The Steel Kiss (Lincoln Rhyme 12)

The book is photographs of her miniature sets. Names like Three Room Dwelling and The Pink Bathroom. Every one features a doll of a corpse where a corpse actually lay, bloodstains where the bloodstains really were.

I think suddenly of Red. What I found out about her, Ms. Shopper Amelia Sachs, is that she specializes in crime scene work. Two thoughts: She would probably appreciate the book.

The other: A miniature diorama in which a doll representing her shapely body lies on the floor of her bedroom. Skull cracked, red hair redder from the blood.

We laugh at some of the perfect detail Lee included in her work. I put the book away.

"Would you like one?" I ask.

She turns. "One what?"

I nod toward the shelves. "A miniature."

"I... I don't know. Aren't those part of your inventory?"

"Yes. But the buyers will wait. What do you want? Any one in particular?"

She leans forward and her eyes settle on a baby carriage.

"It's so perfect." She offers her second smile.

There are two perambulators. One made on commission and one I've done just because I enjoy making baby carriages. Couldn't say why. Babies and children do not, never have, never will figure in my life.

She points to the one that's under commission. The better one. I pick it up and hand it to her. She touches it carefully and repeats, "It's perfect. Every part. Look at how the wheels turn! It even has springs!"

"Have to keep the baby comfy," I say.

"Thank you, Vernon." She kisses my cheek. And turns away, letting the sheet slither to the floor while she lies down on the bed, gazing up at me.

I debate. An hour won't delay me significantly.

Besides, it seems humane to give the person I'm going to kill today a little more time on God's earth.

"I want that damn thing out of here," Rhyme was grumbling to Thom, nodding toward the escalator.

"Your Exhibit A? What am I supposed to do? It's five tons of industrial machinery."

Rhyme was truly irritated by the device's presence. A reminder that what, yes, might very well have been Exhibit A was going to be no such thing.

Thom was looking for the paperwork that came with the unit. "Call Whitmore. Mister Whitmore. He arranged it."

"I did call. He didn't get back to me."

"Well, Lincoln, don't you think it might be best to let him handle it? Or do you really want me to look up 'partial escalator removal services' on Craigslist?"

"What's Craigslist?"

"We'll wait for the lawyer to contact the company. At least his people knew what they were doing. The floors aren't actually scratched at all. Surprise to me."

The doorbell rang and Rhyme was pleased to see that Juliette Archer had arrived. He noted that she was alone, no brother in tow. He suspected she'd insisted he drop her off on the sidewalk to negotiate the "intimidating" ramp on her own. No babying allowed.

He wondered what assignment to give her. There wasn't anything that got his heart racing. Academic research for a school of criminalistics in Munich, a position paper on mass spectrometry for publication here in a scientific journal he contributed to, a proposal about extracting trace evidence from smoke.

"Morning," she said, wheeling into the parlor. Smiling to Thom.

"Welcome back," the aide said.

Rhyme offered, "Do you speak German, by any chance?"