The Deliveryman (Lincoln Rhyme 11.50)

The Steel Kiss

Available in March 2016

Tuesday

I

Blunt Force

Chapter One

Sometimes you catch a break.

Well, how 'bout this?

Amelia Sachs had been driving her arterial-red Ford Torino along a commercial stretch of Brooklyn's Henry Street, more or less minding pedestrians and traffic, when she spotted the suspect.

What're the odds?

She was helped by the fact that Unsub Forty was unusual in appearance. Tall and quite thin; he stood out in the crowd. Still, that alone would hardly get you noticed in the throng here. But on the night he'd beaten his victim to death, two weeks before, a witness reported that he'd been wearing a pale-green-checked sport coat and Braves baseball cap. Sachs had done the requisite--if hopeless--posting on the wire of those facts and moved on to other aspects of the investigation and other investigations.

But an hour ago a portable from the 84, walking a beat near the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, had spotted a possible and called Sachs--the lead gold shield on the case. The murder had been late at night, in a deserted construction site, and the perp apparently hadn't known he'd been witnessed in the outfit, so he must've felt safe donning the garb again. The patrol officer had lost him in the crowds but she'd sped here anyway, calling in backup, even if this part of the city was an urban sprawl populated by ten thousand other souls. The odds that she'd find Mr. Forty were, she told herself wryly, nonexistent at best.

But, damn, there he was, walking in a long lope. Tall, skinny, green jacket, cap and all, though from behind she couldn't tell what team was being supported.

She skidded the '60s muscle car to a stop in a bus zone, tossed the NYPD official business placard on the dash and eased out of the car, minding the suicidal bicyclist who came within inches of contact. He glanced back, not in recrimination, but, she supposed, to get a better look at the tall, redheaded former fashion model, with focus in her eyes and a weapon on her black-jeaned hip.

Onto the sidewalk, following a killer.

This was her first look at the prey. The gangly man moved in long strides, feet long but narrow (in running shoes, she noted; better for sprinting over the damp April concrete--much better than her leather-soled boots). Part of her wished he was more wary--so he would look around and she could get a glimpse of his face. That was still an unknown. But, no, he just plodded along in that weird gait, his long arms at his side, backpack slung via one strap over his sloping shoulder.

She wondered if the murder weapon was inside: the ball-peen hammer, with its rounded end, meant for smoothing edges of metal and rivets. That was the side he'd used fo

r the murder, not the opposite end. The conclusion as to what had caved in Todd William's skull came from a database that Lincoln Rhyme had created for the NYPD and Medical Examiner's Office, the specific file: Weapon Impact on Human Bodies. Section Three: Blunt Force.

She'd had to do the analysis herself. Without Rhyme.

A thud in her gut at this thought. Forced herself to move past it.

Picturing the wounds again. Horrific, what the thirty-five-year-old Manhattanite had suffered, beaten to death and robbed as he approached an after-hours club named, so very meta, 40o North--a reference, Sachs learned, to the latitude of the East Village, where it was located.

Now, Unsub Forty was crossing the street, with the light. What an odd build. Over six feet yet he couldn't've weighed more than one fifty.

Sachs saw his destination and alerted the backup that the suspect now was entering a five-story shopping center on Henry. She plunged in after him.

Forty headed up to the second floor, into a Starbucks.

Sachs eased behind a pillar near the escalator, about twenty feet from the open entryway to the coffee franchise. Careful to remain out of sight. She needed to make sure he didn't suspect there were eyes on him. He wasn't presenting as if carrying--there's a way people tend to walk when they have a gun in their pocket, as any street cop knows, a wariness, a stiffer gait--but that hardly meant he was pistol free. And if he tipped to her and started shooting? Carnage.

Glancing inside the shop quickly, she saw him reach down to the food section and pick up two sandwiches, then apparently order a drink. He paid and stepped out of sight, waiting for his cappuccino or mocha. Something fancy. A filtered coffee would have been handed over right away.

Would he eat in or leave?

Sachs debated. Where was the best place to take him? Would it be better outside on the street or in the shop or the mall itself? Yes, the center and the Starbucks were crowded. But the street more so. Neither was great.

It was then that she saw a delivery man wheel by with some cartons containing the Starbucks logo, the mermaid.

Which meant there was no back entrance to the shop. Forty was trapped in a cul-de-sac. Yes, there were people inside, potential bystanders, but fewer than in the mall or on the street.