The Steel Kiss

“She went to see the widow and found out she’s in a pretty bad way. Had the idea to hook her up with a lawyer. That’s how it all ended up in our laps.”

“So, the access panel pops up—yes, I see it’s on a spring. Must be heavy. The vic gets dragged underneath and then falls onto the motor and gears.”

“Right. The teeth on the front edge of the panel cut him too. That’s all the blood on the walls in the pictures.”

“I see.”

“Now I want you to get inside, poke around, find out how the damn thing works. How the access panel at the top opens, switches, levers, hinges, safety mechanisms. Everything. Get pictures. And we’ll try to piece together what happened.”

Cooper looked around. “The place hasn’t changed much since you resigned.”

“Then you know where the camera equipment’s located,” Rhyme said, his voice taut with impatience.

The tech chuckled. “And you haven’t changed much either.” He went to the shelves on a back wall of the parlor and selected a camera and flashlight with a headband. “Coal miner’s son,” he joked, mounting it on his forehead.

“Shoot away. Go!”

Cooper climbed up inside the mockup. Silent flashes began to flare.

The doorbell sounded.

Who could this be? The stiff attorney, Evers Whitmore, was back in his office talking to friends and family of Greg Frommer. He was trying to marshal evidence to prove that, although presently underemployed, Frommer would have gone back to being a successful marketing manager in the near future, allowing the damage claim to be much higher than one based on his recent income.

Was the visitor one of his doctors? Rhyme’s quadriplegic condition necessitated regular exams by neuro specialists, as well as physical therapists, but he had no sessions scheduled.

He wheeled to the closed-circuit security camera screen to see who it might be.

Oh, hell.

Rhyme typically was irritated when people arrived unannounced (or announced, for that matter).

But today the dismay was far more intense than usual.

* * *

“Yes, yes,” the man was assuring Amelia Sachs, “I know who you’re talking about. Quiet guy.”

She was speaking to the manager of the Queens White Castle hamburger joint in Astoria.

“Very tall, very skinny. White. Pale.”

The manager was, in contrast, an olive-skinned man, with a round, cheerful face. They were at the front window. He had been cleaning it himself, seeming proud of the establishment in his care. The smell of Windex was strong, as was the aroma of onions. Appealing too, the latter. Sachs’s last meal was supper yesterday.

“Do you have a name?”

“I don’t, no. But… ” He looked up. “Char?”

A counterwoman in her twenties looked over. If she ate the restaurant’s specialty, she did so in moderation. The slim woman finished an order and joined the two.

Sachs identified herself and, protocol, showed the shield. The woman’s eyes shone. She was tickled to be part of a CSI moment.

“Charlotte works a lot of shifts. She’s our anchor.”

A blush.

“Mr. Rodriguez thought you might know a tall man who comes in some,” Sachs said. “Tall, very thin. He might have worn a green checkered or plaid jacket. A baseball cap.”

“Sure. I remember him!”

“Do you know his name?”

“No, just, he’s hard to miss.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Well, like you said. Thin. Skinny. And he eats a lot. Ten, fifteen sandwiches.”

Sandwiches…  Burgers.

“But he could be buying them for other people, couldn’t he?”

“No, no, no! He eats them here. Most of the time. There’s this word my mother says about eating, scarfs them down. And two milk shakes. So skinny but he eats like that! Sometimes a milk shake and a soda. How long have you been a detective?”

“A few years.”

“That’s so neat!”

“Was he ever with anyone?”

“Not that I saw.”

“He comes here often?”

“Maybe once a week, every two weeks.”

“Any impression that he lives around here?” Sachs asked. “Anything he might’ve said?”

“No. Never said anything to me. Just ordered, always kept his head down. Wears a hat.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll bet he was afraid of security cameras! Do you think?”

“Possibly. Could you describe him, his face?”

“Never paid any attention, really. Long face, kind of pale, like he didn’t get out much. No beard or mustache, I think.”

“Any idea where he was coming from or where he might be going?”

Charlotte tried. But nothing came to mind. “Sorry.” She was nearly cringing that she couldn’t answer the question.

“A car?”

Again, a defeat. “Well, I don’t…  Wait. No, probably not. He turns away from the parking lot when he leaves, I think.”

“So you watched him go.”

“You’d kind of want to look at him, you know? Not that he’s a freak or anything. Just, so skinny. Eating all that and so skinny. Totally unfair. We have to work at it, right?”

The two women present, Sachs supposed she meant. A smile.

“Every time? He went that way every time he left?”

“I guess. Pretty sure.”

“Did he carry anything?”

“Oh, a couple of times he had a bag, plastic bag. I think once, yeah, he put it on the counter and it was heavy. Kind of clanked. Like metal.”

“What color bag?”

“White.”

“No idea what was inside?”