It’s also noisy.
I know very well — from the incident in 2019 — the disaster that noise can lead to during a Visit. A simple thing like a latch clicking can result in tragedy.
No, I’ll rake open the SecurPoint, and I’ll do it quickly and silently, so that Carrie Noelle won’t hear a thing and will continue to slumber in innocence. And vulnerability.
I inhale and exhale slowly, concentrate all my being on the SecurPoint 85.
Locks have been picked by actually looking into the keyway. The greatest picker of all time, a lock salesman named Alfred C. Hobbs, cracked the supposedly unpickable Detector lock at the Great Exhibition of 1851 in Britain. Some of his tools had tiny mirrors on them (which was considered cheating, and the event became known as the Great Controversy).
I don’t have such tools. But I do “peer” inside the lock in a way. I close my eyes and visualize the pins and tumblers with the same clarity as if seeing them under a brightly lit microscope.
I become one with the device.
Lock picking has been called a dark side of zen.
A tap on the stopwatch.
In goes the tension tool, in goes the rake.
Five seconds, ten, twenty, twenty-five... thirty, forty.
Click.
The lock opens.
Forty-one seconds. At a recent lock-picking convention, the record for cracking a SecurPoint 85 was one minute and four seconds.
I’ve done it in nearly half that time.
But still not good enough.
I step back, make a cup of herbal tea. As I do I picture Carrie Noelle, who is a tea lover too. She’s wildly appealing in spandex — hip huggers and tank tops are her outfits of choice. She tends toward bright colors.
I wonder what kind of kitchen knives she has. She’ll have some. Everybody does. They’re a perfect Christmas present.
Once again I study my prey, the SecurPoint.
Seductive, sexy, coy.
Whom I want to be inside, need to be inside.
From my hundreds of tools, I select a different rake.
Inhaling and exhaling. I reset then hit the stopwatch again.
Tension bar inserted.
Rake inserted.
The tools are moving slowly, back, forth. Up, down.
My eyes are closed, feeling the pins as if with the tips of my fingers.
Click.
Eyes open. Twenty-eight seconds.
I’m filled with indescribable warmth.
Well, Carrie, it appears that you’re going to have some company tonight.
“Friends: The Hidden have a new way to strike. The news made it all the way out here to the West Coast: in New York a vicious organized crime boss was found not guilty of murder, which there’s no doubt he committed. And how did this happen? The state’s expert witness intentionally got him off because he manipulated the evidence!
“And why? Because this criminal has ties to senior politicians and, more frightening, employees of our national security agencies.
“Yet another weapon the Hidden wield to subvert justice!
“I’ve found a classified report that states that this is the dozenth time in the last few months the police have bungled investigations or prosecutors have dropped the ball.
“But of course they haven’t ‘bungled’ anything. They’re infiltrated by the Hidden, which decides what is and is not justice.
“New York is hardly alone. In Minnesota, the Health and Human Services Division of domestic abuse shelters had been infiltrated by the Hidden and used as a cover for sex trafficking. In Orlando the Hidden have formed alliances with gangs, paying them to riot and to burn the businesses of legitimate, hardworking Americans. And no one is ever prosecuted.
“Say your prayers and stay prepared!
“My name is Verum, Latin for ‘true.’ That is what my message is. What you do with it is up to you.”
16
Rhyme’s phone hummed. He noted the area code and exchange.
What was this about?
He shared a glance with Sachs, who turned the volume of the TV down. They’d been watching the breaking story of the Buryak verdict. The mobster in the glorious suit and colorful vest was shown walking out of court. He wasn’t smiling. His brow was furrowed, as if the trial had been an irritating distraction and he was once again concentrating on projects that lay ahead.
Rhyme ordered the phone to answer. “Yes?”
“Mr. Rhyme?” a woman’s matter-of-fact voice asked.
“That’s right.”
“Commissioner Willis would like to set up a Zoom call. Are you free?”
Another glance between the two of them.
“When?” he asked.
“Now.”
“Send me the link.” He gave his email address.
“Thank you.”
They disconnected.
“What’s up?” Cooper asked.
“No idea.”
“What do you know about Willis?” he asked them both.
Cooper shook his head. Sachs said, “Sally Willis, first deputy commissioner.”
The NYPD has two sides. One, headed by the chief of department, handles criminal investigations. It includes the detective and patrol bureaus. The other is civilian; it takes care of all non-criminal administrative matters. The first deputy commissioner heads this operation.
Sachs continued, “She’s tough. She came out of Internal Affairs. At IAB, she was by the book. She’d write you up for pocketing a bribe or wearing white socks. Made no difference.”
The footwear reference, Rhyme knew, meant citing an officer for a minor uniform violation.
“Known as the Iron Maiden.”
Lovely.
A moment later the pulsing tone echoed through the parlor. Rhyme said, “Command. Email.”
A window popped up on a large screen.
“Command. Open.” Then, after the Zoom invitation appeared, Rhyme said, “Command. Cursor to hyperlink. Command. Enter.”
He joined with computer audio and clicked on the video camera icon and a red light on the webcam glowed. A moment later he was looking at a nondescript conference room, presumably somewhere in One Police Plaza. The wide-angle shot revealed several people around the end of a conference table. A blond woman in her mid to late fifties was in the center.
He knew the other two. To her right was a solidly built Black man of about forty-five. Francis Duvalier was a senior assistant district attorney. Rhyme had testified in some of his trials; he was good and a preferred prosecutor for high-profile cases. The other was Alonzo Rodriguez, whose official title was commanding officer at large in the Detective Bureau. He was round and balding and his face was squat, distinguished by an odd attempt at a handlebar mustache. All three were in dark jackets and white shirts. The men wore ties in different shades of blue. Willis wore a pearl choker.
“Captain Rhyme, I’m First Deputy Commissioner Willis.” Her voice was gravelly. Rhyme noted she used the mouthful of a title. Others might have said “Dep Com” or just their first name.
Noted too that she’d used his title as well. Perhaps a sign of deference, perhaps not.
“Commissioner. And Francis, Al.”
“Lincoln,” they said simultaneously.
The trio was stony faced.
Rhyme said, “I’m here with Detectives Sachs and Cooper.”
“Good.”
A curious comment. He waited.
“Captain Rhyme, first, I think I can speak for the entire department when I say we truly appreciate your contributions to investigations and prosecutions over the years.”