The Steel Kiss

* * *

So. This is her home.

Red’s.

Amelia Sachs, the Shopper.

The Shopper who was not courteous enough to burn to death in Todd Williams’s office building.

I happen to be across the street from her Brooklyn town house, dolled up in some worker’s clothing, coveralls, which, well, cover all. So as not to draw attention. Tired, now toward the end of a long, long workday (though I’m largely pretending at the moment, the fatigue is true). Coffee in one hand, mobile phone in another, pretending to read texts, though in reality I’ve been reading how well my screed against consumerism went over in the press. Why, I’ve even had some likes!

Studying Red’s town house carefully. A Shopper. Yes, she is and she’ll suffer for it but I’ve softened a bit (White Castles from the frozen foods section are not bad) and I’ve decided, Red isn’t the sadistic sort. A Shopper with a heart she is. The sort of girl who if I had asked her out wouldn’t laugh in my face and let loose about string beans and sacks of bones. She’d blush and keep a pretty smile on her pretty face. “Sorry, I have plans.”

Which maybe she would have had, or maybe she wouldn’t. Not the point. The worst, the absolute worst, would have been that blush and that forced formal smile—the iceberg tip of her discomfort, which I had caused. As if I’d tried to save a butterfly and crushed it accidentally, the dead form resting in my hands, sparkly with blue and gold dust from its broken wings.

That would be the worst. Making me feel doubly bad.

A Shopper with a heart…

So when I destroy Red’s life I will probably feel some regret. But I think this in passing and get back to the task at hand.

Nice place she has here. Old-time Brooklyn. Classic. Amelia Sachs. German name, I guess. She doesn’t look German, but I really don’t know what a German looks like, now I think about it. She doesn’t have braided blond hair and blue Aryan eyes.

I’ve been debating what to do about her. Red owns no products that have DataWise5000 controllers in them. At least not that I can find. She’s not on my magic lists that Todd so helpfully got for me before his bones started to crack. Of course once a product gets out into the hands of the public, it can bob like a cork in the ocean until it washes up in someone else’s kitchen or garage or living room. But I scanned Red’s house for signals, like Todd showed me, and while I found some lonely little devices sending out their wireless beacons, begging to join a network, none of them will help me turn her into a mass of broken bone or blistered flesh.

Sipping coffee, which I’m not really sipping, looking at cell phone, which I’m not really looking at…  pretending. I’m blending in—an impatient workman waiting for a ride home at the end of the day.

Though I’m not impatient at all.

I’m patient as stone.

Which pays off. Because only a half hour later I see something interesting.

And I realize I now have the final piece of the puzzle to solve my Red problem.

All right, I think, finishing my beverage and putting the crumpled cup into my pocket (learned my lesson there!), it’s time to go. We’ve got work to do.

CHAPTER 23

Ron Pulaski walked out the front door of Richie’s bar. He felt good, almost light-headed.

He turned south and kept walking quickly, head down.

What sat in his front left pocket was minuscule but seemed like ten pounds of gold. He casually slipped his hand into his pocket and touched it for the comfort. Thank you, Lord.

And thank you, he thought too to the guy he’d been sharing a beer with a minute ago: Alpho (Pulaski didn’t like to use the dog food nic, even skels deserved respect). He’d hooked Pulaski up with just what he needed. Oh, yeah.

He could…

“Excuse me, sir. If you could stop right there, please. Take your hand out of your pocket.”

Face burning, heart thudding, Pulaski stopped in his tracks. Knew he wasn’t being mugged. But he also knew what was going down. The tone of voice, the words. He turned to see two large men, dressed in jeans and jackets, street clothes, but he knew right away who they were—not their names, but their jobs: tactical cops, undercover. He glanced at their shields, gold shields dangling from silver chains.

Shit…

He slowly removed his hand and kept both palms open. Non-threatening. He knew the drill; he’d been on the other side hundreds of times.

Pulaski said, “I’m NYPD, assigned to Major Crimes. I have a weapon in an ankle holster and my shield’s inside my jacket.” Trying to sound confident. But his voice was unsteady. His heart slammed.

They frowned. “Okay,” the bigger one, bald, stepped forward. His partner kept his hand near his weapon. Baldie: “We just want to make sure everybody stays safe, you understand. I’m going to ask you to turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

“Sure.” It does no good to argue. Pulaski wondered if he’d throw up. Deep breath. Okay, control it. He did. More or less.