The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

"The highest deity in my pantheon," Rhyme said, not much caring how pretentious it sounded.

She nodded toward the escalator. "Does it work?"

"The drive motor, gears, servo motor and switch do. And it's plugged in."

"So let's experiment. Turn it on and try to get the panel to open."

Rhyme had a thought. He turned toward the kitchen and shouted, "Thom! Thom! I need a drink."

The aide appeared in the doorway. "A little too early, as I recently pointed out."

"Too early for a Coke?"

"You never drink soda. There isn't any in the house."

"But if I recall, there's a deli right around the corner."

The hardware stores--there were two of them within hoofing distance of the White Castle--had been a bust.

No one recalled seeing a customer fitting the description of Unsub 40. And neither of them sold ball-peen hammers. So for the past hour Amelia Sachs had pounded the sidewalk, canvassing the other shops along the windblown, littered sidewalks of this workaday 'hood: the body shops, auto parts stores, phone card outlets, car services, wig stores, taquerias, dozens of other places. One clerk in a drugstore was "pretty sure" he'd seen, on the street, a man matching the description of Unsub 40 but couldn't remember exactly where he'd been, what he'd been wearing, if he'd been carrying anything.

The sighting possibly confirmed White Castle Charlotte's belief that he'd come in this direction. But as to a destination--that was still a mystery. And of course there were bus stops and subway stations he might have walked to, or garages where he might park his car--even if he hadn't used the hamburger joint's lot. She also checked for CCTVs in the commercial outlets but none of the lenses were focused on the sidewalk, just on the doors, parking lots and interiors. Besides, there were scores of cameras and even if the unsub had stepped inside a surveilled store or taken a shortcut through a parking lot, she didn't have the manpower or time to go through hundreds of hours of video. Todd Williams's killing was a terrible crime but it wasn't the only terrible crime within the five boroughs of New York City. In this business you always had to balance.

And the balance rule applied to your personal life too.

Mobile phone out. She made a call.

"Amie."

"Mom. How you feeling?"

"Good," Rose Sachs said, which, from Rose Sachs, might mean good or might mean bad or might mean any stop in between. The woman didn't let a lot out.

"Be there soon," Sachs told her.

"I can get a cab."

Sachs chuckled. "Mom."

"All right, dear. I'll be ready."

Looping back, she canvassed stores and shops on the opposite side of the boulevard.

And finally had a solid hit: at a gypsy cab company. She gave the hirsute, lanky manager a description of their unsub and the man immediately frowned and said in a thick Middle Eastern accent, "Yes, I think so. Very skinny man. Had big bag of White Castle hamburgers. Big bag. For skinny man, funny."

"You remember when?"

He couldn't exactly, but agreed it might have been two weeks ago--possibly the day Todd Williams was murdered. Nor could he recall who the driver was and the service kept no records of destinations but he said he'd query his employees and find out more.

She lowered her eyes to him. "This is important. The man is a killer."

"I will start now. Yes, I will do that."

She believed him. Mostly because of his uneasy eyes when he had glanced at her proffered shield, which told her that not all his licenses were in seamless order; he would be certain to cooperate, in exchange for her tacit agreement not to send the Taxi and Limousine Commission to visit.

Turning south, she began walking back toward her car, parked at the White Castle lot. A few stops at locations that seemed like unlikely ones for leads: a wig shop, a nail salon, a windowless computer repair operation. Then onto the sidewalk again. Suddenly Sachs noted something from the corner of her eye. Movement. Not unusual here, though on this blustery day the sidewalks were largely deserted. But it had been a special sort of movement. Fast, deflecting. As if somebody didn't want to be seen.

She unbuttoned her jacket and, right hand lounging near her Glock, was looking around. She was at an auto repair operation with a number of vehicles, from motorcycles to box trucks, all parked helter-skelter, many of them dismantled to varying degrees. The person who'd moved in close by, if a person it was and not a shadow or swirl of trash or dust, had slipped between two of the larger trucks, a bright-yellow Penske rental and a twenty-foot white van whose only logo was two massive breasts in spray paint, bold red.