The Steel Kiss

Arnie said, “That doesn’t always cut the connection.” He unplugged it and added, “People do it just to mess with you. Sometimes if there’s a video monitor they do screenshots of the kids or videos and post them online.”

“What kind of sick fuck’d do that?”

“I don’t know what kind. I just know how many. A lot of them.”

Arnie asked, “You want me to call the police?”

“I’ll take care of that,” Ginnie said. “Just leave please.”

Henry said, “Honey, really.” Glancing at his friends.

“Now,” she snapped.

“Sure. Really sorry,” Carole said. She embraced Ginnie with what seemed to be true concern.

“And,” Arnie offered, “don’t worry about the wineglass.”

After they were gone, Ginnie took the knife once more and, carrying still-snoozing Trudy, checked every room, Henry with her. Yes, all the windows were locked. There could have been no physical intrusion.

Back in their bedroom, Ginnie sat on the bed, wiped tears and fiercely cradled her daughter. She glanced up and saw her husband dial three numbers on his mobile.

“No.” She half rose and took it from him. Hit disconnect.

“What’re you doing?” he snapped.

She said, “It’s going to ring in a minute. Nine one one’ll call back. You tell them you hit it by mistake.”

“The fuck would I do that for?”

“If I talk to them, a woman, they’ll think it’s a domestic and might send somebody anyway. You have to tell them it was a mistake.”

“Are you crazy?” Henry raged. “We want them to send somebody. We got hacked. That asshole fucked up our evening.”

“The police are not going to hear that we left our daughter alone to go drink some overpriced liquor with two idiots just because you want a new client. Do you really think that’s a good idea, Henry?”

The phone rang. No caller ID number. She handed the unit to him. Glared into his eyes.

He sighed. And hit accept call. “Hello?” he answered pleasantly. “Oh, I’m really sorry. Nine one one is first on my speed dial, I hit it by mistake, calling my mother. She’s number two…  Yes, it’s Henry Sutter… ” He gave the address, apparently in response to another question. “I’m really sorry…  Appreciate your following up like this, though. Good night.”

Ginnie walked into Trudy’s nursery and, one-handed, pulled the crib after her into the guest room. “I’ll sleep here tonight.”

“I think we should—”

She closed the door.

Ginnie tucked her daughter into the crib, nearly—but not quite—smiling that the girl had managed to sleep through the excitement. She pulled off the thousand-dollar dress and angrily flung it into the corner of the room. Then she climbed into bed without moisturizing her face or brushing her teeth. She shut out the light, knowing that that, unlike for her daughter, sleep would be a long time in coming tonight. If at all.

But that was okay. She had lots to think about. Most important, what she would say to the lawyer tomorrow, the one she’d talked to a couple of times about the possibility of divorce. Until tonight she’d waffled. Tomorrow she would be telling him to proceed as quickly and as relentlessly and brutally as he could.

CHAPTER 38

Unprofessional, I guess.

But sometimes you do things for yourself. Because you have to.

I’m walking away from the Upper East Side coffee shop, near Henry and Virginia Sutter’s apartment, where I’ve been sitting for the past half hour. I was across the street. It was some building, I’ll tell you. Can’t imagine living in a place like that. Wouldn’t want to, probably. Beautiful people live there. I wouldn’t be welcome.

Doing things for yourself.

It was all pretty easy, visiting vengeance on the Shopper. I’d simply followed Henry home from the Starbucks in Times Square where we’d collided that afternoon.

You’d spilled this on me, it would’ve cost you big time, you Walking Dead asshole. This shirt cost more’n you make in a month. I’m a lawyer…

Once I found his address, I cross-referenced deeds with DMV pictures. And got his ID. Mr. Henry Sutter. Married to Virginia. I was stymied briefly—data mining records didn’t show they own anything with a CIR DataWise5000 inside. But then I peeked at Facebook. Henry and Ginnie, her preferred nic, had actually posted pictures of two-year-old Trudy? Fools…  but good for me. Babies in the city equal baby monitors. And, yep, a simple scan of the house revealed the IP address and a brand name. I executed a handshake exploit with the network then ran Pass Breaker on my tablet and in no time at all, I was in. Listening to Trudy’s soft breath and coming up with a script for my conversation with the young ’un that was sure to destroy Mom’s and Dad’s peace of mind for the immediate future.

(Opens up a world of possibilities. After all, I’m not wedded to the DataWise5000 idea. Other options are good too.)