The Steel Kiss

Nothing fancy about the technique, simply asking if anyone had seen a tall thin man in a baseball cap, dark jacket and jeans, carrying a backpack. Their progress was slow. The sidewalk dense with pedestrians and vendors.

And, of course, they were watching their backs.

On the lookout for anything that might turn on them. Could he rig this car’s engine to explode or catch fire? Could he command that garbage truck to lurch forward? What about the city infrastructure—a million volts and tons of superheated steam coursed inches below their feet.

Products were everywhere.

Distracting.

Sachs herself had no hits but one of the officers radioed and said he’d had a maybe—about ten minutes earlier a man fitting the unsub’s description had been standing at the edge of the sidewalk, looking down at his tablet. Between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. He’d done nothing other than that; the witness—the owner of a Theater District souvenir shop—had noted him simply because of his unusual appearance.

“Any idea where he went?”

“No, ma’am,” the officer said.

Looking around in frustration.

“Maybe that’s a target zone. Assemble there.”

In a few minutes, they’d gathered where the unsub had been spotted and continued searching. No one else had seen him. So they continued their progress west. Slowly. Looking in restaurants, shops, cars and trucks, theaters—front and stage doors. Nothing.

Ron Pulaski called from the west end of 46th Street and reported no sightings. He and his officers were continuing east. The two search teams were about a half mile from each other now.

Moving closer to Eighth Avenue, Sachs could see a theater and across from that a large construction site. An irritating noise shot toward them on the wind—a power tool’s whine. As she approached, it grew very loud, a shriek that stung her ears. She’d thought the sound was coming from the jobsite—a high-rise. There were dozens of workers welding and hammering the steel skeleton into place. But curiously, no, the sound was coming through two large open doors. It was the backstage area of a theater, a workshop where a carpenter was cutting wood, presumably to assemble a set for an upcoming play. Thank goodness the workman was wearing earmuffs—the sort that she wore when she went shooting. The huge scream of the circular saw could ruin unprotected eardrums. When the worker stopped cutting, she or one of the search team would ask if he’d spotted the suspect.

For the moment, though, Sachs and the officers with her walked through the gap in the six-foot plywood fence surrounding the construction site. The building going up was a thirty- or forty-story-high structure. Much of the steelwork and rough flooring had been done but few walls were in. The ground was typically congested with heavy equipment and stations for tools and supplies. Making her way farther inside, Sachs asked a scrawny worker, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, for the manager or foreman. He ambled off.

A moment later a big man in a hard hat waddled up. He was obviously displeased.

“Hello,” she said, nodding to the worker, who exuded an air of seniority. She showed her badge.

Rather than responding to her, he frowned and turned to another, younger worker, not the one who’d fetched him. “You call ’em? I didn’t say call ’em yet.”

“I didn’t call nobody, Boss.”

“Who called?” the man—Boss—shouted, looking over workers nearby and scratching his large belly, encased within a seriously stressed plaid shirt. Hairs protruded from the gaps between buttons.

Sachs could make a reasonable deduction. “Someone was going to call the police?”

“Yeah but,” he said, looking around for a culprit.

His assistant said to Sachs, as he nodded to Boss, “Iggy, he’s Iggy, wanted to make sure there was a reason, you know. Not a false alarm. The company don’t like cops, sorry, like officers on a jobsite. Looks bad, you know.”

“What did you think the problem was? Why would anybody have called?”

Iggy was mentally back with them now. “Trespass. Looks like some guy snuck in. We aren’t sure. Just wanted to check. Before we called. We woulda. Just, we wanted to check. Didn’t want to waste nobody’s time.”

“Was he very tall, very thin? In a dark windbreaker and jeans? Baseball cap?”

“Dunno. You looking for him? Why?”

With edgy impatience, Sachs said, “Could you find out if that’s who it was?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Yeah, you guess it was him. Or yeah you guess you can find out.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sachs stared. “This man is wanted in connection with a homicide, Iggy. Could you…  ?” A gesture with her open palm, impatient.

Iggy shouted, “Yo, Cly!”

Another worker walked up, hiding a cigarette behind his back. This one was lit.

“Yeah?”

“That asshole you saw walking around?”

Sachs repeated the description.

“That’s him.” His eyes swiveled momentarily to his boss. He was sheepish. “I didn’t call, Iggy. You didn’t want nobody to call. I didn’t call.”

Shit. Sachs pulled her radio off her belt and summoned her team and Pulaski’s to the site ASAP.

“Any idea where he went?” she asked Cly.