The Steel Kiss

She blinked at his fury. His words stabbed like a blade. “We knew you’d be smart, switching cars in a garage or leading us off. The night I stayed here? I got a tracker app on your phone after you fell asleep. We followed you to Perone’s. I couldn’t get a warrant—we couldn’t hear what you and Perone said. But Seville told us you did ’jack the Algonquin truck near the Gowanus back then and you did pistol-whip the driver. Donnie had nothing to do with it. And the reason you wanted the case files: to get your money from whoever’d taken the ’jacked drugs.”

His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he reverted to pathetic. “I go back and I’m dead, Amelia. Either I’ll kill myself or somebody’ll do me.” His voice cracked.

She looked him over, head to knees. “I don’t want you to go back, Nick.”

Relief, like a hurt child collected in his mother’s arms.

“Thank you. You have to understand. What happened a few years ago. I didn’t want to do it. The ’jacking. You know, Mom was sick, Donnie was having problems. All that merch is insured. It wasn’t that big a deal. Really.”

Sachs’s phone buzzed. She regarded the screen, and sent a reply text. A moment later the front door opened and a tall, lean man, dark-skinned, walked inside. He was wearing a brown suit, yellow shirt and bold crimson tie. The colors may have clashed but the garb fit well.

“Well, lookie here. Lookie this. Caughtcha, din’t we?” He ran long fingers over his short salt-and-pepper hair.

Nick grimaced. “Shit.”

Fred Dellray, a senior FBI special agent, was known for several things. One, his love of philosophy, a subject in which he was somewhat famous in academic circles. Two, his outlandish fashion choices. Then there was his unusual vocabulary. Dellray-speak, it was called.

“So, Mr. Nick, you been doing some naughty oops stuff, considerin’ you’re still hot off the presses from prison.”

Nick remained silent.

Dellray turned a chair around and sat, the back between him and Nick, and looked him over, even more intensely than Sachs had done.

“A-melia?”

“Fred?”

“M’I allowed to push the plunger.”

“Do what you need.”

Dellray teepeed his fingers. “By the power vested in her, thanks to the great state of New York, Detective Sachs here will be arresting you for a large number o’ things. Many, many come to my mind, at least, hers too, I’ll betcha. Shhh, shhh, don’t make your mouth go that way, ’bout to form words. I’m speaking. She will be arresting you and then with the agreement of her boss and my boss, way high ups, you will be working for me, call me the great eagle of the federal government.”

“What’re you—”

“Shhh, shhh. You miss that part? You’ll be a CI for me, a con-fidential informant. And oh what a dangle you’ll be. Former cop, former con. The plan is you produce for us. Five years or so, doing just what you’re sposta—which’s what I tellya, and all’s happy, happy. Then off you go to house arrest, and pretty soon you’ll be free to become a Walmart greeter. If they hire former felons. Hm. Have to check that.”

Dellray, a former undercover agent, was now the foremost runner of informants in the Northeast.

“You want Perone.” Nick was nodding.

“Hell-o. But that boy’s suspendered minder, Seville, has burned him nice and toasty already. But he’s jus’ a starter, an appetizer, an aperitivo. We’ll go onward and upward from there. The world awaits. Now I wanta hear, all I wanta hear, is Yessir, I’m on board. I don’t, I’ll be squeezing some parts of your life you don’t want nail marks in. We all together on that?”

A sigh. A nod.

“Delighted. But… ” Dellray said, his dark face furiously screwed up. “Can’t hear you and more important, the micro-phones can’t hear you. Of which we got more than the sets o’ the Bachelor and Survivor combined. So?”

“I’ll do it. I agree.”

Sachs pulled out her mobile and called the detective, who was parked outside in an unmarked car. “Need transport down to Central Booking.” She looked at Nick and read him his rights. “Lawyer?”

“No.”

“Good call.”

The detective arrived in the doorway, a solid Latina whom Sachs had known for years. Rita Sanchez. The woman’s nodded to Sachs.

“Rita. Get him downtown. I’ll be there soon to handle the paperwork. Call the U.S. attorney too.”

The woman stared coolly at Nick. She knew the story of their relationship. “Sure, Amelia. I’ll handle it.” Her tone was saying: Jesus, I’m sorry, honey.

“Amelia!” Nick was pausing at the door, Sanchez and the uniform slowing. “I’m…  I’m sorry.”

What’s the worst evil?

She looked past him, to the detective, and nodded. Nick was led from the apartment.

“Whatsis?” Fred Dellray asked, nodding at the gym bag Nick had with him.