The Steel Kiss

In five minutes they were sprinting along the sidewalk, motioning bystanders to leave the area. With a screw-end lock pop, one officer opened the front door of the building in a single deft pull and Sachs and the other three streamed inside. Through the lobby and corridor to Griffith’s unit.

With hand signals, Sachs stopped the team fast. She pointed to the video camera above the suspect’s door. All four officers moved back, out of view of the lens.

On the radio: “Team B, in position in alley. It’s clear.”

“Roger,” said the Team A leader, a lean, dark-complected man whose name was Heller. He was beside Sachs. “He’s got a camera above the door. We’ll have to go in fast.” The conversation occurred in whispers and was delivered through state-of-the-art headsets and microphones.

Normally they’d move silently up on their rubber-soled boots, then the breaching officer would wait while one cop slid a tiny camera on a cable under the door. But now—with the perp’s surveillance of them a possibility—they’d have to race to the door and move in fast.

Heller pointed to Sachs and to the right. Then to another officer and aimed a thumb to left. Then to himself and moved his hand up and down, like a priest offering a blessing. Meaning he’d take the center.

Sachs, breathing hard, nodded.

The breacher lifted the battering ram—a four-foot piece of iron—from his canvas bag. And at a nod from Heller, all four ran to Griffith’s apartment. The breaching officer slammed the metal hard into the knob and lock plate, and the door crashed inward. He stepped back and unslung his H&K.

The three other officers stepped inside, Sachs and the other flank officer spreading out, sweeping their weapons around the sparsely furnished room.

“Kitchen clear!”

“Living room clear!”

The left bedroom door was partially open. Heller and the other officer moved forward, Sachs covering. They entered the small room. Heller called, “Left bedroom, clear.”

They returned and approached the closed door of the front bedroom, which had both a number-pad lock and a dead bolt.

Heller said, “S and S report. The front bedroom’s sealed. We’re about to enter. Any sign of life? K.”

“Still can’t tell, sir. Too well shielded.”

“K.”

Heller regarded the number lock knob. There would be no element of surprise now, after their noisy entry, so Heller pounded on the door and said, “NYPD. Is anyone in there?”

Nothing.

Again.

Then he motioned over to the officer with a stalk camera. He tried to jimmy it under the door but the gap was too small; the device wouldn’t fit.

This doorway was narrower. Only one officer could go in at a time. Heller pointed to himself and held up a single finger. To Sachs, two. The other officer, three. Then he motioned the breacher forward. The burly cop arrived with his ram and they got ready for the final stage of the entry.

CHAPTER 48

Weird. I had just been writing in my diary:

The worst day.

That had been in the past, that day. But now, today, was just as bad.

Not worst, no. Because I haven’t been arrested, haven’t been shot to death by Red and the Shoppers.

But pretty fucking bad. I’ve known the People’s Guardian couldn’t go on forever. But I thought I could slip away from the city and remain anonymous. Get on with my life. Now they have my name.

I’m wheeling two suitcases, a backpack holding my most important worldly possessions. Some of my miniatures. The diary. Some photos. Clothes (my size, hard to find). My hammer, my wonderful Japanese razor saw. A few other things.

Lucky, lucky.

Just a half hour ago. Was back home, Chelsea, thinking of my next visit to a Shopper, planning to scald, when I got, imagine this, a call.

“Vernon, listen.” The crackly-voiced kid from Crafts 4 Everyone.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him. Because something was wrong.

“Listen. The police were just here.”

“Police?”

“Asking about things you bought. They found some notes with your name on them. I didn’t say anything.”

The kid was lying. There was no reason there’d be any notes with my name on them. He sold me out.

“They didn’t find your last name. But.”

But, yeah.

“Thanks.” I hung up and began to pack. Had to leave fast. The kid at the crafts store would die and painfully. He was a Shopper, after all. I’d thought he was a friend. But there’s no time to worry about that now.

I finished packing, rigged some surprises for Red and the Shoppers who’d be there soon enough.

Now, head down, slumping to hide the sack-of-bones height, I’m heading downtown with two big suitcases like a tourist from Finland who’s just arrived at the Port Authority and needs a hostel room. Appropriately I find such a place now, well, a cheap hotel, not hostel, and I step inside. Inquire about rates and, when the desk clerk steps away I go to the bell captain and check my bags, telling him my flight’s not till this evening. He cares about the five dollars more than the explanation, and I leave again, carrying only my backpack.