The Steel Kiss

She unbuttoned her jacket and, right hand lounging near her Glock, was looking around. This was an auto repair operation with a number of vehicles, from motorcycles to box trucks, all parked helter-skelter, many of them dismantled to varying degrees. The person who’d moved in close by, if a person it was and not a shadow or swirl of trash or dust, had slipped between two of the larger trucks, a bright-yellow Penske rental and a twenty-foot white van whose only logo was two massive breasts in spray paint, bold red.

Running the odds that Unsub 40 had been coming for his multi-burger lunch once more and had recognized her from the mall and begun to follow.

Not likely but not impossible either. She tapped her Glock and moved closer to the trucks. No further sign of the shadow. Sachs continued into the lot, weaving through the vehicular graveyard. The wind snapped her jacket tail up and down and fanned her hair dramatically. Bad shooting mode. She pulled a rubber band from her pocket and bound the strands into a ponytail. A look around once more. The only living things visible were seagulls and pigeons, a curious and bold rat. No, two. Were the birds or rodents the movement she’d seen? Paper trash skidded along sidewalk and street, then soared. Maybe that was the intruder, yesterday’s New York Post.

No sign of threat.

Her phone hummed, startling her. She looked down. The ID showed Thom’s name. As always, when he, not Rhyme, called, she felt a tap in her heart that there might be bad medical news. She answered quickly. “Thom.”

“Hey, Amelia. Just wondering if you’re going to be staying here tonight. Having dinner?”

She relaxed. “No, I’m taking my mom to an appointment. And she’s staying over at my place.”

“Can I make a care package?”

She laughed, knowing it would be a very good care package indeed. But the logistics of collecting it—driving all the way to Rhyme’s—were problematic. “No, thanks. But really appreciate it. I… ”

Her voice faded as, in the background she heard words spoken by someone who sounded familiar.

No. Couldn’t be.

She heard it again.

“Thom, is Mel there? Mel Cooper?”

“Yes, he is. You want to talk to him?”

I sure as hell do. She said politely, “Please.”

A moment later: “Hi, Amelia.”

“Hey, Mel. Uhm, what’re you doing at Lincoln’s?”

“He vacationed me. Though that’s a verb I can see he’s not very happy I used. I’m helping him with the Frommer case.”

“Goddamn it,” she said.

A silence.

Cooper put an end to it with, “I…  Well.”

“Put Lincoln on.”

“Oh-oh,” the tech whispered. “Look, Amelia, the thing is—”

“And not speaker. Headsets.”

Her finger disappeared into her hair and she scratched. A sign of the tension—frustration at the case. And anger. Rhyme. It was bad enough he’d quit the business; now she had to deal with fucking interference?

There was a rustle through her speaker as Cooper or Thom placed the headset on Rhyme. Most conversations with him, of course, occurred via speakerphone. Not much chance for privacy. She didn’t want anyone else to hear what she was about to say.

“Sachs. Where—?”

“What’s Mel doing there? I needed him for the Unsub Forty case. You stole him.”

“I asked if he’d help me on the Frommer litigation,” Rhyme countered. “There’s lab work we have to do. I didn’t know you wanted him.”

She snapped, “Queens HQ wasn’t doing everything it should have.”

“I didn’t know that. How would I know? You never said anything.”

And why would the subject even come up with you? she thought. Then she muttered, “How could you just move him to a civilian case? I’m not even sure you can do that.”

“He took some time off. He’s not on duty.”

“Oh, bullshit, Rhyme. Vacation? I’m running a murder.”

“You were at the mall, Sachs. You saw what happened. My victim’s as dead as yours.” Lincoln Rhyme didn’t play defense well.

“The difference is your escalator’s not going to kill anyone else.”

No response to that.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll need him for much longer.”

“How much is that? In terms of hours? Minutes preferably.”

He sighed. “We have to come up with a defendant in the next day or so.”

“So, days then,” she muttered. “Not hours.”

Minutes were off the table.

He tried conciliation, though it dripped insincerity. “I’ll make a call or two. Who’re you working with at Crime Scene?”

“Who I’m working with is not Mel. That’s the problem.”

“Look, I—” This was from Mel Cooper, who had surely deduced what was happening.

“It’s okay,” Rhyme said to him.

No, it wasn’t. She fumed silently. Professional and personal partners for years, they never fought about matters close to the heart. But when it came to cases, tempers could flare.

“I’m sure you can run some questions by him. He’s nodding. See. He’s happy to do that.”

“I can’t run questions by him. He’s not a clerk at Pep Boys.” She added, “On speaker.”

There was a click.

Cooper was saying, “Amelia—”