The Steel Kiss

At first they hadn’t known how to handle it—other than telling Rose to get out. But the woman still wasn’t picking up the phone. And the neighbor Sachs had called wasn’t home. They’d been trying to guess exactly what the perp had done to attack Rose, when Juliette Archer had blurted, “We have to do what Amelia did with that saw in the Theater District. Cut the power. The grid! Just cut the entire grid for her block.”

Rhyme had ordered Lon to do just that.

And they’d been in time—but barely. The respondings found that the unsub had sabotaged the circuit breaker box, which Rose had been reaching for at the instant the grid went down. The power was back on in the neighborhood now—Sachs didn’t want to think of the complaints, lost computer data and communications. But they’d have to deal with it; her mother was alive.

“I’m sorry this happened, Mom.”

“Why would he want to hurt me?”

“To get to me. I’m the one. It’s become like a chess game between us. Move for move. He must’ve thought we wouldn’t consider you’d be a target. Now one of these officers is going to take you to my house and stay with you. I’ve got to run the scene here, in the basement, where he broke in. Maybe he was in the rest of the house too. Will you be okay without me for a while?”

Rose took her daughter’s hands. The woman’s fingers were not, Sachs noticed, trembling in the least. “Of course, I’ll be fine. Now get going. Catch that son of a bitch.”

Drawing smiles from both Sachs and one of the patrol officers present. Daughter embraced mother, and Sachs walked outside to see her into a squad car and await the arrival of the CSU bus.

* * *

Back in the Toy Room now. For the comfort of it. Working on the Warren skiff for my brother.

I’m making it of teak, a difficult wood. Therefore it’s more challenging. Therefore the end result will make me particularly proud.

The news is on and I’ve learned that I did not in fact incinerate Red’s mother. I know this not because she was mentioned but because of the story that the electric grid in that part of Brooklyn went down briefly. Of course Red the Shopper did that. She or her police friend figured out what I was going to do and pulled the plug.

Smart. Oh, they are so very smart.

The other story, being reported to death (I call TV news Humpty Dumpty; every report is “breaking”), was about a string of serious car accidents, surely a co-inkydink—one of my brother’s favorite words—that had nothing to do with the grid glitch; the accidents weren’t related to the stoplights going out. No, the carnage was thanks exclusively to moi and the lovely DataWise5000s.

I’m surprised no clever reporters have brought up everybody’s favorite target: the smart controller.

I wasn’t sure my escape plan would work. I’d never tried hacking a car. Todd taught me how but it wasn’t helpful for my mission at the time. I’d thought the cloud system in vehicles was used just for diagnostics—or you lose your key and need to start it, you call an 800 number the car company provides and tell them what happened, give them a code. They can start your car and disable the steering wheel lock. But, oh, no, you can do all sorts of wonderful things. Cruise control, brakes.

The problem was that I had no way of knowing which cars in Brooklyn had a DataWise. Maybe a lot, maybe few.

Few, it turned out. Walking quickly away from Rose’s town house, hearing sirens, I decided they might signal visitors coming just for me. So I began running the automotive controller software. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

Until finally: From about a block away from where I was I heard the huge roar of an auto engine revving high followed ten seconds later by a massive crunch.

Traffic began backing up immediately.

Wonderful. I’m actually smiling.

A few blocks farther along I heard another hit—literally! It turned out to be a lovely rear-ender. I stopped a car mid-block. One Japanese import versus one cement truck. Guess who won?

A quarter mile east, one more.

Nothing for a few minutes but finally another car on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. A stretch limo, I later learned.

So. A nice new trick I’ve learned. A shame Red drives such an antique car. Would be fitting for her to break her bones in an auto crash. Well, there’ll be other options for my friend.

Now, peering through the loupe, I examine the Warren skiff. The boat is done. I wrap it carefully. And set it aside. Then I turn back to the diary—working up the courage to transcribe a passage that has been radiating pain the way a loose tooth does.

I click on the recorder, then hesitate and begin to transcribe.