The Steel Kiss

The bag contained a small painting, wrapped in gold gift paper. It was a landscape, no, a cityscape it was called, since it showed the Brooklyn Bridge with the early-morning sun making the metal glow and casting shadows toward Manhattan. The artwork, which he’d found in a small gallery on Henry Street, was similar to a painting Amelia had liked when they’d been together. It had been in a Manhattan gallery and they’d discovered it on a cold Sunday after brunch. That one, on the pure-white wall of the pretentious space (SoHo; enough said), was expensive as shit. No way could he afford it. He’d thought about blustering his way into the gallery around closing time, flashing his shield and claiming he had to take it into evidence on suspicion of its being stolen. It would then “disappear” from the evidence room, and it’d be sorry, sorry, to the gallery owner. But Nick couldn’t figure out a way to make it work.

Well, the one in his gym bag was just as nice. Better, actually. Bigger and the colors were brighter.

She’d love it. Yeah, Nick was feeling good.

Whistling…

Jon Perone had left a message that he was getting Nick’s money together, writing up the fake loan documents. Nick would look them over carefully. He had to make sure the deal appeared legitimate, so that anyone close to him—well, mostly his parole office and Amelia—would believe he came by the cash legitimately. He’d convince them. And he knew Ame would accept it. He knew this because he’d seen in her eyes that she wanted to accept it.

Then Vittorio, the restaurant owner, would accept the offer, because Perone and his minder Ralph Seville, the suspender guy, would make sure he did. He’d get the place up and going—red paint, better uniforms—secure a liquor license waiver and rename the joint Carelli’s Café. Nick would slip into legitimacy. His past buried. No one the wiser.

As for his quest to prove his innocence, Nick would just let it peter out. Tell Amelia and her mother and their friends that the leads had dried up, that one witness from back then was dead, that another had Alzheimer’s and couldn’t remember anything. He’d get a long face and look sad that the search wasn’t working. Hell, and I tried so hard…

Ame would take his hand and say it was all right. She knew in her heart he was innocent—and she’d already been hearing the word on the street, thanks to Perone, that Nick hadn’t been guilty after all. He felt bad lying to her—making up that crap about Delgado, who couldn’t have run a ’jacking operation if his life depended on it—but some sacrifices had to be made.

A half block later he thought of Freddy Caruthers again.

Ralph Seville, Perone’s minder, had called Nick and told him that Freddy’s corpse was in Newtown Creek, wrapped in chain link and decorated with thirty-pound barbells. Nick supposed Seville knew what he was doing but he’d picked a hell of a resting place for Freddy. That body of water, separating Brooklyn and Queens, was one of the most polluted in the country and had been the site of the infamous Greenpoint oil spill, worse than that from the Exxon Valdez.

Well, now, shit. A real shame about Freddy. The guilt prodded. And the man a father too.

Twins’re boys. The four- and five-year-old’re girls…

That hurt.

But sorry. There had to be some casualties. Nick was owed. What had happened to him had been so unfair—a little hijacking, a little pistol-whipping (the driver of the tractor-trailer he’d hit had been a complete asshole) and the system had come down on him with both feet, when he’d done pretty much what everybody did. The whole fucking world got away with all kinds of shit. And what was he rewarded with? Years and years of his life stolen.

I’m owed…

Nick waited for a light and then crossed the street. He felt the gym bag, with the cityscape inside, pressing lightly on his back, like a loving arm. He was picturing Amelia, her fashion model’s face, her straight red hair, full lips. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Remembering her asleep the other night, fingers in a partial fist, breathing shallow and soft.

He turned onto his block and as he did he thought of someone else: Lincoln Rhyme.

Nick had nothing but respect for the man. Hell, if Rhyme’d been running the ’jacking case on the bridge, Nick and the crews he fenced to would’ve been busted months before—and the charges would’ve been a lot worse. You couldn’t help but admire a mind like that.

And Rhyme cared for Amelia. That was good.

Sure, it’d be tough to take her away from him. But, of course, Nick took solace in the fact that she really couldn’t love him. How could you love somebody who was…  well, like that. She was with him out of sympathy, had to be, and that was a good thing. Rhyme would have to know that. He’d get over it.

Maybe in the future they could all be friends.

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