The Steel Kiss

Ron Pulaski, apparently on hiatus from the Gutiérrez case, had said, “I don’t think the Puritans’ve pushed through legislation about late opening times for hardware stores on the holy day, Lincoln. Salespeople probably just want to sleep in one day of the week.”

“Well, they shouldn’t do it when I. Need. Answers.”

But then Sachs got a call from one of the officers on the canvass. She sat slightly more upright as she listened. “I’ll put you on speaker.”

A click. “Yes, hello? Jim Cavanaugh. Major Cases Support.”

“Officer,” Rhyme said, “this is Lincoln Rhyme.”

“Detective Sachs told me you’re working the case. An honor, sir.”

“Okay, sure. Well, what do you have?”

“A store on Staten Island.”

So, not Queens. Archer gave Rhyme a wry smile.

With two question marks…

“The manager said a man fitting the description of the unsub comes in two days ago, wanted a garage door opener that would work at a distance of about thirty-five feet, maybe more. Also bought glass, glazing compound, electricians’ tape and some wire. All matching the products you mentioned.”

Here’s hoping…  Rhyme asked, “Credit card?”

“Cash.”

Of course.

“Did the manager know anything about him? Name, where he lives?”

“Not that, but he did find out a few things, Captain.”

“ ‘Lincoln’ is fine. Go on.”

“The unsub saw some tools the store had for sale and asked about them. They were specialized ones. Like the kind used for crafts.”

Sachs asked, “Crafts? What sort of crafts?”

“Hobbies. Model airplanes, things like that. Razor knives and saws and very small sanders. He bought a set of miniature clamps. He’d been looking for ones like them. The store he usually shops at didn’t have them in stock.”

“Good. I like ‘usually.’ That means he’s a regular. Did he mention the name?”

“No. Just said it was in Brooklyn.”

Rhyme shouted, “Somebody find me all the crafts stores in Brooklyn. Now!”

“Thanks, Officer.” Sachs disconnected the call.

A moment later a map was on the biggest of the monitors. There were sixteen crafts stores indicated in the borough of Brooklyn.

“Which one?” Rhyme muttered.

Sachs leaned forward, her hand on the back of his chair. She pointed. “That one.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s one subway stop away from the MTA station near the White Castle in Queens, where he always went for lunch after shopping.”

* * *

Crafts 4 Everyone didn’t quite live up to its name.

No yarn, no floral art foam, no finger paints.

But if you wanted to build model ships or spacecraft or doll house furniture this was your emporium.

Fragrant with the smell of paint and wood and cleansers, the shop featured jam-packed shelves filled with supplies and tools. More Dremel power tools and balsa wood than Amelia Sachs had ever seen in one place. A lot of Star Wars characters, creatures and vehicles. Star Trek too.

She showed her gold shield to the young man behind the counter, good looking, more like an athlete than a, well, clerk in a nerd store.

“Yes?” His voice did, however, crack.

She explained she was trying to find someone for questioning in connection with a series of crimes. She described the unsub, asked if anyone had recently bought mahogany, walnut, Bond-Strong and Braden Rich-Cote varnish. Craft tools too.

“He’d be smart,” Sachs said. “Well spoken.” Thinking of the unsub’s attempts to obscure his intelligence in his rants against consumerism.

“Well, you know,” the clerk said, swallowed and continued, “there is somebody. But he’s quiet, polite. I can’t imagine he’d do anything wrong.”

“What’s his name?”

“I just know his first name. Vernon.”

“He fits the description?”

“Tall and thin, yeah. Kind of weird.”

“Any credit card receipts?”

“He always pays cash.”

She then asked, “You have any idea where he lives?”

“Manhattan, I think in Chelsea. He mentioned that once.”

“How often does he come in?”

“Every couple of weeks.”

“No phone number he left for special orders?”

“No, sorry…  Now you’re asking me, he always seemed kind of paranoid, you know. Like he didn’t want to give away too much.”

She handed him a card and asked him to call her if this Vernon returned. No more 911 intermediaries. She walked around a father and son poring over a carve-your-own-Jedi display and left the store. Sachs dropped into the front passenger seat of the unmarked car that had accompanied her here. The detective from the local precinct, an attractive Latina, asked, “Success?”

“Yes, and no. The perp’s name is Vernon. No other name yet. I want you to stay here on the chance he comes back. The kid—the clerk—was so nervous all Vernon would have to do was look at him and the killer would know something was up.”

“Sure, Amelia.”