The Steel Kiss

Rhyme ordered Cooper to clean all the lubricant off the pin and bracket and then close it again, to see if the pin would not fully extend to the locking position because the fitting was dry and therefore would be more likely to open because of random motion. Even without the grease, though, it secured the door perfectly when closed.

Goddamn it. What had happened? Whitmore had said the product need not have been negligently—carelessly—built but it did have to be defective. They had to find some reason it had opened when it shouldn’t have.

He muttered, “It’s insect-proof, it’s waterproof, it’s shockproof…  Was there lightning when the accident happened?”

Archer checked the weather. “No. Clear day.”

A sigh. “Okay, Mel. Write down our paltry finds on the chart, if you would.”

The tech did so.

The doorbell sounded and Rhyme looked at the monitor. “Ah, our barrister.” He opened the door.

A moment later lawyer Evers Whitmore entered, walking perfectly upright, in a sharp navy-blue suit, every button occupying every hole. He carried his anachronistic briefcase in one hand and a shopping bag in the other.

“Mr. Rhyme.”

He nodded. “This is Juliette Archer.”

“I’m an intern.”

“She’s helping on the case.”

Whitmore didn’t even glance at her wheelchair or seem to be curious that the woman was as disabled as her mentor—or how her condition might help or hinder the investigation. He nodded a greeting then turned to Rhyme. “I have this. Mrs. Frommer asked me to deliver it to you. By means of thanks. She made it herself.” From the shopping bag he extracted a plastic-wrapped loaf, tied with a red ribbon and displayed it as if he were proffering Plaintiff’s Exhibit One. “She said it was zucchini bread.”

Rhyme wasn’t sure what to make of the gift. Until recently his clients had primarily been the NYPD, FBI and other assorted law enforcers, none of whom sent him baked goods in gratitude. “Yes. Well. Thom. Thom!”

The aide appeared a moment later. “Oh, Mr. Whitmore.” The reluctance to use first names seemed to be contagious.

“Mr. Reston. Here’s a loaf of bread,” the lawyer said, handing it over. “From Mrs. Frommer.”

Rhyme said, “Refrigerate it or something.”

“Zucchini bread. Smells good. I’ll serve it.”

“That’s all right. We don’t need any—”

“Of course I will.”

“No, of course you won’t. We’ll save it for later.” Rhyme had an ulterior motive for being contrary. He was thinking that the only way Juliette Archer would be able to eat any of the pastry was to have Thom feed her, and this would make her feel self-conscious. She was using the fingers of her right hand but not her arm. The left, with its intricate bracelet, was, of course, strapped immobile to the wheelchair.

However, Archer, who seemed to get Rhyme’s strategy and not much care for it, said in a firm voice: “Well, I’d like some.”

And Rhyme realized that he’d broken one of his own rules; he’d been coddling her. He said, “Good. I will too. And coffee. Please.”

Thom blinked at the reversal…  and the politeness.

“I would care for some coffee, as well. Black please.” From Whitmore. “If not inconvenient.”

“Not at all.”

“Any chance of a cappuccino?” Archer asked.

“One of my specialties. And I’ll bring some tea, Mel.” The aide disappeared.

Whitmore walked to the chart. He and the others looked it over.