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The Steel Kiss

Clear right, clear left. Go! Go!

This process repeated a half-dozen times and only twice did the frantic Manhattan traffic drive her onto the curb, though three times or possibly four she came within inches of de-fendering a car gridlocked in her path.

Forty miles per hour wasn’t racing, not to Amelia Sachs, though it seemed so as she made her way, as best she could, through central Manhattan.

Interesting, she reflected as she hit a clear stretch. Unsub 40 was hanging out in her father’s beat. Herman Sachs had walked the streets of Times Square for years, concentrating mostly on the Deuce, 42nd Street, long before it morphed into the Disney theme park it was today. Fact was, Sachs missed the hood’s porn, skin-game, honky-tonk days, as she suspected her father would have too.

Her mobile buzzed.

Manual transmission, phone? She chose the Samsung over fourth gear and let the transmission complain. “Sachs.”

“Amelia. It’s Bobby Killow. Patrol. MTN. Captain Rhyme gave me your number. About your unsub.”

“I remember you, Bobby.”

Killow had been a cherubic, energetic young patrol officer in Midtown North whom she’d worked with occasionally back in her pre-detective days. He was probably much the same now, though the “young” wouldn’t apply as seamlessly. “What’ve you got?”

“I’m on Four-Six, been canvassing. A few people think they’ve seen him here. Last five minutes.”

Piercing the heart of the Theater District, 46th Street ran from river to river.

“Where exactly?”

“Few doors west of Broadway. Ducked into a souvenir store. Was looking suspicious, the wit said. Staring out the windows, like he was thinking he was being tailed. The clerk’s words. When it seemed safe or clear or something—the clerk again—he stepped outside and vanished west.”

“I… well.”

“What was that?”

That had been a scooter driver, as oblivious as those in Rome, zipping out into her lane to see who would win the contest between a Ford Torino and a tinny Vespa knockoff.

Sachs had controlled the skid rather well, though she nearly ended up under a garbage truck. Then, tires spinning, on the way again.

“Bobby, descrip of the perp?”

“Dark-blue or black windbreaker, no logo, jeans, baseball cap in red or green—that’s witnesses for you. Dark backpack.”

“K. I’m there in five.”

In fact, it took her three. She skidded to a stop at Broadway and 46th beside three Midtown North cruisers. Nodded to Bobby Killow. Yep, angelic as ever. She knew several of the octet of officers standing nearby too and greeted them.

Already the vultures were gathering: the tourists with mobile phones shooting away.

Hum of hers. Ron Pulaski was calling.

“’Lo, Ron. Where are you? In position?”

“Right, Amelia.” The young officer explained he was with a team of four patrol and six Emergency Service officers. They were at 46th Street, near the Hudson River.

“We’re at Broadway. Sweep east, toward us. We’ll move west.” She gave the description of the suspect and added that it was possible he lived or worked here. If so, his unique appearance meant neighbors or shopkeepers or waiters would most likely recognize him.

“If he’s here because he was stalking a victim, well, that’s something else. We’ll just hope we can stumble over him before it’s too late.”

They disconnected and Sachs briefed the officers in front of her. She explained that they couldn’t be sure who the unsub’s target was, other than someone using or near an “embedded” product, which he would sabotage from his smartphone or tablet.

Sachs continued, “We don’t know if he’s got a firearm. But he’s used a hammer in the past.”

“He’s the escalator killer, right?”

“That’s right.”

“What other kinds of products would he be targeting?”

She told them about Abe Benkoff’s stove. And recalled the lengthy list of products Todd Williams had downloaded for him, those with DataWise5000s in their hearts. “Could be appliances, water heaters, kitchen things, heavy equipment, tools, maybe vehicles. Medical equipment too. But he’s going for showy, to get attention. If you see something that could take off an arm or scald or crush you to death, assume it’s got a controller in it and our unsub’s about to push the button.”

“Jesus,” one of the officers whispered. “Your wife and kids’re in the kitchen baking cookies? And the stove could blow up?”

“That’s it. Let’s get started.”

As they began to sweep west, one officer muttered, “Wonder why he picked this area.”

The answer was obvious to Sachs. Here were hundreds of stores, restaurants and entertainment venues, all presided over by towering high-definition video billboards, bullying or enticing passersby and tourists to spend, spend, spend…

For anyone whose agenda was assaulting consumerism, Times Square was the best hunting ground in the world.