The Midnight Lock

“The wait has been worth it. This is prime Rhyme: a fiendishly smart villain, bewildering crimes, plenty of plot twists, and Lincoln, the quadriplegic criminalist, is at his cranky, belligerent, brilliantly clever best.”
—Booklist

“The dialogue and plotting are as sharp as ever in The Midnight Lock …If the burglar’s break-in feats often resemble magic, so do some of Deaver’s tricks.”
—The Sunday Times of London

“Some readers will be aghast in admiration at the nonstop revelations, others impatient for every last T to be crossed so that they can turn the last page and get to sleep before dawn. In the end, everyone will agree that there’s no other detective under the midnight moon like Lincoln Rhyme.”
—Kirkus Reviews

Auteur

Jeffery Deaver

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The "master of ticking-bomb suspense" (People) Jeffery Deaver delivers the latest thriller featuring his beloved protagonists Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs as they search for a criminal whose fascination with breaking locks terrorizes New York City.

A woman awakes in the morning to find that someone has picked her apartment’s supposedly impregnable door lock and rearranged personal items, even sitting beside her while she slept. The intrusion, the police learn, is a message to the entire city of carnage to come. Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs are brought in to investigate and soon learn that the sociopathic intruder, who calls himself "the Locksmith,” can break through any lock or security system ever devised. With more victims on the horizon, Rhyme, Sachs and their stable of associates must follow the evidence to the man’s lair… and discover his true mission.

Their hunt is interrupted when an internal investigation in the police force uncovers what seems to be a crucial mistake in one of Rhyme's previous cases. He’s fired as a consultant for the NYPD and must risk jail if he investigates the Locksmith case in secret.

The Midnight Lock is a roller-coaster read that takes place over just a few days’ time, features surprise after surprise and offers a fascinating look at the esoteric world of lockpicking.

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Chapter 1

Something wasn't right.

Annabelle Talese, though, couldn't quite figure out what that might be.

One aspect of this concern, or disorientation, or mystery, could be explained by the presence of a hangover, though a minor one. She called them "hangunders"-maybe one and a half glasses of sauvignon blanc too many. She'd been out with Trish and Gab at Tito's, which had to be one of the strangest of all restaurants on the Upper West Side of Manhattan: a fusion of Serbian and Tex-Mex. Fried cheese with beans and salsa was a specialty.

Big wine pours too.

As she lay on her side, she brushed the tickling, thick blond hair away from her eyes and wondered: What's wrong with this picture?

Well, for one thing, the window was open a few inches; a May breeze, thick with the gassy-asphalt scent of Manhattan, eased in. She rarely opened it. Why had she done so last night?

The twenty-seven-year-old, who had dabbled at modeling and was now content behind the scenes of the fashion world, rolled upright and tugged her Hamilton T-shirt down, twisted it straight. Adjusted her silk boxers. Finger-combed her curls.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, feeling for her slippers.

They weren't where she'd kicked them off last night before climbing under the blankets.

All right. What's going on?

Talese had no phobias or OCD issues, except one: New York City streets. She couldn't help but picture the carpet of germs and other unmentionable critters that populated the city's asphalt-and which got tracked into her apartment, even when, as she did every day, she stowed her shoes in a carton by the door (and insisted her friends do the same).

She never went barefoot in the apartment.

Instead of the slippers, though, the dress she'd worn yesterday, a frilly, floral number, lay spread out beneath her dangling feet.

The front hem was drawn up, almost to the décolletage, as if the garment were flashing her.

Wait a minute . . . Talese had a memory-more hazy than distinct-of tossing the garment into the hamper before her nighttime routine.

Talese qualified her narrative now. The slippers weren't where she thought she'd left them. The dress wasn't in the hamper where she thought she'd tossed it.

Maybe Draco, the bartender, always a flirt, had been a little more generous than usual.

Was the drink count, possibly, 2.5 on the scale?

Careful, girl. You need to watch that.

As always, upon waking, the phone.

She turned toward the bedside table.

It wasn't there.

No landline for her, her mobile was her only link at night. She always kept it near and charged. The umbilical, attached to the wall plug, was present, but no phone.

Jesus . . . What's going on?

Then she saw the slippers. The pink fuzzy things were across the room, each on either side of, and facing, a small wooden chair. It had been scooted closer to the bed than she normally kept it. The slippers were facing the chair in a way that was almost eerily obscene-as if they'd been worn by somebody whose legs were spread and who was sitting on a lap.

"No," Talese gasped, now spotting what was on the floor beside the chair: a plate with a half-eaten cookie on it.

Her heart thrummed fast; her breath grew shallow. Somebody'd been in the apartment last night! They'd rearranged her clothes, eaten the cookie.

Not six feet away from her!

The phone, the phone . . . where's the goddamn phone?

Talese reached for the dress on the floor.

Then froze. Don't! He-she figured the intruder would have been male-had touched it.

My God . . . She ran to her closet and pulled on jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, then stepped into the first pair of sneakers she found.

Out! Get out now! The neighbors, the police . . .

Fighting back tears from fright, she started out of the bedroom, then noticed that one of her dresser drawers was partially open. It was where she kept her underwear. She'd noted something boldly colorful inside.

She approached slowly, pulled it fully open and looked down. She gasped and finally the tears broke free.

On top of her panties was a page from a newspaper. It wasn't one she read, so he would have brought it with him. Written on it, in lipstick-the shade that she favored, Fierce Pink-were three words:

Reckoning.

          -The Locksmith

Annabelle Talese turned to sprint to the front door. She got about ten feet before she stopped fast.

She'd noticed three things:

One was that the butcher block knife holder, sitting on the island in the small kitchen, had a blank slot, the upper right-hand corner, where the largest blade had rested.

The second was that the closet in the hallway that led to the front door was open. Talese always kept it closed. There was an automated switch in the frame so that when you opened the door, the bulb inside went on. The closet now, however, was dark. She would have to walk past it to get to the front door.

The third thing was that the two deadbolts on the door were turned to the locked position.

Which meant-since the man who'd broken inside had no keys-he was still here.

Chapter 2

The defense attorney, approaching the empty witness stand, beside which Lincoln Rhyme sat in his motorized wheelchair, said: "Mr. Rhyme, I'll remind you that you're still under oath."

Rhyme frowned and looked over the solidly built, black-haired lawyer, whose last name was Coughlin. Rhyme affected a pensive expression. "I wasn't aware that some…