The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

Uncompromising...

The lights here in the cellar were working--it was on the second floor that the lamp had gone out. She wondered why the breaker had popped. She hadn't turned anything on, no iron or hair dryer. She'd been reading. And pop, out went the lights. But the house was old; maybe one of the breakers was bad.

Now the home line was ringing--an old-fashioned ring, ring, ring.

She paused. Well, there was voice mail on that one too. Telemarketer on the landline probably. She didn't use that phone much anymore, mostly her cell phone.

Welcome to the twenty-first century. What would Herman have thought?

Moving aside a few boxes to clear a path to the breaker box, she thought of Nick Carelli.

Rose supposed that the story was true, that he'd taken the blame for his brother. That seemed good, that seemed noble. But, as she'd told her daughter, if he'd really loved Amie, wouldn't he have found a better way to handle it? A cop had to accept that you did things the right way when it came to the law. Her husband had been a lifelong policeman, a portable--a foot patrolman--walking the beat in a number of places, mostly in Times Square. He'd done his job with calm determination and was never confrontational, defusing conflicts, not fanning flames. Rose could never see Herman taking the fall for anybody. Because, even if for a good cause, that would have been a lie.

A tightening of her lips. Another matter: Her daughter was wrong, wrong, wrong to have any contact with Nick at all. Rose had seen his eyes. He wanted them to get back together, clear as day. Rose wondered what Lincoln knew about it. Rose's advice would have been for Amie to drop Nick instantly, even if the mayor himself gave him a big, fat blue ribbon saying Pardon.

But such was the nature of children. You bore them, shaped them as best you could and then turned them out into the world--bundles that contained all your gold stars and all your cinders.

Amie would do the right thing.

Rose hoped.

Continuing toward the breaker box, she noticed the window next to it was quite clean, for a change. Maybe the gardener had washed it. She'd have to thank him when he came next week.

Rose passed some old boxes labeled A's High School. Rose laughed softly, remembering those crazy years, Amie spending her free hours on car repair and fielding modeling jobs for some of the top agencies in Manhattan (remembered how one time the seventeen-year-old girl had had to wear black polish at a fashion shoot not because the scene involved gothic chic but because it had proven impossible to dig out the General Motors grease out from under her nails).

Rose decided she'd take one of the boxes upstairs. What fun to look through it. They could do that together. Maybe tonight, after dinner.

And she began to slide boxes out of the way to clear a path to the breaker box.

CHAPTER 44

Sitting on a doorstep, in overalls and cap, I'm a workman once more, taking a workman's break. Newspaper and coffee at hand, lingering before I have to get back to the job.

And glancing through the basement window of Mrs. Rose Sachs's town house in idyllic Brooklyn. Ah, there she is, coming into view.

It's worked well, my plan. The other day, staking out Red's town house, just six blocks away, I'd spotted an elderly woman stepping from the police girl's doorway and locking the dead bolt. A clear resemblance. Aunt or mother. So I followed her here. A little touch of Google... and the relationship became clear.

Hi, Mom...

Red needs to be stopped and needs to be taught a lesson. Killing this woman will do the trick nicely.

Rose, a lovely name.

Soon to be a dry, dead flower.

I would have liked to use one of my trusted controller exploits again but the other day I scanned diligently and found no embedded circuits begging to be let into the network or shooting data heavenward. But, a

s I know from woodworking, sometimes you must improvise. Brazilian rosewood, short supply? So go with Indian. Not as rich. Not as voluptuously purple. Cuts differently. Smooths differently. But you make do.

And occasionally the pram, the dresser, the gingham-dressed bed works out better than you'd planned.

So. Let's see now if my improv here works out. It really was quite simple. I rigged a circuit from a garage door opener to short out a light in Rose's living room. A few minutes ago I pressed the opener button on the remote, which popped the breaker. And Rose started downstairs to find the box and reset it.

Normally she'd have an easy job of simply flicking the switch back into the on position.

Let there be light...

Except that won't happen. Because I also diverted the main line from the incoming wire to the circuit breaker box itself. The metal door is, in effect, a live wire, carrying 220 volts and many wonderful heart-stopping amps. Even if she's inclined to do the wise thing, the safe thing and cut off the main power before resetting the breaker, she'll still have to open the door to do that.