Джеффри Дивер - The Midnight Lock

Amelia Sachs did the Miranda thing, and asked, “Do you wish to waive your right to speak to an attorney before questioning?”

“No,” Gregorios answered absently.

It hardly mattered; they had enough to put him away forever.

Rhyme noted that he was taking in doors and windows — well, specifically, locks and latches.

“Rookie?”

“Lincoln?” asked Ron Pulaski.

“Zip-tie his wrists.”

“We’ve got the cuffs double locked. Nobody can get out of ’em.”

Rhyme lowered his head and the man apparently came to understand that the prisoner they were soon to be taking downtown was nicknamed “the Locksmith.”

“Oh, good point.”

The young man slipped on the nylon restraints.

Gregorios’s face revealed not the anger one might expect. His eyes were gazing at Rhyme as if the two were competitors in a champion chess match and Rhyme had just made the opening move in a game long anticipated.

The Watchmaker had once looked at him with an identical expression.

Two uniforms, a sturdy man and woman, arrived. “Transport to Central Booking.”

Pulaski nodded at Gregorios and each of the patrol officers took an arm and led him to the door, Pulaski following.

“A moment?” Gregorios said. His escorts stopped. He looked back to Rhyme. “It seems we’re now both locked men. I wonder who’ll be free first.”

He turned and the four vanished out the door.

To Gregorios, yes, Rhyme had expressed surprise as to how he’d breached his castle — and the other victims’.

In fact, though, his team had figured out the Locksmith’s likely MO — Talese and Noelle had broadcast images of their dwellings, their security systems, their solitary lifestyles and such details as their tendency to take sleeping aids or indulging in a glass or two of wine before bed.

So Rhyme had proposed that Sachs broadcast a plea for help from the citizens in Rhyme’s apartment, the camera angle wide enough to catch the locks and the alarm panel.

Would it work? They didn’t know. But it was worth a try.

A surveillance team from NYPD Tech Services planted videos outside the town house and then Rhyme sent Thom off with his partner. Sellitto and Sachs had placed a tac team in the parlor.

The Locksmith had fallen for the bait.

Now, Sachs and Mel Cooper were packing up the evidence. The TV was on to a cable network’s news channel and “Breaking Story” appeared. The anchor-woman reported, “A suspect tentatively identified as the Locksmith has been arrested in Manhattan. Thirty-year-old Yannis Gregorios, a content moderator with ViewNow, has been charged with the series of break-ins that terrorized the city.

“He was also charged with the murder of his father, Alekos Gregorios, stabbed to death last week.

“A source within the police department reported that the famous criminologist Lincoln Rhyme was part of the team that pursued the alleged killer. A former captain with the New York City Police, Rhyme is best known for capturing the Bone Collector, a serial kidnapper and killer who roamed the streets of New York years ago.”

“Oh, shit,” Sellitto muttered.

Rhyme grimaced. “I know, I know. Makes me mad too. They always get it wrong. A criminologist studies the sociology of crime and I can’t think of anything more boring. I’m a criminalist .”

“That’s not what I frigging mean.”

Rhyme realized that Sellitto, Cooper and Sachs had stopped their tasks and were staring his way.

And then it hit him.

Now everyone — including those in Police Plaza — would know he’d broken the prohibition on consulting.

“I don’t see a problem,” he said, feeling cheerful. “I did happen to catch the psycho, didn’t I? Ten dollars says they’ll forgive and forget. No, make it a hundred. Who’s on?”

“Arrest him.”

New York City Mayor Tony Harrison was standing at his office window, looking out at a wedge of the city, his city — a jurisdiction in which orders he gave and rules he set were to be carried out.

As clearly had not happened.

“Rhyme. I want him in jail. And I want his people fired. Sachs, Pulaski... All of them. Out. And no pensions. Can we do that?” Harrison noted that his sleeves were not rolled up in unison; some elbow showed on the starboard. He adjusted.

“I’d be careful with the pensions.” This was from the large outdoorsman detective, Richard Beaufort, of his security team. He bore a striking resemblance to some actor whose name the mayor could not recall. Maybe a TV show cop. Or an FBI agent.

Beaufort said, “We have to handle it carefully. I mean, they did collar the Locksmith. And that Whittaker woman.”

Abe Potter was present too. In contrast to the mayor’s cultivated casual look, the aide was pristine in a three-piece suit, the sort you rarely saw.

The athletic mayor smoothed his lush pelt of graying hair, in a politician’s ’do. “Have either of you seen Roland’s statement?”

Edward Roland, his slick, billionaire opponent in the quest for the governor’s mansion in Albany, had taken all of twenty minutes to issue a press release.

“No.” From Beaufort.

Potter said, “I did. It’s not good.”

“What did he say?” Beaufort asked.

“He said that I can’t control my own people. He called for me to step down. And he said the reason it took so long to stop the Locksmith was the breaches in the department. He cited those posts by Verum.”

Potter observed, “Who was the psychotic niece of Averell Whittaker, and she’s in jail for murder.”

“The followers — and that’s a lot of them — don’t believe it. They’re saying she was set up.”

Harrison sat in the simple desk chair he’d used when he was a city councilman in Brooklyn. On his first day in the mayor’s office he’d had the throne that the prior mayor had used removed and discarded. “Spin. We need to spin it. Okay, we’ll make it clear that Rhyme didn’t play any significant role in the investigation. That was misreported. And we’ll say that what little assistance he gave — I repeat, little assistance — didn’t contribute to finding the killer.”

Potter cleared his throat. “Uhm, Tony, then why arrest Rhyme, if that was all he did?”

Harrison grimaced. Good point. He thought for a moment. “The security guard...”

“I’m sorry?” Beaufort rubbed his fingers and thumb together. The mayor noticed the I’m-not-sure-about-this gesture.

“Okay, Rhyme and his team commandeered the investigation. If it had been handled by the precinct and Detective Bureau, they would’ve closed the case earlier, and no one would have died.”

Silence for a moment. Potter glanced from his boss to Beaufort, then back. “Well, I’m not law enforcement, but even I know that Rhyme and Amelia Sachs and the others close cases faster than any other team in the city.”

“True,” Beaufort said.

The mayor aligned sleeves once again. “You two may know that; the public doesn’t.”

The voting public.

“I take a firm stand. I acknowledge that they caught the Locksmith, but by running their own operation, in defiance of my orders, they set back the investigation and that may have resulted in the death of an innocent individual. But I’ll be magnanimous about it. We’ll let leak that I considered criminally negligent homicide against Rhyme but decided to go with obstruction of justice. It’s a Class A misdemeanor, which means up to a year in jail. We need to find a judge who’ll hit him with some time. Four, five months should be fine.”