The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

nued, "We've got fertilizer and herbicides, too, but you don't see rolling pastures on Broadway in Midtown. I don't mind speculating but I'm not guessing. No, we'll have to leave it up to a manhunt at this point."

"Keep looking," she said. "I'll call you when I'm on scene."

Sachs disconnected before he could respond and then veered off the highway and sped west onto surface streets.

Intersections... damn intersections.

Slamming down clutch and brake, squinting against the blue flashing light on the dash.

Sachs would hit the horn with one hand, downshift with the other, then grab the wheel rim again with both.

Clear right, clear left. Go! Go!

This process repeated a half-dozen times and only twice did the frantic Manhattan traffic drive her onto the curb, though three times or possibly four she came within inches of de-fendering a car gridlocked in her path.

Interesting, she reflected as she hit a clear stretch. Unsub 40 was hanging out in her father's beat. Herman Sachs had walked the streets of Times Square for years, concentrating mostly on the Deuce, 42nd Street, long before it morphed into the Disney theme park it was today. Fact was, Sachs missed the hood's porn, skin-game, honky-tonk days, as she suspected her father would have too.

Her mobile buzzed.

Manual transmission, phone? She chose the Samsung over fourth gear and let the transmission complain. "Sachs."

"Amelia. It's Bobby Killow. Patrol. MTN. Captain Rhyme gave me your number. About your unsub."

"I remember you, Bobby."

Killow had been a cherubic, energetic young patrol officer in Midtown North whom she'd worked with occasionally back in her pre-detective days. He was probably much the same now, though the "young" wouldn't apply as seamlessly. "What've you got?"

"I'm on Four-Six, been canvassing. A few people think they've seen him here. Last five minutes."

Piercing the heart of the Theater District, 46th Street ran from river to river.

"Where exactly?"

"Few doors west of Broadway. Ducked into a souvenir store. Was looking suspicious, the wit said. Staring out the windows, like he was thinking he was being tailed. The clerk's words. When it seemed safe or clear or something--the clerk again--he stepped outside and vanished west."

"I... well."

"What was that?"

That had been a scooter driver, as oblivious as those in Rome, zipping out into her lane to see who would win the contest between a Ford Torino and a tinny Vespa knockoff.

Sachs had controlled the skid rather well, though she nearly ended up under a garbage truck. Then, tires spinning, on the way again.

"Bobby, descrip of the perp?"

"Dark-blue or black windbreaker, no logo, jeans, baseball cap in red or green--that's witnesses for you. Dark backpack."

"K. I'm there in five."

In fact, it took her three. She skidded to a stop at Broadway and 46th beside three Midtown North cruisers. Nodded to Bobby Killow. Yep, angelic as ever. She knew several of the octet of officers standing nearby too and greeted them.

Already the vultures were gathering: the tourists with mobile phones shooting away.

Hum of hers. Ron Pulaski was calling.

"'Lo, Ron. Where are you? In position?"

"Right, Amelia." The young officer explained he was with a team of four patrol and six Emergency Service officers. They were on 46th Street, near the Hudson River.