The Steel Kiss

A pause. “Well, that is somewhat problematic, Mr. Rhyme. For one thing I didn’t work on the suit so I don’t have any source material. Besides, you don’t have room. Or the time to read everything. There were hundreds of cases revolving around the defect, and they went on for years. There have to be ten million documents, I would estimate. Perhaps more. May I ask why—”

“We think our killer—the one using the DataWise controllers as a murder weapon—was targeting people with connections to U.S. Auto.”

“My. Yes, I see. He was injured in one of the accidents because of the fuel system failure?”

“He’s at large, and I was hoping there might be something in the case files that’ll give us a clue where he’s gone.”

“I’ll tell you what I can do, Mr. Rhyme. I’ll have my paralegal send over whatever I can find in the legal press and I’ll get as many of the publicly filed pleadings and discovery documents as I can. And you should check popular reports too. This story, naturally, made the news.”

“I need them ASAP.”

“I’ll make sure it’s done right away, Mr. Rhyme.”

CHAPTER 52

Rhyme and Archer were both online reading about the U.S. Auto case as quickly as they could.

Whitmore had been right. There were more than twelve million hits on Google.

A half hour later the emails from Whitmore started arriving. They divided up the court pleadings and supporting documents and began reading these, as well as the popular press accounts of the case. There were, as Whitmore had mentioned, scores of plaintiffs, those injured in accidents and the relatives of those killed when the cars were engulfed in flames because of the defective fuel system. In addition, the incidents spawned more than a hundred business-related lawsuits for lost revenue by the manufacturers and component parts makers. The more troubling accounts—in the sometimes lurid popular media and in the chilly, clinic court documents—were those of lives shattered. He read testimony about horrific pain from burns and collisions after the gas lines ruptures, scanned accident scene pictures of scorched and shattered bodies and photos of dozens of plaintiffs who’d been injured. Some were hospital pictures of their burns and lacerations. Some were of them stoically marching into and from courthouses. He reviewed them carefully, looking for Griffith’s name or likeness, on the chance that he’d been a victim or related to one.

“Any references to a Griffith?” he called to Archer. “I’m not seeing anything yet.”

“Nothing,” Archer replied. “But I’ve read fifty pages out of looks like a hundred thousand.”

“I’m doing a global search for the name. Nothing yet.”

She said, “That works within a document but I don’t know how to search in unopened ones.”

“Maybe Rodney has a program,” he said. Before he could call the computer expert, though, the doorbell buzzed. Rhyme glanced at the monitor. A woman wearing a nondescript rumpled brown jacket and jeans stood at the front door. She also had a bandage on her face.

“Yes?” he called.

“Is this Lincoln Rhymes? With the NYPD?”

Rhyme had no nameplate on the door; why make it easier for your enemies? He didn’t bother to correct the woman. “Who is this?”

“Alicia Morgan. A police officer, Amelia Sachs, asked me to come by and give a statement. About Vernon Griffith?”

Excellent. “Sure. Come on in.”

He commanded the door to unlock and a moment later he heard footsteps approaching. They paused.

“Hello?”

“We’re in here. To the left.”

The woman walked into the parlor and did a double take, seeing two people in elaborate wheelchairs…  and scientific equipment worthy of a university research lab. She was petite, attractive, and had short blond hair. Sunglasses partially covered the bruise that peeked from underneath thick bandages. She removed the glasses and Rhyme studied her damaged face.

“I’m Lincoln Rhyme. This is Juliette Archer.”

“Well, hello.”

Archer said, “Thanks for coming by.”

Rhyme’s eyes strayed back to the computer, on which he could see several of the accounts of the cases against U.S. Auto and the fuel injector supplier. He continued to scroll through them.

“How are you?” Archer asked as she too was scanning the woman’s injuries.

“Not too serious.” The woman focused on the room, obviously curious about the wheelchair-bound pair. “Hairline fracture, cheekbone. Concussion.”

Rhyme paused the documents on his monitor and turned to Alicia. “You and Vernon dated?”