Джеффри Дивер: The Midnight Lock

“I’m here too, Lon.”

In Lincoln Rhyme’s town house, phones were always on speaker.

“You both free?”

Rhyme said, “First. Define ‘odd.’”

“Aw, lemme do it in person. I’m pulling up now.”

Upper East Side.

I’m walking from the subway station, not fast, not slow. Blending into the crowds, I move north.

Anyone glancing at me would see nothing out of the ordinary: abundant dark hair, longish, more unruly than curly. My body is slim, lanky. My fingers are long and my ears are bigger than I’d like. I think that’s why I get few haircuts, to cover up the flaw. I also wear stocking caps a lot. In New York City, you can get away with this kind of head covering most of the year. If you’re thirty or under, like me. (One difference: mine pulls down into a ski mask.)

I’m in those running shoes that are similar to the ones worn by Los Zetas. They were made in China and are an off-brand. They’re comfortable enough. Mostly I wear these because I heard that police sometimes have a database of shoe tread marks and it would be easier to identify and trace a well-known style. Maybe I’m overthinking but what can it hurt?

At the moment I’m wearing blue jeans and, under a black windbreaker, a dress shirt, pink, a nice one; it was a present from a girlfriend, now former. This puts me in mind of Aleksandra. She isn’t former; she’s very present. Coincidentally she mentioned not long ago that pink happens to be her favorite color.

In one of my sessions with Dr. Patricia she found hope for me when, in answer to her question as to whether I was seeing anyone, I said yes and told her about Aleksandra. “She’s pretty, Russian, a professional makeup artist. She’s built like a dancer. She used to be one when she was little.”

From Aleksandra I learned that all Russian girls are either dancers or gymnasts when they’re young. “There are no exceptions to rule,” she announced, her expression charmingly professorial.

I turn on 97th Street and, when no one is looking, slip through a chain-link fence and into the half-collapsed building that smells of mold, brick dust, urine.

It was formerly owned by a Bechtel, or Bechtels plural, whoever the family might be, according to the carving in the crown of the structure.

The place is pretty disgusting but suits my needs perfectly: it overlooks the service entrance to the apartment building that will be the site of my Visit tonight.

This shadowy neighborhood is the East Nineties. It’s a transitional area. To me it has a thin, gloomy quality. It’s illuminated by no direct sun, only reflected light. The word “diluted” comes to mind.

I have entered carefully, keeping an eye out for occupants. If there are any they’re strung out on meth or heroin or crack, if anyone still does crack, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be witnesses. I have my knife, of course, but I hardly want to use it — who needs that fuss?

But the structure is unoccupied, as it was on my last two visits here. Not surprising. It looks like the whole place could come down at any minute.

I am, though, concerned about the trash here. The Chinese shoe tread is anonymous, yes, but I don’t know how effective the rubber is in protecting against tainted hypodermic needles.

I gaze out, looking over the occasional passerby. I’m an expert at watching people and because of that I am an expert at knowing when I’m being watched. Right now, I’m not. I’m hidden behind the panes of glass, just like I’m hidden to those who post on ViewNow — invisible, but always watching.

I study her building: dun-colored stone, aluminum trim around the windows, a weatherworn green canopy leading to the street. Ten stories. Not many young people here, or retirees. This part of town — while pale and nondescript, architecturally bland — is expensive.

But Carrie Noelle can afford it. Her business is, by all accounts, successful.

Being here now is part of the way I approach my Visits. Always planning ahead.

There are two ways to pick locks: The crude approach involves either using a snap gun — which you stick into a keyway and pull the trigger until the lock opens — or bumping, bluntly pounding a key blank until you defeat the device. The second approach is rake picking — the subtle, the artist’s approach. My approach.

Similarly there are two ways to approach breaking and entering. Some burglars improvise. They show up at the home and just see what happens.

I’m incapable of that. My Visits involve exhaustive preparation. I need to know about security in the building, front door, service door, cameras in lobbies and hallways or outside, doormen, vantage points, homeless men or women stationed nearby, who, like crank heads, might be stoned or crazy or drunk, but who can have just fine memories and describe me to a tee.

Curiously, I learned not long ago, serial killers too are divided into two categories: disorganized and organized offenders.

I see now that nothing has changed. No new cameras in or around Carrie’s building. No homeless squatters in adjacent doorways. A simple Webb-Miller on the service entrance. Which hardly even counts. I call such locks hiccups.

One more thing to check.

And I have to wait but a moment. Ms. Carrie Noelle, in person, walks into view, returning from a lunch date I knew she had scheduled.

She is tall, in her mid-thirties. Her outfit today is jeans and a leather jacket. Running shoes, orange and stylish, not gaudy. Her chestnut hair’s tied back in a ponytail. Not model beautiful but quite pretty. The woman walks in smooth strides. There’s an athleticism about her. Catlike. She not only resembles but she moves just as elegantly as my gorgeous Aleksandra.

Every Russian girl, she is gymnast or dancer growing up...

Carrie is walking along the sidewalk in front of the Bechtel Building. She passes the window, not ten feet away but doesn’t glance in.

And the final element of the prep: I confirm that she’s alone. Carrie isn’t on the arm of a man who would complicate my Visit. (I’d say man or woman, but I know that she’s straight.)

Of course she could have a suitor stop by later tonight, but that hasn’t been her style.

All by her lonesome.

She proceeds to the front of her building. She greets a neighbor, a retiree, he seems. He’s walking toward the entrance too. They smile — hers is radiant — and they exchange a few words. With his key he opens the door (a silly Henderson pin tumbler).

The bags she carts are cumbersome and, gentleman that he must be, he volunteers to help her. She hands one over. As he takes it he glances in and once again smiles, lifting an impressed eyebrow.

Which says to me that the recipient of whatever is inside will be delighted with the purchase. On the other hand, noting the logo of the store on the bag, aren’t children always overjoyed when their parents put that very special new toy into their little hands?

“Rumpled” was the go-to word in describing Lon Sellitto, the middle-aged detective first grade who had been the criminalist’s partner years ago, before Rhyme moved to Crime Scene and, later, ascended to be the head of NYPD Investigation and Resources Division, which included the CSU.

Pressing his mobile to his ear, the stocky man with thinning hair of a shade that could best be described as brown-gray made his way into the parlor, nodding greetings to Rhyme and Sachs, as he steamed toward the cookies. He tucked the phone between cheek and shoulder and broke one in half carefully, then set the larger portion back on the tray before negating the show of willpower by scarfing down the surviving half.

He was apparently on hold. He said to no one, “Oatmeal. Raisins. Damn, that man can bake.” He glanced toward Sachs. “You ever bake?”