The Steel Kiss

Across the room was a boy of about twelve, flanked by a man and two women in their fifties, Sachs estimated. The boy’s round, freckled face was red from crying and his hair tousled badly. She wondered if he’d been lying in bed, paralyzed at the news of his father’s death, before family arrived.

“Yes, hello?”

Sachs turned. The slim blond woman was very pale of face, a stark and unsettling contrast with the bold red of her lids and the skin around her eyes. Adding to the eeriness were her striking green irises. Her sundress, in dark blue, was wrinkled and though her shoes were close in style they were from different pairs.

“I’m Amelia Sachs, with the police department.”

No shield display. No need.

Sachs asked if they could have a word in private.

Odd how much easier it was to level your Glock at a stoned perp leveling his at you forty paces away, or downshift from fourth to second while turning at fifty, the tachometer redlined, to make sure some son of a bitch didn’t get away.

Steel yourself. You can do this.

Sandy Frommer directed Sachs toward the back of the house and they walked through the living room into a tiny den that, she saw once they entered, was the boy’s room—the superhero posters and comics, the jeans and sweats in piles, the disheveled bed were evidence of that.

Sachs closed the door. Sandy remained standing and regarded the visitor warily.

“I happened to be on the scene when your husband died. I was with him.”

“Oh. My.” Her look of disorientation swelled momentarily. She focused on Sachs again. “A policeman came to the door to tell me. A nice man. He wasn’t at the mall when it happened. Somebody had called him. He was from the local precinct. An Asian man? Officer, I mean.”

Sachs shook her head.

“It was bad, wasn’t it?”

“It was, yes.” She couldn’t deflate what had happened. The story had already made the news. The accounts were sanitized but Sandy would eventually see medical reports and would learn exactly what Greg Frommer went through in his last minutes on earth. “But I just wanted you to know I was with him. I held his hand and he prayed. And he asked me to come see you and tell you he loved you and your son.”

As if suddenly on a vital mission, Sandy walked to her son’s desk, on which sat an old-model desktop computer. Beside it were two cans of soda, one crushed. A bag of chips, flattened. Barbecue. She picked up the cans and set them in the trash. “I was supposed to renew my driver’s license. I only have two days. I didn’t get around to it. I work for a maid service. We’re busy all the time. My license expires in two days.”

So, her birthday soon.

“Is there someone here who could help you get to DMV?”

Sandy found another artifact—an iced tea bottle. It was empty and that too went into the trash. “You didn’t have to come. Some people wouldn’t have.” Every word seemed to hurt her. “Thank you.” The otherworldly eyes turned to Sachs briefly then dropped to the floor. She tossed the sweats into the laundry. She reached into her jean pocket and withdrew a tissue, dabbed her nose. Sachs noted that the jeans were Armani, but were quite faded and worn—and not in the factory-washed way of new garments (Sachs, former fashion model, had little regard for such useless trends). They’d either been bought secondhand or, Sachs’s guess, dated to an earlier, and more comfortable, era in the family’s life.

This might have been the case; she noted a framed picture on the boy’s desk—the young man and his father a few years ago standing beside a private plane. Before them was fishing gear. Canadian or Alaskan mountains crested in the distance. Another, of the family in box seats at what seemed to be the Indie 500.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, Officer. Or Detective? Or—?”

“Amelia.”

“Amelia. That’s a nice name.”

“Is your son coping?”

“Bryan…  I don’t know how he’ll do. He’s angry now, I think. Or numb. We’re both numb.”

“How old? Twelve?”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s been a tough few years. And that’s a hard age.” A tremble of lip. And then a harsh: “Who’s responsible for it? How could something like that happen?”

“I don’t know. It will be investigated by the city. They do a good job.”

“We put our faith in things like that. Elevators, buildings, planes, subways! Whoever makes them has to make them safe. How can we know if they’re dangerous? We have to rely!”

Sachs touched her shoulder, pressed. Wondering if the woman was going to dissolve into tears. But Sandy regained composure quickly. “Thank you for coming to tell me that. A lot of people wouldn’t.” It seemed she’d forgotten she’d said this earlier.

“Again. If you need anything.” Sachs placed one of her cards in her hand. They didn’t teach this at the academy and, in truth, she didn’t know what she could do to help the woman. Sachs was running on instinct.

The card disappeared into the jeans that had originally cost three figures.

“I’ll be going now.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you again.”

Sandy picked up her son’s dirty dishes and preceded Sachs out of the doorway.