A Perfect Plan
Also by Jeffery Deaver
Novels
The Colter Shaw Series
The Final Twist
The Goodbye Man
The Never Game
The Lincoln Rhyme Series
The Midnight Lock
The Cutting Edge
The Burial Hour
The Steel Kiss
The Skin Collector
The Kill Room
The Burning Wire
The Broken Window
The Cold Moon
The Twelfth Card
The Vanished Man
The Stone Monkey
The Empty Chair
The Coffin Dancer
The Bone Collector
The Kathryn Dance Series
Solitude Creek
XO
Roadside Crosses
The Sleeping Doll
The Rune Series
Hard News
Death of a Blue Movie Star
Manhattan Is My Beat
The John Pellam Series
Hell’s Kitchen
Bloody River Blues
Shallow Graves
Stand-Alones
The October List
No Rest for the Dead (Contributor)
Carte Blanche (A James Bond Novel)
Watchlist (Contributor)
Edge
The Bodies Left Behind
Garden of Beasts
The Blue Nowhere
Speaking in Tongues
The Devil’s Teardrop
A Maiden’s Grave
Praying for Sleep
The Lesson of Her Death
Mistress of Justice
Short Fiction
Collections
Trouble in Mind
More Twisted
Twisted
Anthologies
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight (Editor and Contributor)
A Hot and Sultry Night for Crime (Editor and Contributor)
Ice Cold (Editor and Contributor)
Books to Die For (Contributor)
The Best American Mystery Stories 2009 (Editor)
Stories
Forgotten
Turning Point
Verona
The Debriefing
The Second Hostage
Ninth and Nowhere
Captivated
The Victims’ Club
Surprise Ending
Double Cross
The Deliveryman
A Textbook Case
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Ebook ISBN: 9780593422014
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Contents
Cover
Also by Jeffery Deaver
Title Page
Copyright
Sunday, October 2
Monday, October 3
Excerpt from The Midnight Lock
About the Author
Sunday, October 2
“We got ourselves some intel that you oughta know about.”
The man sat in Lincoln Rhyme’s New York City Victorian parlor, his legs stretched out, revealing bright yellow socks. His couture was as eclectic as Rhyme remembered: today, a green suit and a plaid shirt. He wore a skinny necktie, and the background of the garment was a deep brown that matched his complexion perfectly. The foreground of the tie was dotted with tiny, embroidered toucans, green and red.
Fred Dellray was not your typical FBI agent.
“Go on.” Rhyme turned his wheelchair to more fully face the man. Rhyme frequently hired on as a forensic consultant for PERT, the FBI’s physical evidence response team, but it was unusual to be contacted by the law enforcers before a crime had occurred.
“Wish it was more, but it’s little bitty, just a hint here, a hint there. And, soon as the snoopers got wind and tried to tune in for episode number two, it was gone. Skittering like a scared bird. Or floating off like a ghost.” Dellray clicked his tongue. “Let’cha pick your own figure of speech.”
Dellray’s manner of speaking was as odd as his clothing choices.
Rhyme had missed the agent—one of the Bureau’s top runners of confidential informants, and a great undercover op himself. He’d transferred to DC to concentrate on identifying white supremacist threats by supervising his CIs. Now he was back in New York, assigned to the Southern District.
“Fred.” Rhyme was as impatient as ever.
“Now, our BFFs in the UK—”
“What’s that? A security agency? Never heard of it.”
Dellray blinked. “Right, right, you’re not a pop culture kinda guy. ‘Best friends forever.’ What kids say about themselves.”
“Fred,” Rhyme tried again and put some effort into his sigh.
Dellray continued, “Our best friends at the Brit sneaky spy outfit—GCHQ—just happened to hear a conversation. It was accidental and, missing that li’l thing called a warrant, they couldn’t, as a tech-ni-cality, keep listening. But before they disconnected, there it was, thirty seconds on tape. Sitting there like some uninvited houseguest. They called MI5 and a friend o’ mine over there shot it my way.”
“Could we focus here a bit, Fred?”
“I’m almost there. So, the gist: Person X—my name for him—is somewhere in England. Has an Irish accent. He was having a conversation with Person Y here in New York, who does not have an accent. X is hiring this Y to eliminate Person Z. We all together on that?”
“Imminently together, Fred. Your synopsis, I’m referring to. You are still a little light on the details.”
“Sadly, sadly true. I’m gazing into a veritable void. But I should tell you we have got ourselves one particular little fact. About which you’ll be highly interested.”
“Which is?”
“Person Z? The target? Is you.”
—
“Who is it, you think?” Lon Sellitto asked. “Person X. The guy behind it?”
The bulky man, detective first grade, in a wrinkled brown suit, was standing in the parlor, arms crossed. Also present was Rhyme’s wife and professional partner, Detective Amelia Sachs, tall, her red hair lassoed into a ponytail. She was in jeans and a black blazer, specially cut to make the Glock 17 on her right hip—an efficient but easy-to-spot weapon—less obvious.
Dellray had returned to the Federal Building. He was working through back channels to get more information out of the organization that had accidentally overheard the phone conversation about the hit on Rhyme: the Government Communications Headquarters, the British equivalent of the National Security Agency.
So far, nothing. And even if one of the many security agencies in the UK wanted to take up the case, it appeared that X had tipped to the intrusion. The frequencies he’d been using had gone silent. He undoubtedly had picked a new means to contact his killer in New York, otherwise known as Person Y.
Rhyme now said to Sellitto and Sachs, “Lot of people want me dead. The question is: Is it somebody getting even, or somebody who wants me out of the way because they’re planning a move in the future and don’t want me involved in the investigation?”
Sachs’s ponytail swayed as she shook her head. “That’s a lot of forethought—your second option, I mean. Doesn’t seem likely. Why target you now when there’s no guarantee you’d be the one running the case?”
“Yeah, I agree,” Sellitto said. “Somebody’s pissed you put them away and wants to get even.”
Rhyme sighed. “Ah, revenge is so tiresome. Such a waste of time . . .” He frowned. “England. You know what that puts me in mind of?”
“The expat case,” Sachs said.
Rhyme had assisted in the investigation into the poisoning death of a Russian oligarch and ex-patriot in London a few years back. The criminalist had made enemies among a number of British nationals, other Russian oligarchs and the Russian security agencies, all of whom had agents in the UK.
Sachs placed a call to Dellray and told him about the case. When she disconnected, she said, “He’ll bring it up with MI5 and 6.” She gave a brief smile. “That man has connections everywhere.”
Looking around the town house parlor and front hall, Sellitto said, “We gotta beef up security here. I’ll get some bodies from Personal Protection Div.”
Rhyme sighed once more. “By ‘div,’ I assume you mean ‘division.’ So far, the only victim in this case seems to be the English language.”
The detective continued, unfazed. “They’ll put in more cameras, some other gadgets. Oh, and you gotta stay inside until we find out exactly what’s going on.”
Rhyme, a quadriplegic physically and an introvert psychologically, rarely left his town house on Central Park West, where he was perfectly comfortable in near isolation. But once a week he traveled a few blocks to a college where he taught graduate level students in the art of forensic science and a seminar called the Philosophy of Criminal Apprehension. He enjoyed the classes immensely, especially the latter, where he would verbally joust with the more outspoken and intelligent students.
“I’m not missing my classes,” he told Sellitto.
The detective cast a glance at the elaborate chair, which featured a large center wheel on each side of the device and smaller ones in the front and rear. “Don’t be crazy. You’re a sitting duck.”
One of the reasons Rhyme remained friends with his former partner after all these years was that he didn’t go gentle on the topic of the disability. The criminalist grew furious when people treated him like a china doll.
“I can take the van to class.”
Thom Reston, Rhyme’s aide, piloted him about town on the rare occasions when he needed or wanted to be out in a Mercedes Sprinter, tricked out to handle the wheelchair.
Sachs said, “It’s a bad idea, Rhyme. Five minutes to get into the van, five minutes to get out. You’d be totally exposed. And all the buildings on CPW and around the school? Two, three dozen perfect sniper nests.”
The Upper West Side of Manhattan bristled with high-rises and hotels. A shooter could get into, or on top of, any of them without a soul paying attention.
As Rhyme hesitated, Sellitto said, “Fred and I’ll call in some markers—CIs with international connections. See what’s what. We find something, we can rethink it. But for now, take the week off, Professor.”
“Christ,” Rhyme muttered under his breath. Then he thought: Person Y. Who are you? How’re you coming at me? And when?
As a man whose purpose in life was to solve questions, he did not do at all well when confronted with inquiries he couldn’t answer.
Monday, October 3
Valentin Renard pulled the white CLS-Class Mercedes into the parking garage on 9th Street in Greenwich Village, mindful of the side of his hundred-thousand-dollar vehicle; the entrance was quite narrow. The building had been constructed in the ’70s, when small cars were the rage—that oil shortage thing.
The garage was in the basement of an apartment building and it featured an attendant, so that when he left he could pay cash. Many of the garage and parking facilities in New York accepted only debit and credit cards. Not a sign of the high-tech times, a measure to avoid stickups at gunpoint.
He climbed from the car. The thirty-three-year-old was blond and trim and appeared trimmer yet by the sleek, dark gray Ferragamo suit he wore. The narrow black tie, contrasting with the off-white high-thread-count shirt, added to his linear image. He removed a duffel bag from the trunk, slung it over his shoulder and beeped the car to sleep. He climbed the ramp to the street, past the security camera that was there for show only; he knew the model. This was another reason he’d selected this garage.
He began walking east.
When he was in Alphabet City—where the north-south avenues began with letters—he noted the conditions deteriorated as the letters progressed. Finally he came to a two-story building, 522 East St. Marks. It was red brick and dark with soot and whatever other particulates settled on buildings in Manhattan.
He climbed to the front and, using a knuckle, not fingertip, rang a buzzer. A large man, hairy everywhere, opened the door. He wore a white T-shirt over baggy—and gamy—gray slacks. The scent of cigarette smoke orbited.
“I’m Davis,” Renard said. “I called about that basement room.”
“Well,” the man offered hesitantly in an accented voice, “you were going to call back with the credit card.” The soft pronunciation of the g told Renard the man was Ukrainian, not Russian.
“It’s still available?”
“Yeah.” He pulled out his iPhone and fished in his pocket, pulling out a credit card reader.
“I’ll pay cash.”
“We don’t take cash. It’s not, you know, part of system, how it works.”
The man was in a network like Airbnb.
“You have it listed for five hundred for the week.”
“Yeah.”
Renard reached into his inner jacket pocket and extracted a letter-size envelope. He opened it. The man looked at the twenty hundred-dollar bills, which had been handled in such a way by Renard that there were no fingerprints on them.
“Here. And I don’t want any paperwork.”
The man continued to stare. He then lifted his head and looked his potential tenant over carefully.
A handsome man with a thick coif of hair in a politician’s trim cut, Renard offered a smile. “Nothing to be suspicious of. I’m a journalist writing a story about the dangers of credit cards and debit cards. I’m going to live the entire week in New York paying cash only.”
“Yeah? Like for newspaper?”
“It’s a podcast. Do you want to be interviewed for it?”
“No” was the fast response. The owner of the building took the bills and handed over a key. “I show you the place.”
“Not necessary.”
When the man returned to his living quarters, Renard stepped down the stairs, pulled on clear latex gloves then unlocked first the wrought-iron outer door and then the inner wooden one.
The rooms—with separate bathroom and kitchenette—were as he expected: they smelled of mold and damp concrete, and the walls displayed slapdash paint jobs (in ugly salmon). There was an uncomfortable bed, a small kitchen featuring battered, stained and chipped appliances. Limp towels, Target house brand soap and shampoo. A TV that had to be one of the smallest flat screens on the market.
Renard doffed his jacket and slacks, hanging them in the closet. He grimaced at the hangers: they were wire and they would leave horizontal creases in the trousers. He stripped off his dress shirt, revealing taut muscles; he worked out daily, using free weights and a pull-up bar in the doorway of his bedroom closet. He then opened the duffel bag and set out some of the contents: personal items, clothing, papers, a computer, several burner phones.
He dressed in jeans, an undershirt and a black sweatshirt. He exchanged his twelve-hundred-dollar brown leather dress Kitons for running shoes.
Taking a notebook from the bag, he sat at the desk and turned on a wobbly light, which cast a pale circle in front of him. He opened the book, on the first page of which was taped a map of the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
Circled, in the center, was one particular address, on Central Park West.
The residence of Lincoln Rhyme.
—
“Nada, nothing, nup.”
Fred Dellray was once again in Rhyme’s town house. “They tried but, fact is, ran smack into a dead end.”
“Our best forever friends.”
“Best friends forever,” Dellray corrected.