Джеффри Дивер - The Midnight Lock

“That’ll be on the agenda.”

“All right. The truth?”

Sachs wondered if her face tightened into a sardonic expression. Never heard that before.

“I was following you because I want to interview Averell Whittaker and his son. They’re in hiding. Nobody at the company’ll talk to me. The press department’s shut me out. I thought you were going to see them. I’m writing an exposé about Joanna. She used to be the wicked witch of the media world when she worked for her father. Bullying employees, sources, playing politicians against each other.”

Sachs kept an eye on his arms. If he were the Locksmith, this would be an easy escape. Distract her, slip the cuffs and swing, or turn and run, deciding to risk the chance of a Taser.

“And I’ve talked to employees at the charity she runs. She’s the same way there — a Nazi. And how’s this? One of the accounting people thinks she’s cooking the books. Using contributions to fund some of her projects on the side. Probably that Verum thing she does.”

“Give me a publisher’s name.”

“This is top secret. I’m only telling you be—”

“Publisher. Or jail.”

“First Amendment.”

Sachs said, “Publisher or jail.”

The disgusted look was memorable. He then said, “Allen-Drews Publishing.”

“Editor?”

Sighing, he gave the name.

“Number too.”

She called and the man answered. She identified herself. “Sheldon Gibbons was at a crime scene and I’d like to confirm that he’s under contract to publish a book with you about Joanna Whittaker.”

“Well, that’s right. Is something wrong?” the editor asked.

“No, I just needed to confirm that he had a valid reason to be at the scene.”

“If it had to do with Joanna Whittaker, then yes.”

“Thank you.”

They disconnected.

“So, cuffs off?”

“Writing a book doesn’t make you not-the-Locksmith. Give me an alibi for one of the intrusions.” She gave him the dates and times of the Talese and the Noelle break-ins.

“Home, I’m sure. You can call my wife. We just had twins and I’m up with them a lot at night. And there’s a doorman.”

Sachs got the number and called. The conversation she had with the woman was pretty much what she’d expected. The wife confirmed his presence, with the duet of crying in the background lending credence. Sachs did most of the talking, largely reassuring the woman that her husband was not in any trouble or danger.

She disconnected. “Turn around.”

Freed, he rubbed his wrists as she re-holstered the chrome cuffs and looked around. He smiled coyly. “So I’m guessing this isn’t too far from Averell Whittaker’s place, where he’s hiding.”

Sachs scoffed, flagging that his effort was a waste of time. “I only came this way, to the warehouse, so we could have this little chat.”

“Can I interview you for my book?”

“No.”

“Do you ever say, ‘Yes’? Or, ‘I’d be happy to help you out’?”

“Neither.”

“Might raise your profile.”

Considering that profile upping was the last thing she wanted to do — in light of the edict that Lincoln Rhyme was forbidden from investigating cases — she hit him with another negative.

“On deep background. No names. Can you tell me what Whittaker said about his niece trying to kill him?”

“Have a good day, Gibbons.”

As he started away, a thought occurred. She said, “Wait.”

He turned, his face wary, as if expecting to see the blade again.

“Have you been tailing Joanna and Martin Kemp?”

“That’s right. Checking out their haunts, stores they go to, banks, lawyers, friends.”

“In the past week, did either of them go to what looked like a warehouse or storeroom or workshop?”

“Actually, yeah.”

“Where?”

“Lower East Side. One of the old tenement neighborhoods.”

There wasn’t much left of the ramshackle Manhattan. Hell’s Kitchen in West Midtown was gone. Harlem was redeveloped. The railyards were now all underground, the surrounding residential and industrial clutter bulldozed away and the ’hoods turned into glitz. But there were still pockets of tattered buildings — one and two stories — south and east, where immigrants had settled in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Interesting, she reflected, this was one neighborhood that Kemp had not mentioned when asked about places Kitt was thinking of for a workshop.

“Who was there?”

“I didn’t see. Joanna picked up a bag and dropped something off. I just saw the hand and then the door closed.”

If it was the Locksmith’s workshop, Joanna was probably picking up Annabelle’s or Carrie’s underwear and the knives to implicate Kitt.

“You have an address?”

Now he was coy. It was a what-can-you-do-for- me look. “If I had an exclusive or access to records, something...”

“Okay, I’ve got a good story for you, Gibbons.”

“Yeah?” His eyes were eager.

“I’ll even give you the headline: ‘Reporter Does the Right Thing.’”

“In this business, you always have to give it a try.” He shrugged. “Argyle Street, Lower East Side. I don’t know the number but the building had a name. Something about baking supplies.”

Well, that didn’t end well.

I’m in my workshop in the Sebastiano building, I’ve called up a TV station on my computer. It’s one of the traditional stations, not WMG, Whittaker’s outlet. I suspect I wouldn’t get an accurate account of the arrest of Joanna and her fiancé for attempting to murder her family members on that channel.

I’m packing up, suitcases, boxes. I won’t be able to stay here much longer. Joanna will eventually sell me out in exchange for a reduced sentence. But I have a little time; she’ll be a hard negotiator.

Glancing occasionally at the computer, I note that some of the unanswered questions that arose in apartment 2019 are now being explained: Joanna had planned the murders to gain control of the Whittaker Media empire. And the man she was setting up to be the Locksmith was none other than her own cousin, Kitteridge Whittaker, a handsome young man, with the face of a crusading politician.

Since he isn’t in fact the perpetrator, that means, the anchor-woman says in anchor-speak, that the real Locksmith is still at large.

Which hardly needs to be said, but then I don’t know the average IQ of the audience.

Yet the Shakespearean soap opera of the Whittaker family is of less interest to the viewing audience than the fact that Joanna is Verum.

This is taking the bulk of airtime.

There have already been incidents. Her supporters aren’t happy she’s been arrested. Arson, broken windows, graffiti.

I see a sign: Free Verum now!

One talking head speculates that she wanted control of her uncle’s company because she hoped to use Whittaker’s media outlets as a bullhorn in spreading her messages.

Another one offers that she grew disgusted by her capitalist upbringing and, like a true revolutionary, wanted to undermine the System, “with a capital ‘S.’”

I actually laugh out loud. They have no idea that she whipped up Verum simply for the ego and the money.

A woman in an ugly knit hat and stained coat chants: “Free her now! Free her now! We’ve said our prayers and we’re prepared!”

If I were truly God, and could moderate the content of humankind, I would delete this crone with a single keystroke.

The newscast ends with the comment that the police do not yet have any leads as to the identity of the Locksmith.

Back to work. Sadly I’m not going to get the full half million, but that’s all right. The 200K plus my substantial savings and my inheritance is enough for a fresh start. A nice workshop/apartment — decked out with that new chair I’ve been looking forward to. We content moderators know a lot about the dark web. I can create a new identity for myself in a week.