The Steel Kiss

From what was found at the scenes, Sachs and Pulaski had concluded Unsub 40 might be a tradesman. But even if so, did workers carry around tools late at night, especially a rare one like the ball-peen hammer he’d used to kill Todd Williams? And if a tool like that had nothing to do with his job, his carrying it suggested design—a perp on the hunt for a victim. But why? What the hell are you up to, Mr. Forty? How much money could Todd Williams’ve had on him to justify killing? You didn’t use any of his credit or debit cards, or sell them—they would have shown up by now. Stolen plastic has a very short shelf life. You didn’t try to suck his bank account dry. Williams had been straight, for the most part, but she’d learned from friends of a few gay encounters. There was a rough-trade club about three blocks from the construction site where he was killed, yet extensive canvassing of the place uncovered no evidence that Williams had ever been there.

Any other reasons for the unsub to kill you?

Williams had been a former programmer by profession and now he wrote about social issues on his blog but there was nothing controversial that she’d seen. Environment, privacy. Nothing anyone could take offense at. And as for the bomb making and poisoning theories—related to terrorism possibly—the evidence was sketchy and her instinct said those were dead ends.

Maybe the motive was that which was the least helpful to investigators: Williams had witnessed some other crime and the lean perp—maybe a hit man, maybe a professional burglar—had seen him and clipped him. And yet…  and yet…

Come on, Rhyme…

She needed somebody to brainstorm with. But it can’t be you now, can it?

Out of the business…

And what was up with Ron Pulaski? He’d been acting particularly odd. He’d questioned the wisdom of Rhyme’s retirement, firmly calling his boss on the decision. (“It’s crazy!” To which he received back: “I’ve decided, Rookie. Why bring it up for the thousandth time. Quit. Asking.”)

Was this his distraction? Though maybe Ron’s mood had nothing to do with Rhyme. She again considered illness in the family. Or the officer himself. His head injury. Then too: He was a husband and father, trying to make ends meet on a patrolman’s salary. God bless…

Her phone buzzed. She looked down and felt a prickle along her scalp.

Nick.

Sachs didn’t hit answer. She closed her eyes.

After the humming stopped, she glanced at the phone. He’d left no message.

What to do, what to do?

In days past, Sachs might have wandered down to the file room at One PP or, depending on where the People of the State of New York v. Nicholas J. Carelli files were stored, driven to the archives in New Jersey. In either case she might have dawdled outside the room downstairs—or spent the drive—pondering Nick’s request. Yes or no?

Now, with every case file for the past twenty-five years scanned and sitting in a big fat database somewhere, this debate occurred here, at her desk, as she looked over a sliver of vessel-filled New York Harbor. Leaning back in lazy posture, staring at the screen.

The propriety of downloading the file? No objections she could see. Sachs was an active-duty officer, so she had legitimate access to all files and there were no regulations about sharing them with civilians in closed cases. And if Nick found something that proved his innocence, he could come to her and she could tell the brass she’d decided to look into the matter on her own initiative. And then—this was non-negotiable in her heart—hand the matter over to an Internal Affairs investigator and step away entirely.

No, legality wasn’t really the issue. Some endeavors, of course, could be completely legal yet stunningly bad ideas.

Nick’s other options would be to find a lawyer to reopen the case and petition the court for review. Though, Sachs had to admit, her handing him the file would make his quest a thousand times easier.

Yet why had it fallen to her to help him?

Their years together—not so many in number but intense, consuming—flashed past. She couldn’t deny that the memories were tugging her in the direction of doing what he’d asked of her. But there was a broader issue. Even if she hadn’t known him, his story was compelling. Earlier this evening she’d looked up Vincent Delgado. Unlike high-level organized crime figures, who were essentially businessmen, Delgado was a megalomaniac, probably borderline psychotic. Vicious, prone to torture. He would have killed Donnie Carelli without blinking an eye, might even have threatened to kill their mother, Harriet, if Nick didn’t roll over to the Gowanus ’jacking. Yes, if everything he said was true, he was guilty of obstructing justice, though the statute of limitations would have run out a long time ago. So he was in all ways innocent.

Yes, no?

What bad could come of it?

Sachs turned from the computer to the evidence boards on the Unsub 40 case.