The Steel Kiss

“I don’t know,” Alicia says. “I would have. Appreciated them, I mean. Oh, and look. You do historical things too.” She’s looking at a catapult, a siege tower, a medieval banquet table, a torture rack (one of my more popular items, which I find amusing).

“We can thank Game of Thrones for that. And I made a lot of Elvish and Orc things when the Hobbit movies came out. Anything medieval is okay as long as it’s generic. I was going to do Hunger Games but I was worried about trademark and copyright stuff. You have to be careful with Disney too. And Pixar. Oh, you have to see this.”

I find a book on my shelf, hold it up. The Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death.

“What is this, Vernon?” She sidles close and I feel her body against mine as I flip the pages.

“Woman in Chicago, a millionaire heiress. Long time ago. She died in ’sixty-two. Frances Glessner Lee. Ever heard of her?”

“No.”

“Quite a person. She didn’t do heiress, society stuff. She was fascinated with crime, murder mostly. And had dinner parties, fancy ones, for police investigators. She learned all about solving murders. But she wanted to do more. So she got details on famous murders and made dioramas—you know, like dollhouse rooms—of crime scenes. Every detail was perfect.”

The book is photographs of her miniature scenes. Names like Three Room Dwelling and The Pink Bathroom. Every one features a doll of a corpse where a corpse actually lay, bloodstains where the bloodstains really were.

I think suddenly of Red. What I found out about her, Ms. Shopper Amelia Sachs, is that she specializes in crime scene work. Two thoughts: She would probably appreciate the book.

The other: A miniature diorama in which a doll representing her shapely body lies on the floor of her town house. Skull cracked, red hair redder from the blood.

We laugh at some of the perfect detail Lee included in her work. I put the book away.

“Would you like one?” I ask.

She turns. “One what?”

I nod toward the shelves. “A miniature.”

“I…  I don’t know. Aren’t those part of your inventory?”

“Yes. But the buyers will wait. What do you want? Any one in particular?”

She leans forward and her eyes settle on a baby carriage.

“It’s so perfect.” She offers her second smile.

There are two perambulators. One made on commission and one I’ve done just because I enjoy making baby carriages. Couldn’t say why. Babies and children do not, never have, never will figure in my life.

She points to the one that’s under commission. The better one. I pick it up and hand it to her. She touches it carefully and repeats, “It’s perfect. Every part. Look at how the wheels turn! It even has springs!”

“Have to keep the baby comfy,” I say.

“Thank you, Vernon.” She kisses my cheek. And turns away, letting the sheet slither to the floor while she lies on the bed, gazing up at me.

I debate. An hour won’t delay me significantly.

Besides, it seems humane to give the person I’m going to kill today a little more time on God’s earth.

* * *

“I want that damn thing out of here,” Rhyme was grumbling to Thom, nodding toward the escalator.

“Your Exhibit A? What am I supposed to do? It’s five tons of industrial machinery.”

Rhyme was truly irritated by the device’s presence. A reminder that what, yes, might very well have been Exhibit A was going to be no such thing.

Thom was looking for the paperwork that came with the unit. “Call Whitmore. Mister Whitmore. He arranged it.”

“I did call. He didn’t get back to me.”

“Well, Lincoln, don’t you think it might be best to let him handle it? Or do you really want me to look up ‘partial escalator removal services’ on Craigslist?”

“What’s Craigslist?”

“We’ll wait for the lawyer to contact the company. At least his people knew what they were doing. The floors aren’t actually scratched at all. Surprise to me.”

The doorbell rang and Rhyme was pleased to see that Juliette Archer had arrived. He noted that she was alone, no brother in tow. He suspected she’d insisted he drop her off on the sidewalk to negotiate the “intimidating” ramp on her own. No babying allowed.

He wondered what assignment to give her. There wasn’t anything that got his heart racing. Academic research for a school of criminalistics in Munich, a position paper on mass spectrometry for publication here in a scientific journal he contributed to, a proposal about extracting trace evidence from smoke.

“Morning,” she said, wheeling into the parlor. Smiling to Thom.

“Welcome back,” the aide said.

Rhyme offered, “Do you speak German, by any chance?”

“No, afraid not.”

“Ah, well. I’ll find something else to occupy your time. I think there are a few projects that aren’t too boring.”

“Well, boring or not, I’m happy to work on anything you have. And forgive the dangling modifier there.”

He gave a chuckle. True, she’d just said that whether or not she was boring, she’d be happy to work on any project. Grammar, punctuation and syntax could be formidable opponents.

“Breakfast, Juliette?” Thom asked.