The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

Arnie added, "I know. A restaurant like that."

The couples sat and conversation meandered. Carole asked about Trudy and the schools they had planned for her (not as outrageous as it seemed, Ginnie had learned; Manhattan parents must plan early for their offsprings' education). The Bassetts were a few years younger--early thirties--and were just thinking about children now.

Carole added, "Next year sounds good. For conceiving, I mean. It'll be a convenient time. The company's putting a new maternity leave plan in place. A friend of mine in HR told me about it. He said he wasn't supposed to say anything, but I should wait to get pregnant." She laughed wickedly. "It's sort of like insider trading!" and studied Ginnie's face to see if she got the risque joke.

Got it and stepped on it till it was dead.

"Have to give up the wine," Carole had said. "That'll be hard."

"You won't miss it. Only eighteen months."

"Eighteen?" Carole asked.

"Breast-feeding."

"Oh. That. Well. It's pretty much optional nowadays, isn't it?"

The men talked about business and Washington and all the while examined their glasses as if the amber liquid inside were unicorn blood.

Carole rose, saying she wanted to show off a new print she'd gotten from her "favorite" gallery in SoHo. Ginnie wondered: How many galleries did she have?

They were halfway across the living room floor when a man's voice intruded.

"Hi, there, little one."

Everyone froze. Looking around.

"Aren't you a cute little petunia."

The baritone words oozed from the speaker of Ginnie's phone, sitting on the coffee table. Her wineglass tumbled to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces and she lunged for the Samsung.

Arnie said, "Wasn't the Waterford. Don't worry--"

"What is that?" Carole asked, nodding to the phone.

It was what Henry and Ginnie called the "Nanny"--actually a state-of-the-art baby monitor. The microphone was next to Trudy's crib and sensitive enough to pick up the child's breathing and heartbeat.

And could also pick up the voices of anyone in the room.

"You're coming with me, honeybun. I know somebody who wants to give you a whole new home."

Ginnie screamed.

She and Henry bolted for the door, flung it open and sprinted down the hall, followed by the Bassetts. Henry raged at her, "Did you lock the fucking window?"

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"Stay asleep, little one."

Ginnie's mind was a swirling tornado. Tears streamed and her heart vibrated in her chest. She lifted her phone and touched VOICE on the monitor app. She shouted into the microphone--it was a two-way system: "The police are here, you son of a bitch. Don't you touch her. I'll kill you if you touch her."

A pause, as perhaps the intruder was noticing the monitor. He chuckled. "Police? Really? I'm looking out Trudy's right window and there's not a cop to be found. Better be going. Sorry, your little dear's still snoozing; I'll have to say goodbye for her. Bye-bye, Mommy. Bye-bye Daddy."

Ginnie screamed again. Then: "Now! Now! Open the door!"

Henry fumbled the keys and Ginnie ripped them out of his hand, shoving him aside. She unlatched the door and pushed it in. She detoured into the kitchen to grab the first butcher knife in the block and charged to her daughter's room, swung it open, flipped the overhead light on.

Trudy stirred slightly at the intrusion. But didn't wake.