The center window was black.
“I heard about the verdict, Viktor. Congratulations, man.” This was from Stoddard. Fortunately — for those wishing to tell them apart, if not for the man himself — Steven’s cheek was disfigured by a two-inch-long scar.
Duggin was nodding. “I feel for you, man. Been there. Nothing worse than sweating out those verdicts. Who was the ADA?”
“Prick named Sellars.”
Stoddard: “Murphy had to go. No loss to the world there. Wonder who did it.”
“Don’t have a clue. It’s being looked into.”
Welbourne rarely spoke and he didn’t now.
Buryak said, “Let us get down to business, okay?” He’d been in the U.S. for thirty years. His Ukrainian accent had all but vanished and his English was flawless. Occasionally, though, he tended to speak more formally than colloquially.
“Got my checkbook,” Duggin said.
Stoddard offered, “You’re playing with the big boys now.” His brother snickered.
Welbourne might have grunted. Buryak couldn’t tell.
“First lot...” He typed and a picture of a yellow articulated dump truck appeared. “This is a Volvo, ten years old. Payload capacity 28 short tons. Gross weight 104,499 pounds. Max engine gross power 315, gross torque 1,505. Max speed of 33 miles per hour. As you can see it’s in fair condition. The reserve bid is fifty thousand dollars, and I’ll accept increases of five.”
“Fifty,” the Twins said simultaneously. Their high voices, coupled with their cold blue eyes, made the stereo effect just plain eerie.
Duggin: “Five five.”
“Sixty,” scarfaced Steve said.
In his rich baritone voice Duggin said, “Sixty-five.”
Buryak was watching Welbourne, who was looking at another part of the screen. His eyes narrowed. He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to someone off camera.
The Twins regarded each other and chimed in with, “Seventy.”
Buryak said, “Come, please. It is a once-in-a-lifetime chance. This truck can turn your businesses clean around. Did you hear? Three fifteen horsepower? Three fifteen!”
He enjoyed playing auctioneer.
Duggin said, “Come on, you motherfuckers. You’re killing me. Seventy-five.”
No one looked at the camera; Duggin and the twins were gazing at their upper left-hand corners, trying to see if they could get a clue as to what Welbourne was up to. The New Jerseyan was reading another portion of the screen, maybe some personal information, a spreadsheet or a website. He jotted another note and handed it off.
The brothers muted their call and began conferring.
“It’s at seventy-five, Harry.”
“I’m aware.”
“You heard that torque.”
“I heard.”
“Viktor, my friend,” Duggin said, “ain’t it time to bang the gavel?”
“Not yet, Kevin.”
Duggin slouched back in what appeared to be quite a luxurious black leather chair and sipped from a mug. “I think it oughta be fucking gavel time,” he muttered.
The Twins unmuted. “Eighty.”
Duggin: “Eight five.”
“Crap,” Steven spat out. “You don’t even know what the fuck to do with a truck like that.”
“Now, gentlemen, pretend we’re at Christie’s. A little civility.”
The brothers looked at each other once again. They shook their heads simultaneously.
Buryak was disappointed. He’d thought this lot would do better.
“Going once...”
Welbourne took a slip of paper from a hand that ended in red polished nails. He read it.
“Going twice.”
Welbourne looked into the camera. “One hundred ten thousand.”
Yes!
Duggin grimaced, and the twins exchanged perplexed glances. All three remained grudgingly silent.
“Sold!” Buryak slapped his desktop in lieu of a gavel.
“I’ll wire the money now,” Welbourne said in his quiet, unemotional voice.
“It will take about a week to ten days for prep.”
“All right.”
“Now, let’s move on to lot two.” A picture of a twenty-foot cabin cruiser on a trailer appeared. It was old, the paint job uneven, missing some windows.
“This is what is called a fixer-upper, but well worth the investment. Let me give you the details.”
18
Shortsighted, foolish...
Lincoln Rhyme was staring at the triptych of evidence boards.
In the corner was the Alekos Gregorios killing. Behind it, the Viktor Buryak — Leon Murphy case.
Which was, of course, not a case any longer at all.
Front and center was the Locksmith. It contained scores of notations, which Sachs would photograph and transcribe onto a similar board in the crime scene main facility in Queens — now that the case had been stolen away.
Rhyme knew he probably wasn’t the best criminalist in the world. Out there somewhere — France, Botswana, Singapore, Brazil, the U.A.E., or, likely, in the borough of Queens, at the main NYPD lab — there was a man or woman with forensic skills that outshone his. But one thing was undeniable. Rhyme knew the city of New York as well as he knew this town house. And it was that knowledge base, combined with his natural talents for chemistry, physics and deduction, that made him unique.
Was some of this assessment ego?
Yes, of course. But ego and skill do not, by any means, exist in opposition. A good argument could be made that they have a correlated, and possibly causal, relationship.
“Here.”
He looked up. Thom handed him a glass. Inside was amber-colored liquor. He smelled peat... but not too much. One of his favorite Glenmorangies, and a double pour. His aide, who’d been fired as often as he’d quit yet was still here, could read moods.
He sipped. It helped some, but Lincoln Rhyme’s fiercest genre of anger was reserved for stupidity, even more so than corruption and deceit.
And with this sociopath roaming the streets of the city for reasons unknown, it was reckless in the extreme to sideline him.
He and Thom were alone in the town house. Cooper had packed up the evidence and had taken it to Queens. Amelia Sachs was at Major Cases. She’d gone down there to hand deliver a particular missive to Lon Sellitto.
His phone hummed and not the sound but his glance at the caller ID made his heart stir.
“Lon. Tell me.”
The pause delivered the answer.
“Sorry, Linc. They’re not budging. I got all the way to the commissioner.”
Rhyme had figured this would be the answer. In fact, he nearly smiled at the image of the rotund, rumpled detective lieutenant insisting his way into the commissioner’s office and pleading the case for Lincoln Rhyme’s reinstatement. Sellitto would have wanted to mutter, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” But, of course, he would have brought all the negotiating skills of a seasoned homicide detective to the game.
“I found something else. You heard about this blogger? Verum?”
“No.”
“Crank conspiracy guy. Posts online, these videos about politics, society, all kinds of bullshit. Lies, but people eat them up. He’s got thousands of followers online.”
“‘Verum’? Latin for ‘true.’ Except what he says isn’t.”
“You got it. Looks like he’s in California, maybe L.A., but he’s been posting about New York. There’s this conspiracy he calls the Hidden. Some movement trying to destroy American institutions. He said that’s why Buryak got off. The trial was thrown.”
“I’m part of a secret state, hm? I missed the thank-you cards from Buryak for doing my part to set him free.”
“And then he’s saying that the police aren’t doing enough to stop the Locksmith because they’re part of it too. City Hall.”