The Steel Kiss

Edwin Boyle stopped walking and leaned closer to the door.

TV.

Had to be TV.

But, even with the new sets, the new sound systems, TV sounded different from this. It wasn’t the same. Live was live. And this was live.

Besides, on TV and in movies, the sound of a couple making love was either short and sweet (and usually there was music) or it went on and on and on, like in porn.

This was the real thing.

Boyle was grinning. Fun.

He didn’t know the guy whose apartment this was, not very well. Seemed decent, if quiet. Wasn’t the sort to hang out at Sadie’s and get into talks about politics or anything else. Had that same kind of quiet you saw in private eyes. At least in the movies. The printer had never known a private eye.

Now the woman was whispering something. The rhythm was faster.

The man was saying something too.

And Boyle was wondering: If he made a recording who could he send it to?

Well, of course Dirty Old Tommy on the board cutter. Ginger in Accounting—she was always talking about sex and flirting. Jose in Receivables.

Boyle pulled out his phone and edged close to his neighbor’s door, then recorded the show. Smiling to himself.

Who else would appreciate it?

Well, he’d think about it. But he sure wouldn’t send the recording to anyone tonight—not after a few hours at Sadie’s. He might end up sending it to his ex or his son by mistake. Tomorrow, at work.

Finally his neighbor and whoever his squeeze was sped up and it was over with—a long sigh, which might’ve been him or might’ve been her or might’ve been his imagination.

Boyle shut the recorder of his iPhone off and slipped it away. Staggered up the hall to his apartment. He tried to remember the last time he’d been laid, and couldn’t—that’s what seven or eight drinks did to you—but he was sure it was sometime during the previous administration.

SATURDAY V CHECK…

CHAPTER 39

Eight a.m.

Amelia Sachs yawned. She was tired, and her head was throbbing. She’d had, to put it mildly, a restless night. No. Turbulent.

She had left Nick’s apartment an hour before and was now in the war room at One PP, where for the second time in a few days, she was reviewing the file of a case that was not on her docket.

First, it had been Nick’s.

And now this, a much smaller file, unrelated to his situation.

The hour was early but she’d read it three times already since she’d downloaded it from the archives not long ago. Looking for some positive nuggets that might explain what she suspected. Finding none.

She looked out the window.

Back to the file, which wasn’t cooperating in the least.

No gold nuggets. No salvation.

Goddamn it.

A figure appeared in the doorway.

“Got your message,” Ron Pulaski said. “Got down here as soon as I could.”

“Ron.”

Pulaski walked inside. “Empty. Different.” He was glancing around the war room. The evidence charts were in the corner but they were incomplete, now that the two cases—Sachs’s and Rhyme’s—were in fact just one and this facility was no longer part of the Unsub 40 operation.

Pulaski looked uneasy. Sometimes he was uncertain—mostly because of the head injury. It had robbed him of confidence and, yes, a little cognitive skill, which he more than made up for in persistence and street instinct. After all, the solutions to most crimes were pretty obvious; police work was built on sweat more than Holmesian deduction. But today? Sachs knew what the issue was.

“Sit down, Ron.”

“Sure, Amelia.” He gazed at the file open on the table in front of her. He sat.

She turned the folder around and pushed it forward.

“What’s this?” the young blond officer asked.

“Read it. The last paragraph.”

He scanned the words. “Oh.”

She said, “The Gutiérrez case was closed six months ago. Because Enrico Gutiérrez died of a drug overdose. If you’re going to lie, Ron, couldn’t you at least have checked the facts?”

* * *

The phone woke him.

Humming, not ringing or trilling or playing music.

Just humming as it sat on his JCPenney bedside table. The dream helped, having kept him near waking; inside, he had dreams about being out; outside he dreamed about his cell. So sleep was watchful, busy as water spiraling down a drain.

“Hello? Uhm, hello?”

“Yes, hi. Is this Nick?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Who’s this?”

“Vito. Vittorio Gera. The restaurant.”

“Oh, sure.”

Nick swung his feet around, sat up. Rubbed his eyes.

“I wake you?” Gera asked again.

“Yeah, you did. But that’s okay. I’ve gotta get up anyway.”

“Ha, honest. Most people woulda said no. But you can always tell, right? They sound groggy.”

“Do I sound groggy?”

“Sort of. Listen, speaking of, you know, being honest. I’ll get right to it, Nick. I’m not going to sell the restaurant to you.”

“You had a better offer? I can work on that. What’re we talking?”

“It’s not the money, Nick. I just don’t want to sell to you. I’m sorry.”

“The record?”

“What?”

“Me being in jail.”