The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

Finally Sachs, still studying the caisson, said, "It's connected to a case. The past couple of months."

"But not Unsub Forty?"

"No." It seemed that a thought hovered. And flitted away. A hiss of breath at the frustration. "Might've been one of mine, might've been another in Major Cases and I saw the file. I'll check." In a gloved hand she lifted the delicate creation out of the plastic bag and set it on an examination sheet. With her phone she took a picture and sent it off. "I'll have somebody in Queens look through the logs of evidence collected in the past few months, see if anything shows up. Let's hope they do better with that than our missing White Castle napkins."

She rebagged the toy. "Okay, you two keep going here. I'll get to Alicia's now. And the warehouse where he killed Boyle. Walk the grid." Then she was out the door. A moment later the powerful chug of her Ford's engine resonated along Central Park West. He believed it shook one of the large plate-glass windows in the parlor. A falcon looked up from its nest on the window ledge, peeved at the sound, which seemed to have disturbed the fledglings.

Rhyme turned once more to the miniatures. He thought: Why would somebody so talented, who could make such beautiful things, who had such skill, turn to homicide?

Archer too, close to Rhyme, was looking over Vernon Griffith's creations. "So much work. So fastidious." Silence between them momentarily. She continued her examination, eyes on a tiny chair. Absently Archer said, "I used to knit."

He wasn't sure how to respond to that. After a beat: "Sweaters, things like that?"

"Some. More art, hangings. Like tapestries."

Rhyme was glancing at the photos of Griffith's apartment. "Landscapes?" he asked.

"No, abstract."

He observed a softening of her facial muscles. Wistfulness, sadness. He fought to find something to say. He finally settled on: "You could do photography. Everything's digital now anyway. Just pressing buttons. Or voice-commanding buttons. Half the young people out there are as sedentary as we are."

"Photography. It's a thought. I might."

A moment later Rhyme said, "But you won't."

"No," she said with a smile. "Like if I have to give up drinking I won't switch to fake wine or beer. I'll take up tea and cranberry juice. All or nothing. But it'll be the best tea or cranberry juice I can find." A pause and she asked, "You ever get impatient?"

He laughed, a sound that contained his stating-the-obvious grunt.

She continued, "It's like... tell me if this is what's it's like: You don't move, so your body isn't bleeding off the tension, and it seeps up into your mind."

"That's exactly what it's like."

"What do you do?" she asked.

"Stay busy. Keep the mind going." He tilted his head toward her. "Riddles. Make your life about solving riddles."

A deep breath and a look of pain, then one of panic crossed her face. "I don't know if I can handle it, Lincoln. I really don't." Her voice caught.

Rhyme wondered if she'd start to cry. She wasn't the sort for whom tears came easily, he guessed. But he knew too that the condition she was facing pushed you to places you couldn't imagine. He'd had years to build up a sinewy guard around his heart.

New to the game...

He swiveled his chair to face her. "Yes. You. Can. I'd tell you if it wasn't in your core. You know me by now. I don't sugarcoat. I don't lie. You can do it."

Her eyes closed and she inhaled deeply once. Then she was looking at him again, her remarkable blue eyes driving into his, which were far darker. "I'll take your word for it."

"You have to. You're my intern, remember? Everything I say is gold. Now let's get to work."

The moment passed and together they began to catalog what Sachs had recovered at Griffith's apartment: hairs, toothbrush (for the DNA), reams of handwritten notes, books, clothing, printouts on hacking and technical details about breaking into secure networks. Even pictures of fish in an aquarium (Sachs had sifted in the sand at the bottom for buried clues--this was a common hiding place--but found none). Many items were from what turned out to be his profession--making and selling the miniatures: stores of wood and metal, tiny hinges, wheels, paint, varnish, pottery. Many, many tools. Had they been sitting on the shelves of Home Depot or Crafts 4 Everyone, they'd be benign; here the blades and hammers took on a sinister air.

The Steel Kiss...

Since the documentation offered no leads to Griffith's whereabouts Rhyme and Archer concentrated on the trace evidence from his apartment.

But after a half hour of "dust work," as Archer rather charmingly dubbed their efforts, referring to Edmond Locard, she wheeled back from the envelopes and bags and slides. She glanced at Griffith's notebook, the manifesto. Then was staring out the window. Finally she turned back to him. "You know, Lincoln, part of me doesn't believe it."

"What's that?"