The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

They had returned from Rose's X-ray and EKG appointment--everything was on track for the surgery in a few days--and were sitting in the sunny kitchen of Sachs's Carroll Garden town house. Rose was living both here and in her own home, six blocks away. When the woman had appointments it was easier for her to stay here, since her doctor and the hospital where the bypass surgery would occur were nearby. And she'd recover here, after the operation.

"I don't know about Nick." Rose took the NYPD souvenir mug, containing the tea, and added a shot of half-and-half. Sachs was working on a half-empty Starbucks. Tepid, like Nick's. She nuked it back to steaming and sat down across from Rose.

"Was a shock to me. Him showing up." Sachs examined her mother, wearing a skirt and blouse, hose, a thin gold chain, as befit a thin neck. As always, she'd dressed up for her doctor's appointment as if going to church. "I'm still not sure what to think."

"How was it for him, inside the joint?" Rose could have a sense of humor. This had developed later in life.

"We haven't talked about it. No reason to. We don't have anything in common anymore. He's like a stranger. I don't talk to store clerks or somebody I meet on the street about personal things. Why would I talk to him?"

Sachs sensed she was explaining too much, and too quickly. Rose seemed to make this observation too.

"I just hope it works out for him," Sachs said, ending the conversation. "I should get back to Lincoln's. Never had a perp like this one."

"He's a domestic terrorist? That's what the press is saying. And did you hear that story on MSNBC? People aren't taking escalators or elevators. A man had a heart attack in an office building in Midtown, walking up ten flights. He didn't trust the elevator."

"No. I missed that. Did he die?"

"No."

Another victim to rack up for Unsub 40.

She asked, "What do you want me to pick up for dinner? Wait, is Sally coming over?"

"Not tonight. She has bridge."

"You want to go? I can run you over to her place."

"No, not feeling like it."

Sachs thought back to the time when her mother and father had been queen and king of the neighborhood bridge club. What a time that was... Cocktails flowed, half of the crowd smoked like a tire fire, and the play for the last few hands was laughably inept, thanks to outrageous strategies concocted in gin and rye hazes. (Sachs had relished those party nights; she could sneak out and hang with the other kids in the neighborhood and even go for a joyride or set up a drag race. Amelia Sachs had been, her own admission, a bad girl.)

The doorbell rang. Sachs walked to the door and looked out.

Well.

Eased the door open.

"Hi," she said to Nick Carelli. Her voice must've sounded cautious. He smiled uncertainly.

"Took a chance and drove by. Saw your car."

She eased back and he stepped into the hallway. He was in black jeans, a light-blue dress shirt and navy sport coat. This was dressing up for Nick Carelli. He was carrying a large shopping bag and she smelled garlic and onions.

"I can't stay," he said, handing the bag over. "I brought you and Rose lunch."

"You didn't call."

"No. I wasn't far away. At a restaurant."

"Well." Sachs looked down. "Thanks, but--"

"Best lasagna in the city."

The "but" hadn't referred to the food. She wasn't sure what it was meant to aim at. She glanced down at the bag.

Nick lowered his voice. "I had a breakthrough last night. In the files you gave me. I found a lead. A guy I think can confirm I didn't have anything to do with the 'jacking."

"Really? It was in the files?" Treading water verbally here. His unexpected arrival had shaken her.