The Steel Kiss

Amelia Sachs had finished walking the grid at Alicia Morgan’s apartment, which had revealed few, if any, clues as to Vernon Griffith’s whereabouts, and she was in a reflective mood, thinking—of all things—about the nature of evil.

So many different faces.

Alicia Morgan was one manifestation. Lincoln Rhyme had called and told her what happened at the town house, how Alicia was mastermind of the product liability killings. That her motive was revenge for a terrible injustice seemed to put the evil she’d perpetrated in a different category from that of, say, a serial rapist or a terrorist.

Then there was yet another evil: Those in the stream of commerce who had decided not to correct a vehicle that they knew might injure or kill. Perhaps greed or perhaps the layers of corporate structure shielded them from conscience, the way an exoskeleton protects the liquid heart of a beetle. And maybe the car and fuel injector executives had truly hoped, or even prayed in their spotless churches on Sunday, that the worst would not come to pass and the passengers who drove about in their gadgety and sleek ticking-time-bomb cars would live long, unhurt lives.

Then there was Vernon Griffith, seduced—literally—by a woman who had preyed on his insecurities.

And what is the worst evil? Amelia Sachs asked herself.

She was sitting on a couch at the moment, leaning back against the well-worn leather. Thinking now: Where are you, Vernon? Hiding out a mile away? Ten thousand?

If anyone could determine his whereabouts it would be herself, Rhyme and Cooper. Oh, and Juliette Archer too. The intern. She was good for a newbie. Her mind was quick and she displayed a detachment that was so like Rhyme’s. And so necessary to this odd world of forensic analysis. Rhyme had been good before his accident, Sachs was sure, though she hadn’t known him then, but she believed that his condition had allowed him truly to soar as a criminalist. Juliette would excel in the field if the surgery she was facing in a few months rendered her a quad, which seemed likely, Rhyme had explained.

You two make a good team…

She looked around this apartment. The place seemed washed out; there were no lights on and the overcast illumination from the street filtered in. This was one interesting aspect of city life—so little direct sunlight. It bled into your home or office, bouncing off windows and walls and signs and storefronts and other façades. For only two or three hours a day were most city spaces illuminated by actual sun, apart from the blessed rich, dwelling at lofty heights. Sachs had imagined a phrase some time ago: Living in reflected light. this seemed to describe the urban experience.

My, aren’t we thoughtful today?

Wonder why…

Just then from the front door came a jangle of keys. One click, then another. In suburbia or rural America one can get away with a single lock. In cities, New York at least, a knob lock and dead bolt are the minimum.

A faint squeak sounded as the door pushed inward. And Sachs drew her Glock smoothly and aimed it, steady, on her target’s chest.

“Amelia.” A shocked whisper.

“Drop the bag, Nick. And get on the floor, facedown. I don’t want either hand out of my sight for one second. Do you understand me?”

CHAPTER 56

Two Pulaskis sat in a deli in Greenwich Village, not far from the 6th Precinct.

The 6 was Tony Pulaski’s house and the twin brothers came here pretty frequently.

He and Ron were nursing coffee in thick cups. Thick so that if they got banged up, which happened a lot and loudly in the dive of an eating establishment, they wouldn’t chip so much.

Ron’s, however, was missing a heart-shaped chunk from the lip. He minded the sharp edge with every sip.

“So,” Tony was saying, “just to get this straight. You’re running an unauthorized undercover op, using your own buy money, though you’re not buying, or if you are you flush the evidence right after. You have no Major Cases or ESU backup. Is that about it?”

“Pretty much. Oh, and it’s in the worst part of New York. Statistically.”

“Good to add that to the mix,” Tony said.

People would turn their eyes onto the brothers occasionally. They were used to it, being identical twins. Similar uniforms. Tony had a few more decorations. He was older.

By seven minutes.

Amelia Sachs had told Ron to have somebody watching his back when he went in for the meeting with the drug czar Oden, in his quest to find out what the man’s connection was with Baxter and about this new drug Catch. And the only person Pulaski could think of was Tony.

“You’re doing this for Lincoln, then?”