The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

- Insects, liquid, mechanical contact? Not likely factors.

- Lightning? Not likely factor.

- No access to Dept. of Investigation or FDNY reports or records at this time.

- No access to failing escalator at this time (under quarantine by DOI).

Archer explained to Whitmore that she'd found no other similar accidents--in escalators made by any company, not just those in the product line of Midwest Conveyance. Then Mel Cooper gave the lawyer the details of their attempts to get the door to pop open spontaneously due to some outside factor or a flaw in the manufacturing of the unit.

"None of the theories worked on the mock-up," Rhyme told him.

"It doesn't look very promising, I must say," Whitmore offered. His voice sounded no more discouraged at this bad news than it would be enthusiastic had the conclusions gone in their favor. Still, Rhyme knew he would be troubled. Whitmore wouldn't be a man who took setbacks easily.

Rhyme's eyes were scanning the scaffolding, up and down. He wheeled closer, staring, staring.

He was vaguely aware of Thom arriving with a tray: the baked goods and beverages. Vaguely aware of conversation among Cooper and Archer and Whitmore. Vaguely aware of the lawyer's monotonous voice replying to something Archer had asked.

Then silence.

"Lincoln?" Thom's voice.

"It's defective," Rhyme whispered.

"What's that?" his aide asked.

"It is defective."

Whitmore said, "Yes, Mr. Rhyme. The problem is we don't know how it's defective."

"Oh, yes we do."

"Scared me a bit there," Amelia Sachs snapped, her voice sharp as the wind. "Possibility the perp might've been around." She removed her hand from the grip of her Glock.

The person who'd come up behind her just after her mobile call to Rhyme was Ron Pulaski, not Unsub 40 or any other assailant.

The young officer said, "Sorry. You were on the phone. Didn't want to interrupt."

"Well, next time circle wide. Wave. Or something... You see anybody looking like our unsub nearby, a few minutes ago?"

"He's here?"

"Well, he does like his White Castle. And I saw somebody shadowing me. You see anything?" she repeated impatiently.

"Nobody like him. Just a couple kids. Looked like a drug trans going down. I headed for 'em but they took off."

They might've been what she'd seen. Dust. Seagull. Gangbangers swapping bills for C.

"Where were you? Tried the office and your mobile." She noted he'd changed clothes, swapping his uniform for street.

He was looking around too. "After you left I got a call. I had to talk to a CI, Harlem. The Gutierrez case."

Took her a moment. Enrico Gutierrez. Wanted in a homicide--possibly murder, more likely low-grade manslaughter--that had been one of the first cases Pulaski had run, with another detective in Major Cases. One drug dealer had killed another, so there was little energy to close the case. She guessed the confidential informant had stumbled on some leads and called Pulaski. She said, "That old thing? Thought the

DA'd given up. Hardly worth the time."

"Got the word to clean the docket. Didn't you see the memo?"

Sachs didn't pay attention to a lot of memos that circulated through One Police Plaza. Public relations, useless information, new procedures that would be rescinded next month. Reinvigorating cases like Gutierrez's didn't make a lot of sense but, on the other hand, it wasn't for line detectives or patrol officers to question. And if Pulaski wanted to move up in the world of policing, word from on high had to be heeded. And memos taken seriously.