The Steel Kiss

A tightening of her lips. Another matter: Her daughter was wrong, wrong, wrong to have any contact with Nick at all. Rose had seen his eyes. He wanted them to get back together, clear as day. Rose wondered what Lincoln knew about it. Rose’s advice would have been for Amie to drop Nick instantly, even if the mayor himself gave him a big, fat blue ribbon saying Pardon.

But such was the nature of children. You bore them, shaped them as best you could and then turned them out into the world—bundles that contained all your gold stars and all your cinders.

Amie would do the right thing.

Rose hoped.

Continuing toward the breaker box. She noticed the window next to it was quite clean, for a change. Maybe the gardener had washed it. She’d have to thank him when he came next week.

Rose passed some old boxes labeled A’s High School. Rose laughed softly, remembering those crazy years, Amie spending her free hours on car repair and fielding modeling jobs for some of the top agencies in Manhattan (remembered how one time the seventeen-year-old girl had had to wear black polish at a fashion shoot not because the scene involved gothic chic but because it had proven impossible to dig out the General Motors grease out from under her nails).

Rose decided she’d take one of the boxes upstairs. What fun to look through it. They could do that together. Maybe tonight, after dinner.

And began to slide boxes out of the way to clear a path to the breaker box.

CHAPTER 44

Sitting on a doorstep, in overalls and cap, I’m a workman taking a workman’s break. Newspaper and coffee at hand, lingering before I have to get back to the job.

And glancing through the basement window of Mrs. Rose Sachs’s town house in idyllic Brooklyn. Ah, there she is, coming into view.

It’s worked well, my plan. The other day, staking out Red’s town house, just six blocks away, I’d spotted an elderly woman stepping from the police girl’s doorway and locking the dead bolt. A clear resemblance. Aunt or mother. So I followed her here. A little touch of Google…  and the relationship became clear.

Hi, Mom…

Red needs to be stopped and needs to be taught a lesson. Killing this woman will do the trick nicely.

Rose, a lovely name.

Soon to be a dry, dead flower.

I would have liked to use one of my trusted controller exploits again but the other day I scanned diligently and found no embedded circuits begging to be let into the network or shooting data heavenward. But, as I know from woodworking, sometimes you must improvise. Brazilian rosewood, short supply? So go with Indian. Not as rich. Not as voluptuously purple. Cuts differently. Smooths differently. But you make do.

And occasionally the pram, the dresser, the gingham-dressed bed works out better than you’d planned.

So. Let’s see now if my improv here works out. It really was quite simple. I rigged a circuit from a garage door opener to short out a light in Rose’s living room. A few minutes ago I pressed the opener button on the remote, which popped the breaker. And Rose started downstairs to find the box and reset it.

Normally she’d have an easy job of simply flicking the switch back into the on position.

Let there be light…

Except that won’t happen. Because I diverted the main line from the incoming wire to the circuit breaker box itself. The metal door is, in effect, a live wire, carrying 220 volts and many wonderful heart-stopping amps. Even if she’s inclined to do the wise thing, the safe thing and cut off the main power before resetting the breaker, she’ll still have to open the door to do that.

And zap.

Now she’s feet away from the breaker box. Then, unfortunately, she moves out of view.

But it’s clear where she is. And she’ll be reaching for the handle now…

Yes!

Anticlimactic. But I see it’s worked perfectly.

When she completed the circuit with her body the main line shorted out, extinguishing all the electricity to the house—the upstairs and basement and front door lights went dark.

I imagine I heard a growling buzz but that would have to be in my mind’s ear. I’m too far away for that.

Goodbye, Rose.

Rising and hurrying away.

A block down this pleasant street I hear sirens. Getting louder. Curious. Are they coming here? Could it be they’re en route to me?

Has Red figured something out? That I was about to visit the wrath of Edison upon Momma?

No, impossible. It’s just a coincidence.

I can’t help but be delighted with the handiwork. Have you learned your lesson, Detective Red? I am not someone to bully.

* * *

What a day, what a day.

He was so looking forward to getting home.