The Steel Kiss

There was a pause. Then: Can I say? I liked seeing Rose. I wasn’t sure she believed me. About my brother. What really happened.”

“No, we talked later. She believed you.”

“From what you said before, I thought she’d look sicker. She was pretty good.”

“There are women who won’t go out of the house without quote putting their face on. That’s her healthy complexion. Maybelline.”

Nick sipped the beer. “You believe me, don’t you?”

Sachs cocked her head.

“About Donnie and everything. You never said.”

Sachs gave him a smile. “I wouldn’t’ve given you the file if I didn’t. I wouldn’t be here now.”

“Thank you.” Nick looked down at the carpet, which was worn in a particular configuration that she attributed to heels of the shoes worn by a heavy person’s outstretched legs. She remembered when they would sit on the couch—yes, this very couch—it had a slipcover on it back then, but she could tell from the shape that it was the same. He put the carton of artifacts away. “How’s the case coming? The guy screwing around with the appliances? Which is pretty sick, by the way.”

“The case? Slow. He’s smart, this perp.” She sighed. “These controllers—they’re in everything now. Our Computer Crimes contact said there’ll be twenty-five billion embedded products in a few years.”

“Embedded?”

“Smart controllers. Stoves, refrigerators, boilers, alarm systems, home monitors, medical equipment. All of them, with Wi-Fi or Bluetooth computers in them. He can hack into a pacemaker and shut it off.”

“Jesus.”

“You saw what happened with the escalator.”

“I’m taking stairs now.” Nick wasn’t making a joke, it seemed. He added, “I saw a thing in the paper about what he’s doing. And how these companies should fix their servers or something. In the cloud. To keep him out. Not all of them’re doing it. You see that?”

She laughed. “I’m responsible.”

“What?”

“Well, I wasn’t playing journalist. I tipped a reporter off. There’s a security patch that’ll make it impossible for the unsub to hack into the controllers. But not everybody’s installing it, looks like.”

“I didn’t see a press conference from One PP.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly share I was doing it. Going through channels would’ve taken too long.”

“Some things in policing never change.”

She lifted her wineglass to that.

“Domestic terrorism? That’s his agenda?”

“The way it’s looking. Ted Kaczynski sort.”

After a moment, Nick asked, “How is he doing?”

“Who?”

“Your friend. Lincoln Rhyme.”

“Healthy as can be expected. There are always risks.” She told him about some of them, including potentially fatal dysreflexia, the rapid spike in blood pressure that can lead to stroke, brain damage and death. “But he takes good care of himself. He exercises—”

“What? How can he do that?”

“It’s called FES. Functional electrical stimulation. Electrodes in the muscles… ”

“Fifty Shades of Grey…  Oh, hell, sorry. That was way out of line.” He seemed to be blushing, not a typical feat for Nick Carelli.

Sachs smiled. “Lincoln doesn’t have pop culture on his compass much but if he knew what the book is, or the movie, he’d laugh and say, Hell yes. He’s got a sense of humor about his condition.”

“Hard for you?”

“Me? Yep. I didn’t read the book but I saw the movie with a girlfriend. It was pretty bad.”

Nick laughed.

She chose not to speak any more about Rhyme and herself. Sachs rose and poured more wine, sipped, feeling the warmth around her face. She looked at her mobile: 9 p.m. “What’ve you found?” Nodding at the case file.

“Some good leads. Solid. Still a lot of work to do. Funny, it’s just as hard to prove you’re innocent as it is to make a case against a perp. I thought it’d be easier.”

“You’re being careful?”

“Got my buddy, the one I told you about, to do most of the legwork. I’m bulletproof.”

What was said about him when he’d been on the force. Sachs remembered Nick being not only a good cop but a risk taker. Anything to save a victim.

They were a lot alike in that way.

“You want… ” he began.

“What?”

“Some dinner? You eaten already?”

She shrugged. “I could use something.”

“Only problem. I didn’t get to Whole Foods.”

“You ever shop at Whole Foods?”

“Once. I felt the need to spend eight dollars for a fruit salad.”

She laughed.

He continued, “I’ve got frozen curry in the freezer. D’Agostino’s. It’s not bad.”

“No, but I’ll bet it’d be better if we heat it up.” And she poured herself another glass of wine.

* * *

What is that noise?

The sixty-six-year-old soon-to-retire printing press operator was in the hallway of his apartment building, a decades-old, work-a-day dwelling typical of this unglamorous part of New York City. He was walking unsteadily after a drink or two at Sadie’s. Nearly midnight. He’d been thinking that Joey, from the bar, was a dick, the politics and all, but at least he didn’t insult you, you said I’m voting this way or that. It’d been fun to argue with him.

But his recollection of the evening, and its four drinks or five, faded as he slowed to a stop and listened to the sound coming from the apartment he was now walking past.