Джеффри Дивер - The Midnight Lock

Rhyme says, “Kitt was hit with a stun gun. Those are muscle proteins released in cases of rhabdomyolysis. Skeletal muscle damage. That’s how they subdued him. He fell and must’ve hit his head. The blood.”

Spencer says, “Or maybe he bit his lip or his hand or arm to leave some trace.”

Rhyme is nodding. “Yes, it’s a possibility.”

Sachs calls, “But who’s ‘they’?”

“Ah, the big question. Yes, yes, let’s work with the premise that Kitt’s being set up. He was kidnapped and the evidence was planted in his closet and file cabinets. By whom?” Rhyme then says slowly in a musing tone, staring at the whiteboard, “Let’s look at the big picture. What’s unexplained so far? Seawater, discovered only in Kitt’s apartment. What does that tell us?”

No one answers, but it’s a rhetorical inquiry anyway.

“Let’s keep going. Another mystery ingredient. Fertilizer. Found in the Sandleman and in the Bechtel Buildings — when you found the candy wrapper, Sachs. No, no, no...” Rhyme is grimacing. “I don’t think the Locksmith returned to the Bechtel Building at all. I think somebody else, the ultimate unsub here, returned to the building and dropped the wrapper on purpose. They kidnapped Kitt and planted the candy, the panties and other evidence in his apartment. But they inadvertently left things leading back to them. Fertilizer and seawater.”

“They?” Sachs repeats.

Rhyme says, “If it’s not Kitt, then—”

Spencer completes his thought, “—why would the Locksmith be leaving a coded newspaper page about Mary Whittaker’s death?”

“Which has the effect of pointing the finger at Kitt,” Sachs says. “And which was suggested by Joanna Whittaker.”

Rhyme says, “Who has an oceangoing yacht and a greenhouse.” He was recalling the articles he’d read online about the family. “And the wood polish we found; it’s used on vessels as well as cars.”

Spencer nods. “She raises orchids. I’ve been in her apartment in Battery Park City.”

“And,” Sachs says, “she’d have access to a whole library of past issues of the Daily Herald . She could get as many page threes of the February seventeenth issue as she wanted.”

Spencer mutters, “She’s going to kill Mr. Whittaker and Kitt. She’ll inherit the company. Shit.” He dials a number and listens. “Mr. Whittaker’s not answering.” He tries another call. After a moment his face grows stricken. “Alicia’s not either.”

Rhyme says, “That’s our answer. Call Lon and get an ESU tac team together. Hurry. We’re out of time.”

Now, in Averell Whittaker’s soaring apartment, Lincoln Rhyme responded to Joanna’s question — how on earth? — by offering a droll look that said, Figure it out yourself... or don’t.

Amelia Sachs — the officiating police officer present — now got to work. She walked up to Joanna and Kemp, who were sitting on the floor. The woman glared. “I want a chair.”

It was as if Joanna hadn’t even spoken. Sachs said, “We need to know the identity of the real Locksmith and where to find him.”

“Why would I know that?” She looked aghast.

Sachs said evenly, “Because you hired him.” She glanced at the knives stolen from the apartments of Annabelle Talese and Carrie Noelle, one of which was bloody; a plastic bag was around the handle. “And we can prove it. The knives won’t have your prints on them but the bag will.”

Silence.

“Tell us. And we can work something out with the DA.”

Joanna Whittaker offered a sly smile. “I think it’s time for the lawyer.”

“How’s your arm?” Kitt asked his father.

Averell Whittaker looked at the limb. The fall, from Joanna’s shove, hadn’t done more than bruise the tissue. But it had taken the wind out of him, and the discoloration was impressive.

“Not bad,” he said to his son. “And you’re feeling...?”

“Groggy. Still the headache. In my apartment Jo or Martin Tased me.” He touched a scab on his head. “I fell. Then they injected me with something.” His voice was a whisper. “My cousin. My own cousin.”

They were in Whittaker’s Sag Harbor getaway, a six-bedroom Tudor on Long Island Sound. The property was in the name of a trust. The press didn’t know about it. The vultures were still staking out the high-rise on Park Avenue.

This house echoed with memories. He and Mary had built the place — the planning and construction occupied one of the happiest few years in their lives. The couple and Kitt had spent many a weekend here. Along with his brother, Lawrence, and dear Betty.

Joanna too.

Whittaker was staring out the window at the sparkles on the waves. Long Island Sound was a sloppy body of water, at least near the North Shore. Dun-colored and rocky and home to an infestation of horseshoe crabs, perhaps the most space-alien sea creature that ever existed.

“What was it like? Where they kept you?”

“It was their boat. Your old yacht. The one you gave Uncle Lawrence.” He shrugged, suggesting what he’d endured wasn’t that bad. But it would have been. Whittaker knew the conditions would have been nearly unbearable. He would have been chained or somehow restrained. And there’d been the cloud of impending death hanging over him.

The hopelessness he would have felt.

And betrayal.

Kitt and Joanna had never been particularly close — she hewed to her uncle’s and father’s society life, while he had no interest. But, my God, they’d shared dozens of holiday dinners. Spent family vacation time in Curaçao, Saint Martin, Guadalupe, Cap d’Antibes.

“Kitt. I made a mistake. A terrible mistake.”

His son sipped his beer. His lips were parched, and Whittaker boiled with anger again at what his niece and her spineless fiancé had done.

“Your mother...”

He knew that Kitt had not engineered this terrible crime, but that didn’t change the fact that Joanna’s premise was true: Kitt had disappeared from the family because of that terrible day years ago, March 2, when Whittaker had sat in his office and, after agonizing negotiations, signed the purchase deal to buy the TV station chain and had not been in St. Theresa Hospital.

“Go on.”

And he proceeded to confess about the acquisition. Then added, “I’ve only wanted to apologize and beg you to forgive me.”

The young man seemed perplexed. “Because you weren’t at Mother’s bedside?”

Whittaker nodded and felt his eyes fill with tears.

“You do know that she lapsed into unconsciousness a couple of days before she passed. In fact, you were one of the last people to see her awake — that Saturday. You were there all night, holding her hand. The day she died, when I was there, she was asleep. The doctor said she’d never regain consciousness.”

“My God, no. I didn’t know that.”

Kitt offered a pallid laugh. “And to be honest? I wouldn’t’ve wanted you there anyway. What would we have had to talk about? Oh, Father, our lives went in such different directions. I never hated you, resented you. We were just entirely different people.”

“I blamed myself. I neglected you. It was my fault you never had a career. I should have given you guidance.”

“Never had a career?”

“Joanna said you jumped from job to job. Computers, drones, real estate, videography, oil and gas... One thing after another.”

Now the laugh was hearty. “But I have a career and I have you to thank for it.”

Averell Whittaker was frowning.

The handsome young man brushed his long hair from his forehead. “The truth, Father? I didn’t respect what you and Uncle Lawrence did. The paper, the TV station? You weren’t... helping people. I went in a different direction.”