More Twisted

from a barbershop trash bin), another fleck of rubber peeled off a running shoe she later discarded, more of the sand and dirt she’d scraped up from a marina in LA.
    Priscilla recited: Find the target, look for guards, check the backdrop, possible security systems, especially cameras. Aim, squeeze, count your rounds.
    Climbing the stairs, she was aware of the musty smell of an apartment not much used, but the place was very elegant nonetheless. Both Peter’s and Ron’s fortunes were obscene. Billions. Thinking that this much money was controlled by just two individuals reignited some of her latent political views about inequality in the distribution of wealth, despite their charitable efforts. Still, Priscilla Endicott couldn’t very well take the high moral ground any longer; she herself was a wealthy woman now—and it was her craft of killing that had made her one.
    Reaching into her purse, Priscilla lifted her gun, clicked the safety off.
    She walked inside the living room quickly, the gun behind her back.
    “Hello?”
    She stopped fast, staring at the empty room.
    Had she gotten the wrong room? she wondered.
    The TV was on. The stereo too. But not a single human being was here.
    Oh, no . . .
    She turned to flee.
    Which is when the tactical team—five officers—pushed from the two side doorways, shoving their weapons toward her, shouting, screaming, grabbing. In less than a second the .32 was out of her hands and she was on the floor, with her wrists cuffed behind her.

    Lincoln Rhyme surveyed the town house from the sidewalk.
    “Pretty nice place,” Amelia Sachs said.
    “Seems okay.” Architecture, like décor, didn’t mean a lot to him.
    Lon Sellitto glanced up at the tall building too. “Jesus. I knew they were rich, but really.” He was standing with the lieutenant from Emergency Services, the man who’d directed the takedown.
    A moment later the door opened and the woman who’d been hired to kill Ron Larkin, his brother and sister-in-law was escorted out, cuffed. Given her ruthlessness and ingenuity, Rhyme and Sellitto had ordered her feet shackled too.
    The officers accompanying her paused, and the criminalist looked her over.
    “ Miranda ?” Rhyme asked one of the tactical cops.
    He nodded.
    But the killer didn’t seem to care about having her lawyer present when she spoke. She leaned toward Rhyme and whispered harshly, “How? How the hell did you do it?”
    Locard’s Principle, the criminalist thought. But his answer to her was: “The fiber. The coir fiber made me suspicious right away.”
    She shook her head.
    Rhyme explained, “Amelia found it on the balcony. I remembered seeing the Larkin Energy logo on the doormat in front of the town house when Amelia got there to search the scene. And I remembered that coir fibers are used in making rugs and mats. She checked later and found out the fiber did come from the same mat.
    “Now, how did the fiber get from the doormat to the balcony? It couldn’t’ve been when you and Ron arrived at the house together last night. You said you hadn’t been on the balcony. And obviously you hadn’t been there for a long time—otherwise you would’ve watered the houseplants. Same for any caretakers. The mysterious killer? Would he have wiped his feet on the doormat on a busy street then walked around to the back of the building, climbed the rope to the balcony? Didn’t make sense. So,” he repeated dramatically, “how did the fiber get there?
    “I’ll tell you, Kitty: You picked it up from the mat on your shoe when you got in from the airport. And you left it on the balcony early this morning when you stepped outside to kill Ron.”
    She blinked, shaking her head no, but Rhyme could see from the dismay in her face that the words struck close to home. She’d thought of almost everything. But as Locard might’ve said, Almost isn’t good enough when it comes to evidence.
    “Then the other clues on the balcony? The steroid, the rubber, the lint, sand and dirt with the diesel traces, thehairs. I suspected they were planted by you to support your story of the bodybuilding hit man. But proving it was something else. So I—”
    It was then that Kitty, or whatever her name was, stiffened. “God, no. It’s him! He’s going to—”
    Rhyme swiveled around in the chair to see a green Jeep Cherokee pull up and double-park next to them. Climbing out was a solidly built man with a crew cut, wearing a conservative suit. He snapped closed a cell