The Steel Kiss

Archer noted a slip of paper in a clear plastic envelope. “This could be another potential victim. In Scarsdale.”

The upscale suburb north of New York City was undoubtedly filled with many high-end products equipped with DataWise5000 controllers and owned by the rich consumers that Vernon Griffith despised.

Archer was reading from the note, “ ‘Henderson Comfort-Zone Deluxe water heater.’ ”

And Rhyme cross-referenced the list of products that had DataWise controllers inside; yes, the water heater was one of them.

“Who lives there?”

“No indication from the note. Just have the address at this point. Griffith’s been ID’d so I doubt he’ll go for another attack but, on the other hand, he’s pretty fanatical. So who knows?” Rhyme asked Sachs to call Westchester County and have troopers stake out the house.

“And find out who lives there, Sachs.”

She did so, searching records and DMV. A moment later she had the answer. William Mayer, a hedge fund manager. He was a friend of the governor and there were a few articles about him that hinted at political aspirations.

Archer said, “Water heater? What was he going to do, do you think? Turn the heat up and scald somebody to death in the shower? Todd Williams blogged about something like that, remember? Or maybe build up the pressure and close a valve, so that when somebody goes down to see what’s wrong, it blows up? Gallons of two-hundred-degree water? Jesus.”

She wheeled closer and looked over the half-dozen plastic bags of miniatures. Furniture, baby carriages, a clock, a Victorian house. They were very well made.

Rhyme too studied them. “He’s very good. Let’s see if he took classes anywhere.”

Sachs had thought of this, it seemed. “I’ve got a body at One PP checking out Griffith’s bio in depth. They might turn up a workshop or two he went to. School he studied at recently.” Then Sachs was frowning. She picked up a small toy. “Something familiar about this. What is it?”

Rhyme squinted at the toy. “Looks like a caisson. A wagon artillery soldiers tow along with the cannon. Holds the shells. The song, that line: ‘And the caissons go rolling along.’ ”

Sachs studied it closely. Rhyme said nothing more. He let her thoughts play out on their own. Archer, too, he noted, held back any questions he suspected she had about the train of Sachs’s thought.

Finally Sachs, still studying the caisson, said, “It’s connected to a case. The past couple of months.”

“But not Unsub Forty?”

“No.” It seemed that a thought hovered. And flitted away. A hiss of breath at the frustration. “Might’ve been one of mine, might’ve been another in Major Cases and I saw the file. I’ll check.” In a gloved hand she lifted the delicate creation out of the plastic bag and set it on an examination sheet. With her phone she took a picture and sent it off. “I’ll have somebody in Queens look through the logs of evidence collected in the past few months, see if anything shows up. Let’s hope they do better with that than our missing White Castle napkins.”

She rebagged the toy. “Okay, you two keep going here. I’ll get to Alicia’s now. And the warehouse where he killed Boyle. Walk the grid.” Then she was out the door. A moment later the powerful chug of her Ford’s engine resonated along Central Park West. He believed it shook one of the large plate-glass windows in the parlor. A falcon looked up from its nest on the window ledge, peeved at the sound, which seemed to have disturbed the fledglings.

Rhyme turned once more to the miniatures. He thought: Why would somebody so talented, who could make such beautiful things, who had such skill, turn to homicide?

Archer too, close to Rhyme, was looking over Vernon Griffith’s creations. “So much work. So fastidious.” Silence between them momentarily. She continued her examination, eyes on a tiny chair. Absently Archer said, “I used to knit.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. After a beat: “Sweaters, things like that?”

“Some. More art, hangings. Like tapestries.”

Rhyme was glancing at the photos of Griffith’s apartment. “Landscapes?” he asked.

“No, abstract.”

He observed a softening of her facial muscles. Wistfulness, sadness. He fought to find something to say. He finally settled on: “You could do photography. Everything’s digital now anyway. Just pressing buttons. Or voice-commanding buttons. Half the young people out there are as sedentary as we are.”

“Photography. It’s a thought. I might.”

A moment later Rhyme said, “But you won’t.”

“No,” she said with a smile. “Like if I have to give up drinking I won’t switch to fake wine or beer. I’ll take up tea and cranberry juice. All or nothing. But it’ll be the best tea or cranberry juice I can find.” A pause and she asked, “You ever get impatient?”

He laughed, a sound that contained his stating-the-obvious grunt.

She continued, “It’s like…  tell me if this is what’s it’s like: You don’t move, so your body isn’t bleeding off the tension, and it seeps up into your mind.”

“That’s exactly what it’s like.”

“What do you do?” she asked.