The Steel Kiss

I click off the recorder, inspired to get cracking. I sit down at my computer, log into several virtual private networks serially, then head to Bulgaria and one of the Shitloadistans for a proxy.

I sit back and close my eyes. Then, channeled by the People’s Guardian, I begin to type.

* * *

Nick Carelli’s mobile hummed.

His lawyer.

When he’d gone into the system, caller ID was in its infancy. Now it was everywhere and, he’d decided, the most important thing invented in the past hundred years.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Nick. How’s it going? You adjusting well?”

“As can be expected.”

“Sure. Well. I’ve got a place for you to check out. I’ve emailed the address and the deal sheet. It’s preliminary so we’ll still have a lot of due diligence to do. The place is out a way so the asking isn’t going to give you a coronary. You get closer to the Heights and hipsters, there’s better revenue but you couldn’t afford it.”

“Great, man. Thanks. Hold on. I’ll check it out now.”

Nick went online and noted the address—solid, working-class and striving neighborhood in BK—and the name of the owner. “Is he there now?” Nick was feeling the electric prods again. Impatience. He recalled Amelia’s slogan: When you move they can’t getcha…

“Yeah. He’s there. I just talked to his lawyer.” Then Sam fell silent. “Listen, Nick, are you sure you want to do this?”

“You gave me the lecture before.”

“I did, yes. It would’ve been nice if you’d listened to me.”

“Funny.”

“Restaurants’re one of the biggest money sucks in history. This one, okay, it’s got decent cash flow and a loyal clientele. I know it. I’ve been to it. Been around for twenty years, so it’s got serious goodwill. But still, you’ve never run a company before.”

“I can learn. Maybe I could hire the owner to stick around, be a consultant. He’s got an interest in making sure the place stays open and’s successful.” The proposal was the owner would get the purchase price plus a cut of the action. “He’s gotta have a sentimental attachment to the place. Wouldn’t you think?”

“I’d guess, sure.”

“It’s late in the game for me, Sam. I need to get going with my life. Oh, but the other thing I asked you.”

“I checked and triple-checked. Not a hint of criminal activity. The owner, his family, any of the employees. No records. Clean with the IRS and state too. Passed a couple of audits with flying colors. And I’m working on the liquor waiver.”

“Good. Thanks, Sam. I’m so psyched.”

“Nick. Slow down. You sound like you’re ready to sign the paperwork today. Don’t you at least want to try the lasagna?”

CHAPTER 28

Amelia Sachs returned to the town house with what seemed to Rhyme measly evidence. Two milk crates containing a half-dozen paper and plastic evidence collection bags.

The damn unsub kept burning things up and turning evidence to ash. Water was the worst elemental contaminant of crime scenes; fire was a close number two.

These boxes she handed off to Mel Cooper, who was wearing a lab coat over his corduroy beige slacks and short-sleeve white shirt, as well as surgical cap and gloves. “That’s all?” he asked, looking toward the door, thinking perhaps that other ECTs were bringing in more evidence.

Her grimace said it all. Nothing else would be forthcoming.

“Who was he?” Juliette Archer asked. “The victim?”

Ron Pulaski glanced through his notes: “A fifty-eight-year-old advertising account executive. Pretty senior. Abe Benkoff. He was responsible for some famous TV commercials.” The young officer ran through some of them. Rhyme, never a TV watcher, had not heard of the ads though, of course, he knew the clients: food companies, personal products, cars, airlines. “Fire marshal said they’re a week away from anything specific as to how it happened but off the record: There was a gas leak from a CookSmart range and oven. Six-burner gas stovetop, an electric oven. With the DataWise you can turn the stove on remotely—both the burners and the oven. It’s mostly designed to shut them off if you leave and think you might have left them on. But it works the other way too. The unsub disengaged the pilot light sparkers—those click, click things—and then turned the gas on.

“The marshal said the flow had to be going for close to forty minutes, given the size of the explosion. Then the unsub turned the sparkers back on. The whole place blew. Benkoff was about fifteen feet from the front door. Looked like he was trying to get out. The gas woke him up, they think.”

Archer: “Anyone else in the place?”

“No. He was married but his wife was out of town, business trip. They had two grown children. Nobody else in the building was hurt.”

Sachs began a whiteboard for this crime scene.