The Steel Kiss

The in-house counsel sounded wary as he said, “No, I didn’t think that seemed likely. After all, Midwest Conveyance was the company that was responsible. I admitted that. And I’m sorry we aren’t able to help your client, the widow.”

“Didn’t seem likely,” she echoed. “Still, you never suggested the one company that might be a viable defendant.”

Silence.

“You know whom I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“What’s your point, Ms. Archer?”

“That you didn’t tell us about the second switch that opens the access panel.”

“Second switch?” His tone suggested he was stalling.

“That’s my question, Mr. Holbrook. Who makes it? How does it work? We need to know.”

“I really can’t help you, Ms. Archer. I should go.”

“Did you know that Lincoln Rhyme, the other consultant on this case, has worked most frequently with the NYPD and—”

“We’re not in that jurisdiction.”

“And, I was going to say, with the FBI too.”

“There are no state or federal crimes involved here. There are confidentiality agreements that preclude me from talking about companies we’re in a contractual relationship with.”

“You’ve just confirmed that there is a second switch that could open the access panel.”

“I…  Well. I’m terminating this conversation. I’m going to hang up now and—”

“—and after you do, I’m calling Sandy Frommer and suggesting she and her lawyer hold a press conference about Midwest’s lack of cooperation in finding who really was responsible for her husband’s death. I’ll suggest they use the phrase ‘cover-up.’ I’m guessing that wouldn’t play well in bankruptcy court, especially among creditors who’d love to get their hands on the personal assets of the executives of the company.”

A sigh.

“Help us out here. She’s a widow with a son. I believed you when you said you were sorry. Go the next step and tell us. Please. Who makes the second switch?”

“Do you have time for leisure reading, Ms. Archer?”

She was frowning. A glance at Rhyme. She said, “Occasionally.”

Pages rustled, Rhyme could hear.

The lawyer said, “I myself am a big fan of Entertainment Weekly. And Fly Fishing Today. But I still find time for Industrial Systems Monthly. I enjoyed the March issue particularly. Pages forty and forty-one.”

“What—”

“Goodbye, Ms. Archer. I will not pick up if you call back.”

She disconnected.

“Good,” Rhyme said. “From Boston Law?”

“Legal,” she corrected. “But, no. I was vamping.”

Rhyme was already online. He found a digital version of the magazine Holbrook had mentioned and scrolled to the pages cited. It was an advertisement for a product made by a company called CIR Microsystems. Much of the copy was technical, none of which he understood at first glance. Featured was a gray box with wires protruding. According to a caption, it was a DataWise5000.

“The hell is it?” Rhyme asked.

Archer shook her head and went online. A few seconds of Google and she had an answer. “Well. Listen to this. It’s a smart controller.”

“I believe I’ve heard the term. Tell me more.”

She read for a few minutes then explained: “A lot of products have them built in. Conveyance systems—escalators, elevators—and cars, trains, industrial machinery, medical equipment, construction equipment. Hundreds of consumer appliances: stoves, heating systems, lighting in your house, security, door locks. You can send and receive data to and from machinery with your phone or tablet or computer, wherever you are. And control the products remotely.”

“So maybe a maintenance worker sent a signal by mistake and the access panel opened? Or stray radio waves triggered it.”

“It’s possible. I’m on Wikipedia. And…  oh. My.”

“What?”

“I’m just reading about CIR Micro, the maker of the controller.”

“And?”

“The head of the place, Vinay Parth Chaudhary, is being called the new Bill Gates.” She looked over at Rhyme. “And the company’s worth eight hundred billion. Let’s call Evers Whitmore. I think we’re back in the game.”

CHAPTER 17

No help from CSU headquarters on the brand of varnish or cosmetics found at the earlier scenes, or the type of sawdust. Nor had there been any more insights into trace or DNA on the White Castle napkins.

But at least the car service lead blossomed.

“Got it.” Ron Pulaski held up a pad to Sachs, sitting across from him in their war room at One PP. The young officer read from his notes. “Driver, Eduardo. He remembers the unsub, picked him up across the street from the White Castle, had a bag full of burgers. Ate them while they drove. About five or six. Maybe more. He talked to himself some. And spoke in a weird monotone. Skinny, looked down all the time. Scary. And it was the day of the murder.”

“The driver got a good look at him?”

“Not really. Just: lanky, skinny, tall. The green jacket and Atlanta baseball cap.”

Sachs asked, “How could he not get a look at him?”

“Dirty glass. The partition, you know. Plexiglas.”

He added that the driver had dropped their unsub in downtown Manhattan, about four blocks from the murder site.

“What time?”

“About six p.m.”