The Steel Kiss

“It’s something. A good start. I’ll just have to do a little more detective work.”

“Hell, you were a detective. Piece of cake.”

“Thanks, Freddy. Man, I owe you. Big.” A faint smile.

Freddy touched his forehead, a half salute, then headed west, to the shore, where he’d pitch the gun into the Narrows. A few minutes later Nick found a gypsy cab; they were more plentiful in the outer boroughs since medallion cabs were harder to find. He settled into the seat and inhaled deeply. Then his phone hummed and he panicked, thinking the detective from the restaurant was following up and wanted him to come downtown. But he looked at caller ID.

Felt a thud in his gut all right. Though a different sort than the kind he’d just experienced.

He answered.

“Amelia. Hi.”

CHAPTER 36

Rhyme and Archer sat in their chairs before the evidence boards. They were alone.

The speculation, the guesswork, the suppositions had gone on for several hours—several extremely unproductive hours—before the team called it quits for the night. Pulaski and Cooper were gone. Sachs was in the hallway making a phone call. Her voice was low and he wondered whom she was speaking to. Her face looked grave. The shooting incident at the mall seemed resolved largely in her favor. What else could it be?

She ended her call and walked back into the parlor, offering nothing about the conversation. She didn’t remove her Glock—again she’d be staying in Brooklyn. Sachs pulled her jacket off a hook.

“Better go.”

She glanced at Archer then back to Rhyme and seemed about to say something.

Rhyme cocked an eyebrow. The equivalent of a taciturn man, which he was, saying, “Talk to me. What is it?”

A moment of debate within Sachs. Then she balked, snagged her purse, slung it over her shoulder and nodded farewell. “I’ll be back early.”

“See you then.”

“ ‘Night, Amelia,” Archer said.

“ ‘Night.”

Sachs strode into the hallway and Rhyme heard the front door as it opened and closed.

He turned back toward Archer. Had she fallen asleep? Her eyes were closed. Then they opened.

She said, “Frustrating.”

Looking at the board. “Yes. Loose ends. Too many of them. This riddle’s not that easy.”

“You figured it out? Ours?”

“The letter ‘e.’ ”

“You didn’t cheat? No, you wouldn’t. You’re a scientist. The process is the most important part of solving a problem. The answer’s almost secondary.”

This was true.

She added, “But I’m not speaking of the case. The frustration in general.”

The life of the disabled, she meant. And she was right. Everything takes longer, people treat you like pets or children, there’s so much in life that’s not accessible—in all senses, more than just second floors and restrooms: love, friendship, careers you otherwise would have been perfect for. The list goes on and on.

He’d noted her struggling with the phone not long before, trying to call her brother for a ride back to his apartment. The unit was on speaker but not recognizing her commands. She’d given up and used the controller with her right hand, angrily entering the digits. Her Celtic bracelet jangling with each number. Her jaw had been trembling by the time she got through.

“You fall into a rhythm,” he said. “And you learn, you plan ahead, you take the route where you minimize frustrations. You don’t need to make unnecessary challenges for yourself. Most stores are accessible but you learn which ones have narrow aisles and protruding endcaps and you avoid them. Things like that.”

“A lot to learn,” she said. Then seemed uncomfortable with the topic. She said, “Oh, Lincoln. You play chess.”

“I did. Haven’t for a long time. How did you know?” He didn’t own a physical chess set. When he played, he did so online.

“You’ve got Vukovic’s book.”

Art of Attack. He glanced at the bookshelf. It was at the far end, where the personal, not forensic, books were kept. He himself couldn’t read the spine from here. But he recalled that eyesight—and fingernails—were among her God-given strengths.

She said, “When we were together, my ex and I played quite a bit. We did bullet chess. It’s a form of speed chess. Each player has a total of two minutes to make a move.”

“Per move?”

“No, the entire game, first move to last.”

Well, she was an aficionado of an esoteric form of chess as well as being a riddle-mistress. Not to mention well on her way to being a damn good criminalist. Rhyme could not have asked for a more interesting intern.

He said, “I never played that. I like some time to strategize.” He missed the game. There was no one to play with. Thom had no time. Sachs had no patience.

Archer continued. “We also played a limited-move variant. Our goal was to win in twenty-five moves or fewer. If we didn’t, we both lost. Say, if you’d like to play sometime…  I don’t know anybody who’s really into it.”

“Maybe. Sometime.” He was looking at the evidence charts.

“My brother won’t be here for fifteen minutes or so.”

“I heard that.”