{"product_id":"the-midnight-lock-isbn-9780525536017","title":"The Midnight Lock","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe \"master of ticking-bomb suspense\" (\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e) 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.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 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.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Midnight Lock\u003c\/i\u003e 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.“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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “The dialogue and plotting are as sharp as ever in \u003ci\u003eThe Midnight Lock\u003c\/i\u003e …If the burglar’s break-in feats often resemble magic, so do some of Deaver’s tricks.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Sunday Times of London\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “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.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJeffery Deaver\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 international bestselling author of more than forty novels, three collections of short stories, and a nonfiction law book. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into 25 languages. His first novel featuring Lincoln Rhyme\u003ci\u003e, The Bone Collector\u003c\/i\u003e, was made into a major motion picture starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. He's received or been shortlisted for a number of awards around the world, including Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers and the Steel Dagger from the Crime Writers' Association in the United Kingdom. In 2014, he was the recipient of three lifetime achievement awards. A former journalist, folksinger, and attorney, he was born outside of Chicago and has a bachelor of journalism degree from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSomething wasn't right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnnabelle Talese, though, couldn't quite figure out what that might be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBig wine pours too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs she lay on her side, she brushed the tickling, thick blond hair away from her eyes and wondered: What's wrong with this picture?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell, 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?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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 \u003ci\u003eHamilton\u003c\/i\u003e T-shirt down, twisted it straight. Adjusted her silk boxers. Finger-combed her curls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe swung her feet over the edge of the bed, feeling for her slippers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey weren't where she'd kicked them off last night before climbing under the blankets.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll right. What's going on?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTalese 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).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe \u003ci\u003enever\u003c\/i\u003e went barefoot in the apartment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of the slippers, though, the dress she'd worn yesterday, a frilly, floral number, lay spread out beneath her dangling feet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe front hem was drawn up, almost to the décolletage, as if the garment were flashing her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWait a minute . . . Talese had a memory-more hazy than distinct-of tossing the garment into the hamper before her nighttime routine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTalese 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe Draco, the bartender, always a flirt, had been a little more generous than usual.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas the drink count, possibly, 2.5 on the scale?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCareful, girl. You need to watch that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs always, upon waking, the phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe turned toward the bedside table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt wasn't there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJesus . . . What's going on?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No,\" Talese gasped, now spotting what was on the floor beside the chair: a plate with a half-eaten cookie on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer heart thrummed fast; her breath grew shallow. Somebody'd been in the apartment last night! They'd rearranged her clothes, eaten the cookie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot six feet away from her!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe phone, the phone . . . where's the goddamn phone?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTalese reached for the dress on the floor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen froze. Don't! He-she figured the intruder would have been male-had touched it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy God . . . She ran to her closet and pulled on jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, then stepped into the first pair of sneakers she found.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOut! Get out now! The neighbors, the police . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFighting 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe approached slowly, pulled it fully open and looked down. She gasped and finally the tears broke free.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn 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:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eReckoning.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e           -The Locksmith\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnnabelle Talese turned to sprint to the front door. She got about ten feet before she stopped fast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe'd noticed three things:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe third thing was that the two deadbolts on the door were turned to the locked position.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich meant-since the man who'd broken inside had no keys-he was still here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eChapter 2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe 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.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRhyme 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 something might have happened to damage the oath.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid the judge offer a faint smile? Rhyme couldn't see clearly. He was on the main floor of the courtroom, and the judge was considerably above and largely behind him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe testimonial oath in court had always struck Rhyme as an unnecessary mouthful, even with the \"so help you God\" snipped off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDo you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy did swearing have to be solemn? And once one affirmed the first \"truth,\" was there any point to the overkill? How about: \"Do you swear you won't lie? If you do, we'll arrest you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore efficient.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe now relented. \"I acknowledge that I'm under oath.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe trial was being conducted in New York Supreme Court-which, despite the name, was in fact a lower-level court in the state. The room was wood paneled and scuffed, the walls hung with pictures of jurists from over the years, going back, it seemed, to the days of Reconstruction. The proceeding itself, however, was pure twenty-first century. On the prosecution and defense tables were computers and tablets-the judge had a slim high-def monitor too. There was not a single law book in the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePresent were thirty or so spectators, most here to see the infamous defendant, though perhaps a few hoping to see Rhyme.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoughlin, whose age Rhyme figured to be about fifty, said, \"I'll get to the substance of my cross-examination.\" He flipped through notes. Maybe there were no books, but Rhyme noted easily a hundred pounds of foolscap between the defense and the prosecution tables.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Thank you, sir,\" said the judge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeing a criminalist, a forensic scientist aiding in criminal investigation, is only partly about the laboratory; the other aspect of the job is performing. The prosecutor needs an expert witness to present findings in an articulate way and to patiently and effectively parry the defense counsel's assault on your conclusions. On redirect, a good prosecutor can sometimes rehabilitate a witness battered by the defense, but it's best not to get into hard straits in the first place. Lincoln Rhyme was reclusive by nature, and loved his time in a laboratory above all, but he was not entirely introverted. Who doesn't enjoy a little grandstanding before the jury, and sparring with the defendant's attorney?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You testified on direct that no fingerprints of my client were left at the crime scene where Leon Murphy was murdered, correct?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No, I did not.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoughlin frowned, looking at a yellow pad that might have contained perceptive notes or might have contained doodles or a recipe for beef brisket. Rhyme happened to be hungry. It was ten a.m. and he'd missed breakfast.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoughlin glanced at his client. Viktor Antony Buryak, fifty-two. Dark-haired like his mouthpiece but bulkier, with Slavic features and pale skin. He wore a tailored charcoal gray suit and a burgundy vest. Buryak's face was oddly unthreatening. Rhyme could picture him serving up pancakes at a church basement fundraiser and remembering every parent by name and giving the kids an extra splash of syrup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Do you want me to read you back your testimony?\" Coughlin, who'd been hovering close to Rhyme, like a shark near chum, lifted a palm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No need. I remember it. I stated-under oath, I'll just reassure you-that of the fingerprints collected at the scene of Leon Murphy's murder, none could be identified as your client's.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What exactly is the difference?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You said I testified that your client \u003ci\u003eleft\u003c\/i\u003e no fingerprints at the scene. He might very well have left a million of them. The evidence collection team simply didn't recover any.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoughlin rolled his eyes. \"Move to strike.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJudge Williams told the jury, \"You'll disregard Mr. Rhyme's response. But try again, Mr. Coughlin.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLooking put out, Coughlin said, \"Mr. Rhyme, no fingerprints of my client were discovered at the crime scene where the convicted felon Leon Murphy was shot, correct?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I can't answer because I can't speak to whether the victim was a convicted felon or not.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoughlin sighed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe judge stirred.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRhyme said, \"I agree with your 'were discovered' part of that sentence.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoughlin and Buryak shared a look. The client was taking this better than his attorney. The lawyer returned to his table and glanced down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRhyme regarded the jury and found more than a few looking his way. They'd be curious about his condition. Some defense attorneys, he'd heard, privately complained about his presence, given that he was a quadriplegic, testifying from a wheelchair-which, they believed, generated sympathy for the prosecution.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut what could he do? Wheelchair bound he was. Criminalist he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRhyme's eyes circled to the defendant. Buryak was a unique figure in the history of organized crime in the region. He owned a number of businesses in the city, but that wasn't how he made most of his money. He offered a unique service in the underworld, one that had probably cost more lives than any other organized crime outfit in New York's exceedingly criminal history.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe People of the State of New York v. Viktor Buryak\u003c\/i\u003e, however, had nothing to do with that. This was about a single incident, a single crime, a single murder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLeon Murphy had been shot to death a week or so after a meeting with the manager of a warehouse that Buryak owned. Murphy was a psychotic wannabe gangbanger who fancied himself a descendant of the Westies, the brutal Irish gang that had once ruled Hell's Kitchen in Manhattan. Murphy had made a sales pitch offering protection to the warehouse manager.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA very bad business idea, selling that particular product to that particular consumer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoughlin asked, \"Did you find footprints near Leon Murphy's body? Or near where the bullet casing was found?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Near the body, the field was grassy, no footprints could be ascertained. Near the bullet casing, the evidence collection technicians found footprints but because of a recent rain it was impossible to determine the type of shoe.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So you can't testify that my client's footprints were found at the scene of the crime?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't you think that can be inferred from my prior comment?\" Rhyme asked acerbically. He'd learned that nobody cares about badgering attorneys. That's what they're paid for.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mr. Rhyme, does the NYPD forensics unit routinely collect DNA at crime scenes?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And did you discover any of my client's DNA at the scene where Leon Murphy was killed?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mr. Rhyme, you analyzed the bullet that killed Mr. Murphy, correct? That is, the lead slug?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And you analyzed the shell casing too?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's correct.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And, once more, what caliber was that?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nine-millimeter parabellum.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And you testified that the lands and grooves, that is the rifling of the barrel, suggest that the gun was a Glock seventeen.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A Glock definitely, a model seventeen most likely.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mr. Rhyme, did you or any investigators you were working with check firearms records in any state or federal databases with regard to my client?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And does or did he own a Glock, specifically a model seventeen?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I have no idea.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Explain, Mr. Rhyme.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He might own a dozen.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Your Honor,\" said Coughlin. He sounded slightly wounded that Rhyme was treating him so unfairly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWas Viktor Buryak on the verge of smiling?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mr. Rhyme.\" The judge was growing weary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"He asked if he owned a Glock, and I testified that I have no idea. Which I don't. I can testify that the record shows that, in New York State, he owns no legally registered Glocks.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eADA Sellars said, \"Your Honor, the defense is straying from Captain Rhyme's contribution to the case, which is not firearms purchase records. It relates solely to his expertise in physical evidence.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoughlin said, \"Let me lay this foundation, Your Honor. It will be clear in a moment where I'm going.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRhyme looked at his keen eyes and wondered what that destination might be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Proceed . . . for the moment.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Mr. Rhyme, to recap, could you confirm that my client's DNA was not found at either the site of the body or site of the shell casing?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Correct.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Or on the body or shell casing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's true.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And his footprints and fingerprints were not found at either place?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Correct.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And no fibers or hairs that could be traced to him were found there?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Correct.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"And state and federal records do not indicate that he owns or owned a Glock semiautomatic pistol?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Correct.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In fact the only forensic connection between the murder of Leon Murphy and my client is a few grains of sand on the ground where the victim was found.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Six,\" Rhyme countered. \"More than a few.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCoughlin smiled-it was directed at the jury. \"\u003ci\u003eSix\u003c\/i\u003e grains of sand.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Please explain again how that sand connects my client to the murder.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The sand was unusual in composition. It was made up of calcium sulfate dihydrate, with silicon dioxide, along with the presence of another substance, C12H24, about three quarters saturated hydrocarbons and one quarter aromatic hydrocarbons.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“About that other substance, as you call it. Could you translate for us, please?”","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301918167269,"sku":"NP9780525536017","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525536017.jpg?v=1767740503","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-midnight-lock-isbn-9780525536017","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}