Джеффри Дивер - The Midnight Lock

Other than the paneled walls, rich oak floors and plastered ceiling, the parlor looked nothing like it would have a century and a half ago. While a portion was a contemporary sitting room with chairs and tables and bookshelves, the rest was what he’d described to attorney Coughlin: a well-equipped forensic lab, the sort that any smallor even medium-sized police department or sheriff’s office might envy. Ringing the workstations were spark emission and fluorescence spectrometers, evidence-drying cabinets, a fingerprint fuming chamber, hyperspectral image analyzer, automated DNA sequencer, blood chemistry analyzer, liquid and gas chromatographs and a freezer no different from what one might find in the kitchen.

Tucked into a corner were the microscopes — binocular, compound and confocal and scanning electron — and the scores of hand-held instruments that are a forensic scientist’s tools of the trade.

The lab had a decidedly industrial feel to it, but to Lincoln Rhyme one word and one word only applied: “homey.”

For a moment his mind wandered back to the trial and he wondered how the jury deliberations were going at that moment.

He himself had never served on a jury before. Criminalists consulting for the NYPD and FBI last about sixty seconds in voir dire.

Rhyme now studied the dry marker whiteboard on which certain details of the Gregorios killing were notated. Since Rhyme was merely an advisor, only the basics were jotted down or taped up, not all the minutiae of the case: a brief description of the suspect; the time of death (9 p.m. or so); security camera status (present in the vicinity but not aimed at the scene); the killer’s mismatched shoes (not unusual among the homeless); and a stark photo of the three knife wounds in the victim’s torso. The absence of other wounds suggested that the killer had hidden on the property and surprised Gregorios. In some states, like California, this would be called “lying in wait,” and made the crime a capital offense. In New York the penal code made no reference to lying in wait, but the suspect’s behavior would help the prosecutor prove intent.

The photos vividly revealed the eviscerated body and the Rorschach stain of blood on the broad path of white and beige pebbles.

Then there was the trace.

On his pants pocket — the hip, where presumably he’d kept his wallet — an evidence collection tech had lifted a sample, which contained NaClO 2, along with citric acid and cherry syrup.

Rhyme had dictated a memo to the detectives in the 112 House, a copy of which was on the board.

When mixed together, sodium chlorite and citric acid combine to create chlorine dioxide, ClO 2, a common disinfectant and cleanser. However, ClO 2also is used as a fraudulent cure-all for a number of diseases, including AIDS and cancer. When sold as a quack cure, ClO 2generally has added to it a flavoring agent, such as lemon, cinnamon or — as is present here — cherry syrup.

Should any persons of interest be identified and found to possess any cherry-flavored ClO 2, it would not be unreasonable to pursue additional investigation into their whereabouts at the time of the homicide and, if a warrant could be obtained, additional evidence that might link the unsub to the scene.

The response, not long after, was from Detective Tye Kelly:

Holy shit, Captain Rhyme. We owe you a bottle of whatever you drink, up to and including Johnnie Walker Blue.

Rhyme then noted the front door to the town house opening. He heard the sticky rush of traffic speeding along Central Park West.

“How did it go?” Amelia Sachs asked, entering the parlor from the hallway. Meaning not the Gregorios case, he understood, but his testimony at the Buryak trial.

“It went,” Rhyme said to his wife. He gave a shrug, one of the few gestures he was capable of. “We’ll just have to see.”

Amelia Sachs, tall and trim, brushed her long red hair off of her face.

She bent down and kissed him on the mouth. He smelled the sweet/sour aroma of gunshot residue. She said, “You look, hm, troubled.”

He grimaced. “The defense lawyer. I just don’t know. Was he good, or not? Don’t know.”

“I won’t ask how long you think the deliberations’ll be.”

Sachs, a seasoned NYPD detective, had herself testified in hundreds of trials. She knew the pointlessness of the inquiry.

“How’d it go for you ?” he asked.

Sachs competed in practical shooting matches, also known as dynamic or action shooting. Contestants moved from station to station, firing at paper or steel targets, with the score based on best aim, fastest time and the power of the rounds. Shooters would fire from prone, kneeling and standing positions and often did not know ahead of time the configuration of the stations or where the targets would be. There was considerable improvisation in practical shooting.

Sachs enjoyed firearm competitions, or just plain practicing on the range, as much as she enjoyed surging around the track, or through city traffic, behind the wheel of her red muscle car, a Ford Torino.

“Not so great,” she replied to his question.

“Meaning?”

“Second.” A shrug that echoed his.

“Weren’t there fifty people competing?”

Her shoulders rose again.

Sachs was her own toughest critic, though she did admit, “The guy got first place? He does it full-time.”

Rhyme had learned from her that marksmen could make good money on the competition circuit — not from prizes but from sponsorships and teaching classes.

Thom brought in mugs of coffee and a platter of cookies.

At the moment, though, Rhyme had little thirst — not for coffee, at least.

“No,” Thom said.

Rhyme frowned. “I don’t recall asking a question.”

“No, but your eyes did.”

“Thinking I was looking at the single malt? I wasn’t.”

He had been.

“It’s too early.”

There was no medical opinion that Rhyme had ever seen about those afflicted by quadriplegia limiting their intake of alcohol, and even if such studies existed, he would have ignored them.

“It was a difficult morning. The trial. You were there.”

“Too early,” Thom pronounced and set the mug of coffee on the table beside where Rhyme had parked his chair. “And, by the way, I thought you handled it well. On the stand.”

A sigh — too dramatically loud, Rhyme had to admit. He looked at the bottle, which the aide had left in the parlor but was too high to reach. Damn it. Of course it was well within Sachs’s reach but in matters of Rhyme’s health, she deferred to Thom — at least, most of the time. This morning would not be an exception, apparently.

He lifted the mug and sipped. He grudgingly admitted to himself that the brew was pretty good. He replaced the cup, not spilling a drop. With surgery and relentless therapy, he now had nearly complete control of his right arm and hand. The advancements for patients suffering from spinal cord injuries had accelerated greatly in recent years and Rhyme’s several doctors had presented him various options to improve his state even more. He was not averse to doing so but knew he would resent the time that the procedure and recovery would steal away from his investigating work.

For now he was content with the functioning of the limb — and, by twist of fate, his left ring finger, which might seem an ineffectual appendage, but the digit could pilot the wheelchair expertly. Leaving his right hand to grip evidence... or a glass of twelve-year-old scotch.

Though not today.

He debated calling ADA Sellars. But why bother? The prosecutor would call when he heard something.

His phone hummed, and he told it to answer.

“Lon.”

The voice grumbled: “Got an odd one I could use some help with, Linc. Amelia?”