The Midnight Lock

The "master of ticking-bomb suspense" Jeffery Deaver brings us a mash-up that will thrill new readers and old fans alike: His beloved protagonists Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs team up with "reward seeker" Colter Shaw as they search for a killer whose fascination with breaking locks terrorizes New York City.

When a woman arrives home to her Manhattan apartment to find that her personal items have been rearranged while she slept, police initially dismiss her complaint. Nothing was stolen, and there's no sign of breaking and entering. But when the same woman turns up dead, Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs are brought in to investigate the murder. The soon learn that the murderer calls himself "the Locksmith." He is obsessed with locks, slipping into homes in the dead of night and tying his victims up with knots or locks, ultimately strangling them.

Their hunt for the killer 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 is removed from the case, and must investigate the Locksmith in secret--with the help of Sachs and their new ally, Colter Shaw. The three work to untangle the mysteries behind the psychotic killer before he can set his ultimate trap.

“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

Autorentext

Jeffery Deaver

Klappentext

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

When a woman arrives home to her Manhattan apartment to find that her personal items have been rearranged while she slept, police initially dismiss her complaint. Nothing was stolen, and there's no sign of breaking and entering. But when the same woman turns up dead, Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs are brought in to investigate the murder. The soon learn that the murderer calls himself "the Locksmith." He is obsessed with locks, slipping into homes in the dead of night and tying his victims up with knots or locks, ultimately strangling them.

Their hunt for the killer 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 is removed from the case, and must investigate the Locksmith in secret to untangle the mysteries behind the psychotic killer before he can set his ultimate trap.

Zusammenfassung
The "master of ticking-bomb suspense" Jeffery Deaver brings us a mash-up that will thrill new readers and old fans alike: His beloved protagonists Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs team up with "reward seeker" Colter Shaw as they search for a killer whose fascination with breaking locks terrorizes New York City.

When a woman arrives home to her Manhattan apartment to find that her personal items have been rearranged while she slept, police initially dismiss her complaint. Nothing was stolen, and there's no sign of breaking and entering. But when the same woman turns up dead, Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs are brought in to investigate the murder. The soon learn that the murderer calls himself "the Locksmith." He is obsessed with locks, slipping into homes in the dead of night and tying his victims up with knots or locks, ultimately strangling them.

Their hunt for the killer 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 is removed from the case, and must investigate the Locksmith in secret--with the help of Sachs and their new ally, Colter Shaw. The three work to untangle the mysteries behind the psychotic killer before he can set his ultimate trap.

Leseprobe
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…