or two.”

“Commissioner, name one investigator who hasn’t fumbled a lead or missed the boat with a sample of trace or DNA...”

This was true. Yet the situation here was more complicated, because of that series of missteps in investigations and prosecutions Lon Sellitto had referred to earlier. These had been embarrassing for the NYPD and, worse, they had proved deadly. Several drug dealers who’d gotten off went on to kill rivals and bystanders. One sex trafficker had raped a teenager after his acquittal and fled to a Latin-American country with no extradition to the U.S.