More Twisted

“You can call room service for anything you want.”
    “I just want to call my family and Peter and then get some rest.”
    “Sure, dear, you go right ahead. I’ll be across the hall if you need anything.”
    Kitty hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob and stepped into the room. It was just as tacky as the lobby suggested and smelled of mildew. She sat heavily on the bed, sighing. She noticed the window shades were up, which seemed a stupid idea for a hotel where they stashed witnesses. She rose and pulled the drapes shut, then turned the lights on in the room.
    She called the number of Peter Larkin’s office and identified herself. She accepted the gush of sympathy the man’s secretary offered and then asked when Peter and his wife would be arriving. It would be around nine that night. She left a message for him to call her as soon as they got in.
    Then she kicked her shoes off, lay back on the bed, closed her eyes and fell into a troubled sleep.

    Rhyme pressed his head back into the headrest of his wheelchair. He felt Sachs’s hand curl around his neck and massage. He could feel her hand at one moment and then, though he knew she continued the massage, the sensation vanished as her fingers moved down, below the fourth cervical vertebra, the site of his disabling injury.
    At another time, this might give rise to reflections—either on his condition, or on his relationship with Amelia Sachs. But now he was aware of nothing but the urgency to nail the killer of Ron Larkin, the man who gave away billions.
    “How’re we doing, Mel?”
    “Give me a minute.”
    “You’ve had plenty of them. What’s going on?”
    The massaging sensation stopped, but this was due not to the migration of her hand but because she’d stepped away and was helping Cooper prepare a slide for examination under the microscope.
    Rhyme looked over the updated evidence chart for the hundredth time.
    The answer was there. It had to be. There were no other options. No witnesses, no clear motives, no succinct list of suspects.
    The evidence, the minuscule bits of trace, held the key.
    Locard’s Principle . . .
    Rhyme glanced at the clock.
    “Mel?”
    Without looking up from the Bausch and Lomb, the tech repeated patiently, “It should only be a minute.”
    But every minute that passed meant that the killer was sixty seconds closer to escaping.
    Or, Rhyme feared, sixty seconds closer to murdering once again.

    Carter was sitting in his green Jeep, looking over Brooklyn from a spot near the South Street Seaport.
    He was sipping coffee and enjoying the view. The tall-masted clipper ship, the bridges, the boat traffic.
    Carter had no boss except the people who hired him, and he kept his own hours. Sometimes he’d get up early—four a.m.—and, when the Fulton Fish Market was still operating, drive here. He’d wander past stalls, staring atthe tuna, the squid, the flounder, the crabs. It reminded him of seaports overseas.
    He was sorry the fish market had closed. Financial problems, he guessed. Or unions maybe.
    Carter had solved a lot of union problems in his day.
    His cell phone rang. He glanced down at caller ID.
    “Captain,” he said in a respectful voice.
    He listened carefully, then said, “Sure. I can do that.” He disconnected and placed a call overseas.
    Carter was glad he didn’t have to go anywhere for a few minutes. A small cargo ship was steaming up the East River and he enjoyed watching its progress.
    “ Oui ?” a voice answered from the other side of the world.
    Carter began a conversation, not even aware that he’d lapsed into French.

    Kitty awoke to a phone call.
    She picked it up. “Hello?”
    Peter Larkin’s voice said, “Kitty. How are you?”
    She’d seen plenty of pictures of him, but only met the man once, at the wedding. She remembered him clearly: tall, lean, with thinning hair. He resembled his brother only in facial structure.
    “Oh, Peter, this is so terrible.”
    “Are you doing okay?”
    “I suppose.” She cleared her throat. “I was just asleep, and I was dreaming about him. I woke up and for a minute I was fine. Then I remembered what had happened. It’s so terrible. How are you ?”
    “I can’t even think. We didn’t sleep on the plane . . . .”
    They commiserated for a few minutes more, then Peter explained they were at the airport and their luggage had just arrived. He and his wife would be in the town house in an hour or two. His daughter, a college student at Yale,