The Steel Kiss

When Rhyme didn’t respond to Archer’s persistence, her lips tightened. “But,” she said breezily, “if you’re not interested, that’s fine. We can take a rain check.” There was an edge to her voice, and this solidified his decision. He hardly needed attitude. He was doing her a favor taking her on as an intern.

“It is best, I’m afraid.”

Randy said, “I’ll get the car, bring it around. Really, Jule. And wait at the top of the ramp.” Turning to Rhyme: “Thanks,” he said, nodding effusively. “Appreciate all you’re doing for her.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’ll see you out,” Thom said.

“Mel, get back to work,” Rhyme grumbled.

The tech climbed into the scaffolding once more. The camera flashes resumed.

Archer said, “See you in class next week, Lincoln.”

“You can come back, of course. Intern here. Just a different time.”

“Sure,” she said flatly. And wheeled into the hallway with Thom. A moment later Rhyme heard the door close. He wheeled to the video screen and watched Archer, in defiance of her brother, tool easily down the ramp and park on the sidewalk. She looked back and up at the town house.

Rhyme wheeled back to the computer monitor, on which were displayed the pictures Amelia Sachs had taken. He studied them for a few minutes.

Then exhaled a long sigh.

“Thom! Thom! I’m calling you! Where the hell are you?”

“About eight feet away, Lincoln. And, no, I haven’t gone deaf recently. What are you so politely requesting?”

“Get her back in here.”

“Who?”

“That woman who was just here. Ten seconds ago. Who else would I be talking about? I want her back. Now.”

* * *

Ron Pulaski was on a sidewalk that was cracked into trapezoids and triangles of concrete rising like bergs in an ice floe. The chain link he stood beside was topped with razor wire and was grafitti’d, defaced with letters and symbols more cryptic than usual because the tagger’s canvas was mesh. Who would deface chain link? he wondered. Maybe all the good brick walls and concrete abutments were taken.

Listening to his voice mail.

Amelia Sachs wanted him. He’d snuck away from their war room in One PP, believing that she’d follow up on the White Castle lead and return to Manhattan in a few hours. But apparently she’d found something to move the case forward. He listened to the message again. Decided she didn’t need him immediately. Not like there was an emergency. She wanted him to aid in a canvass of an area where Unsub 40 had been spotted a few days ago and to which he returned from time to time. Maybe he lived there, maybe shopped.

Pulaski didn’t want to talk to her. He texted. Lying was easier when your thumbs, not your voice, communicated. He’d get there as soon as he could, he said. He was out of the office briefly.

Nothing more than that.

His message, though, when he thought about it, wasn’t exactly lying. He wasn’t in the office and as soon as his business was completed he’d join her for the canvass. Still, when he was on the street, patrolling, his approach was: Failure to disclose is deception too.

Phone duty finished, the young officer was back to being vigilant. Extremely so. He was in the 33, after all, and so he had to be.

Pulaski had just hit the sidewalk from the transit complex of Broadway Junction and was walking along Van Sinderen Avenue. This part of Brooklyn was a mess. Not particularly filthy, no more so than other parts of the city, just chaotic. Canarsie and Jamaica trains rattling overheard. The IND underground. Autos and trucks aplenty, edging past, honking, cutting in and out. Hordes of people on the sidewalks. Bicycles.

The officer stood out—his race was represented by about 2 percent of the residents here, where Ocean Hill, Brownsville and Bed-Stuy merged. Nobody hassled him, nobody seemed even to notice him, everyone being on their own missions, which in New York City always seemed urgent. Or they were focused on their mobiles or conversations with their friends. As in most ’hoods, the majority, vast majority, of locals just wanted to get to and from work, hang with people they knew in bars or coffeehouses or restaurants, go shopping, take walks with the kids and dogs, get home.

But that didn’t mean he could ignore those here who might take more than a casual interest and wonder why this scrubbed white boy with a suburban haircut and a baby-smooth face was sauntering down the broken pavement in a hard, black and brown part of town. The 33, as in the last digits of its ZIP code, was statistically the most dangerous part of New York City.

After Amelia Sachs had left One PP, Pulaski had given it a few minutes and then lost his NYPD uniform and dressed down. Jeans, running shoes, combat-green T-shirt and black leather jacket, shabby. Head down, he’d left headquarters. He’d hit a nearby ATM, cringing mentally as he saw the bills flip out into his hands. Am I really fucking doing this? he thought, using a modifier that would only rarely, and in extreme situations, escape his rosy lips.