The Steel Kiss

Sachs mused, “The unsub got here four hours before the murder. Did they stay in the building? If so, doing what? Or did they go somewhere else?”

And other questions: Did Unsub 40 come to this area often? Did he live near here?

She looked around the street. The occupied buildings included a few tenements and what seemed to be warehouses and wholesalers. The canvass probably wouldn’t take too long. She’d assemble a team from the local precinct.

Sachs spotted a homeless man, lean and pale, foraging through a trash bin.

Approaching, Sachs said, “Hi. Can I ask you a question?”

“Just did.” His dark face wrinkled.

“I’m sorry?”

He returned to digging through the bin. “Just did ask me a question.”

She laughed. “You live near here?”

“Simon Says.” He found a half sandwich and put it into his shopping bag. “Okay. I’m being fun. Shelter up the street. Or under the bridge. Depending.” The hands and neck and calves, which were uncovered by the greasy clothing, were quite muscular.

“Did you seen anybody tall and real thin go into that building a few weeks ago? Or any other time?”

“No.” He moved on to another bin.

Sachs and Pulaski trailed. “You sure?” Pulaski asked. “Want another look?”

“No. Simon Says.”

Sachs waited.

The man said, “You asked if I saw him going into the building. Nup. Didn’t. You didn’t ask if I’d seen him period. Which I have. Simon Says.”

“Okay, where have you seen him?”

“Now you’re cooking with gas. Standing right Jiminy there.” He pointed: the far intersection, the direction they were going. “Skinny guy, but eating like a…  do sailors eat? No, they swear. Chimneys smoke. He was eating something, munchin’ it down. Was gonna hit him up for something. But felt off. Kind of talking to himself. Also, eating that way, thought he seemed greedy. Chomp, chomp, chomp. I wouldn’t get anything.”

“When was this?”

“A while ago.”

“How long? A week, a few days?”

“Simon Says.”

Sachs tried, “What do you mean by a while ago?”

“Ten, fifteen.”

“Days?”

“Minutes. He was just there.”

Jesus.

Sachs unbuttoned her jacket and glanced up the street. Pulaski too grew vigilant, looking in the directions she was not.

“He go in any particular way?” she asked.

And don’t fucking Simon Says me.

“No, just standing there. I went on looking for stuff, and that was it. Didn’t see him again. Could be here, could be there, could be anywhere.”

Pulaski was pressing the transmit button on the Motorola mike pinned to his shoulder. He called in a request for backup and, before she could remind him to do so, he said, “Silent roll-up. Suspect may be unaware of our presence. K.”

“K,” came the staticky response.

Sachs got the homeless man’s name, which wasn’t Simon, and the shelter he sometimes stayed in. She thanked him and told him it was best to leave. She was tempted to hand him a twenty but if it came down to testifying in court about the presence of the unsub, a defense lawyer would ask if he’d been paid anything by the police.

“You better get back to the shelter. Safer.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, sir, Officer, sir.”

He started away.

Ron Pulaski said, “Oh, hey, look.”

The man slowly pivoted. Pulaski was pointing at something in the street a few feet away from them. It was a twenty-dollar bill.

“You drop that?” Pulaski asked.

“Me. Ha.”

“If we take it, we have to report it. Pain in the ass.”

“Bullshit.”

Sachs, playing along. “True. Rules.”

Pulaski said, “You go ahead and take it. Finders keepers.”

“Think I will. Simon Says. There’s a reason you get half sandwiches in the trash. Nobody throws out a good sandwich.” He scooped up the money with his long, sinewy fingers and pocketed it.

Sachs nodded to Pulaski, acknowledging the good deed. It had never occurred to her to handle it that way.

The man wandered off, muttering to himself.

“How long, you think?” she asked

“Before backup? Eight, nine minutes.”

“He can’t’ve gotten very far. Let’s check the ground for footprints. See if we can find which way he went, size thirteens.”

And began to walk a lazy grid in search of tread marks. The search was, of course, slowed by the fact that each officer looked up from time to time, searching for a threat.

Just because Unsub 40 had not shot anyone yet didn’t mean he wasn’t willing and able to try.

CHAPTER 19

Thom had dropped Evers Whitmore and Lincoln Rhyme off in front of the building that housed the blogger’s office, whose address Juliette Archer had tracked down, and drove off to park the accessible van in a lot a few blocks away.

The lawyer once again pressed the button on the intercom. Social Engineering Second-ly. It was on the top floor.

Still no answer.

“We can keep looking,” Whitmore said. “There have to be other people who’ve researched the DataWise.”

But Rhyme wanted the man who’d written the piece that Archer had found. He wanted to know exactly what kind of ambient radio waves had caused it to activate.

Expert witness…

A perfect one.

Whitmore gazed around the deserted streets. “We can leave a note, I suppose.”