The Steel Kiss

“So. Here you are.” She opened her briefcase and handed over three thick folders containing about eight hundred sheets of paper. The documentation on his case and related investigations. She’d skimmed the file years ago—not wanting to, but unable to resist. She’d learned that back then there’d been several hijacking rings operating in the city. Nick’s arrest was one of seven in a three-month period. Some other perps had been cops as well. If he had been a sole hijacker—especially one going for a plea—the file would have been much skimpier. He flipped through one of the folders fast, smiled and touched her arm.

Not her hand. That would have seemed inappropriate. Just her forearm. Still, even through layers of wool and cotton, she felt the electricity that she remembered from years ago. Wished she hadn’t. Really wished that.

He must have felt her stiffen. Certainly he saw her look away. Nick lifted his hand off her sleeve.

She said, “You’ve got to be careful, Nick. You can’t associate with anybody’s got a record. Your PO’s told you that.”

“If there’s anybody who can help me and there’s any risk, or it even looks like they’re connected, I’ll use, you know, an intermediary to contact them, a friend. Promise.”

“Make sure.”

She stood.

“You’re positive you don’t have time for a fast dinner?”

“I’ve got to get home to my mother.”

“How is she?”

“Well enough for the surgery.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Amelia.”

“Prove you’re innocent,” she said. “That’s how.”

CHAPTER 24

Policing, Nick Carelli knew, was mostly paperwork.

You wanted collars but you hated collars because of all the forms, the notes, the triplicate, quadruplicate and whatever the hell five copies of something was.

But the good news now was that the Internal Affairs cops on his case, and the regular gold shields, had really done their homework, and he had paperwork galore to prowl through. Probably there was so much because they’d thought they had a crooked cop and a crooked cop is the best kind of perp. You nail a boy in blue who’s screwed up and the world’s your oyster. Press, promotion, adulation from the public.

In his apartment now. Sitting at a table he’d been meaning to level with a folded piece of paper since he’d moved back in, Nick was looking through what Amelia had brought him, ream upon ream of paperwork. Looking for a key to his salvation.

He sipped coffee, black and lukewarm. Not hot, not iced. Tepid. He didn’t know why, but this was the way he always drank coffee. He remembered being with Amelia and she’d make it the old-fashioned drip way—pre-Keurig days—pouring it through a cone filter. One of his favorite memories, a freezing-cold morning, sharing the ugliest pair of striped beige pajamas on earth. Her toenails blue from polish. His blue from the cold.

He’d gulped several mugs of Folgers since he’d started going through the files Ame—no, Amelia—had brought him. How many hours had it been? He didn’t want to guess.

He suddenly was aware of a scent that took him back years. He cocked his head, inhaled. Yes, definitely. The source? He lifted one of the file folders. Where Amelia had undoubtedly held it. She wasn’t into perfume. But she tended to use the same lotions and shampoos, which had their own distinctive fragrance. This was what he now smelled. Hand cream, Guerlain, he believed. Amazed the name came back to him.

He discarded a few other memories, with difficulty, and returned to the paperwork. Page after page.

An hour crawled past. Another. Numbing. He decided to go for a late-night run. Five more minutes.

But finding what he so desperately wanted took only two.

Jesus. Oh, my sweet Jesus!

He was reading from a report that had been put together as part of the larger investigation into police involvement in hijackings. It was dated nearly a year after he had gone to jail. There was a photocopy of a detective’s handwritten notes, very hard to read—it looked like the officer had used pencil.

2/23. Interv albert constanto olice investigation 44-3452—operation take back subject not involved in jackings but sheet on drug missed court rants, dropped one, kicked down to lesser included, subject reported overheard…  in flannigan’s bar key man for stolen merch, always behind scenes, layers of protection knows “everything” in BK, white male, fifties, first name starts with j married nanci, “j” is key constanto says.