The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

She looked around this apartment. The place seemed washed out; there were no lights on and the overcast illumination from the street filtered in. This was one interesting aspect of city life--so little direct sunlight. It bled into your home or office, bouncing off windows and walls and signs and storefronts and other facades. For only two or three hours a day were most city spaces illuminated by actual sun, apart from the abodes of the blessed rich, dwelling at lofty heights. Sachs had imagined a phrase some time ago: Living in reflected light. This seemed to describe the urban experience.

My, aren't we thoughtful today?

Wonder why...

Just then from the front door came a jangle of keys. One click, then another. In suburbia or rural America one can get away with a single lock. In cities, New York at least, a knob lock and dead bolt are the minimum.

A faint squeak sounded as the door pushed inward. And Sachs drew her Glock smoothly and aimed it, steady, on her target's chest.

"Amelia." A shocked whisper.

"Drop the bag, Nick. And get on the floor, facedown. I don't want either hand out of my sight for one second. Do you understand me?"

CHAPTER 56

Two Pulaskis sat in a deli in Greenwich Village, not far from the 6th Precinct.

The 6 was Tony Pulaski's house and the twin brothers came here pretty frequently.

He and Ron were nursing coffee in thick cups. Thick so that if they got banged up, which happened a lot and loudly in this dive of an eating establishment, they wouldn't chip so much.

Ron's, however, was missing a heart-shaped chunk from the lip. He minded the sharp edge with every sip.

"So," Tony was saying, "just to get this straight. You're running an unauthorized undercover op, using your own buy money, though you're not buying, or if you are you flush the evidence right after. You have no Major Cases or ESU backup. Is that about it?"

"Pretty much. Oh, and it's in the worst part of New York. Statistically."

"Good to add that to the mix," Tony said.

People would turn their eyes onto the brothers occasionally. They were used to it, being identical twins in nearly identical uniforms. Tony had a few more decorations. He was older.

By seven minutes.

Amelia Sachs had told Ron to have somebody watching his back when he went in for the meeting with the drug czar Oden, in his quest to find out what the man's connection was with Baxter and about this new drug Catch. And the only person Pulaski could think of was Tony.

"You're doing this for Lincoln, then?"

Ron nodded. Didn't need to repeat what Tony already knew. That after the head injury Ron would've left the force if Rhyme hadn't gotten him to stay--by saying bluntly, Get off your ass and get back to work. Rhyme hadn't played the look-at-me card: me, the gimp, still catching bad guys. He just said, "You're a good cop, Rookie. And you can be one hell of a good crime scene investigator if you stick to it. You know that people depend on you."

"Who?" the officer'd asked. "My family? I can get another job."

Rhyme had twisted his face up, in that way only Lincoln Rhyme could do, when people didn't get what he was saying. "Who do you think? I'm talking about the vics who're going to die because you were doing public relations or some shit and not walking the grid at scenes in the field. Do I have to spell it out? Get off your ass and get back to work. Last. Word. From. Me."

So Ron Pulaski had gotten back to work.

"What's your plan, you meet this Oden? Wait. Isn't that a god or something? Like in Germany?"

"Norse, I think. Spelled different."

"Does that mean he's from Norway? Wouldn't that be Norwegian?"

"I don't know."

"Oh. What's the plan?"

"I've got the name of somebody, some kid knows where he hangs."

"Oden the Norse dealer."