Sachs parked and walked along the tree-lined street to her town house, which was classic Brooklyn: brown brick, window frames painted dark green, fronted by a small verdant strip of grass. She let herself in, locked the door behind her and went into the front hallway, stripping off her jacket and unweaving the Glock holster embracing the weapon from her belt. She was a gun person, in her job and as a hobby, a champion in handgun competitions on police and private ranges, but at home, around family, she was discreet about displaying weapons.
She set the Glock in the closet, on a shelf near her jacket, then stepped into the living room. "Hi." She nodded a smile to her mother, who said goodbye to whomever she was speaking to on the phone and put the handset down.
"Honey."
Slim, unsmiling Rose Sachs was a contradiction.
This, the woman who would not speak to her daughter for months when she quit her fashion modeling job to go to the police academy.
This, the woman who would not speak to her husband for even longer for believing he'd encouraged that career change (he had not).
This, the woman whose moods would drive father and daughter out into the garage on Saturday mornings and afternoons to work on one of the muscle cars they both loved to soup up and drive.
This, the woman who was there every minute for her husband, Herman, as he faded to cancer and who made sure her daughter never wanted for a single thing, attended every parent-teacher conference, worked two jobs when necessary, overcame her uncertainty about Rhyme's and her daughter's relationship and quickly accepted then fully embraced him disability and all.
Rose made her decisions in life according to immutable rules of propriety and logic that were often beyond anyone else's comprehension. Yet you couldn't help but admire the steel within her.
Rose was contradictory in another way too. Her physical incarnation. On the one side, pale of skin from the weak stream of blood struggling through her damaged vessels, but fiery of eye. Weak yet with a powerful hug and vise grip of a handshake. If she approved of you.
"I was serious, Amie. You don't have to take me. I'm perfectly capable."
Yet she wasn't. And today she seemed particularly frail, short of breath and seemingly incapable of rising from the couch--a victim of the body's betrayal, which was how Sachs thought of her condition, since she was slim, rarely drank and had never smoked.
"Not a problem. After, we'll stop at Gristedes. I didn't have a chance on the way here."
"I think there are things in the freezer."
"I need to go anyway."
Then Rose was peering at her daughter with focused and--yes--piercing eyes. "Is everything all right?"
The woman's perceptive nature was undiminished by her physical malady.
"Tough case."
"Your Unsub Forty."
"That's right." And made tougher by the fact that her partner had goddamn stolen the best forensic man in the city out from underneath her--for a civil case, no less, which wasn't nearly as urgent as hers. It was true that Sandy Frommer's life and her son's would be drastically altered without some compensation from the company who'd changed their lives so tragically. But they wouldn't die, they wouldn't be living on the street, while Unsub 40 might be planning to kill again. Tonight. Five minutes from now.
And more galling: She was the one who'd convinced Rhyme to help the widow, setting him on his typically obsessive-compulsive trail of the defendant who'd been responsible for Greg Frommer's death.
Your initial reaction is going to be to say no but just hear me out. Deal?...
Sachs was examining the contents of the fridge and making a grocery list when the doorbell chimed, the first tone high, the second low.
She glanced at her mother, who shook her head.
Neither was Sachs expecting anyone. She walked toward the front hall, not bothering to collect her weapon, on the theory that most doers don't ring doorbells. Also: she kept a second Glock, a smaller one, the model 26, in a battered, faded shoe box beside the front door, one round chambered and nine behind it, a second mag nestling nearby. As she approached the door she removed the lid, turned the box to grabbing position.
Sachs looked out through the peephole. And froze to statue.
My God.
She believed a gasp issued from her throat. Her heart was pounding fiercely. A glance down and she replaced the lid on the camouflaged weapon case, then stood completely still for a moment, staring at her hollow eyes in a mirror set in a gilt frame on the wall.
Breathing deeply, once twice... Okay.
She unlatched the door.
Standing on the small stone porch was a man of about her age. Lean, his handsome face had not seen sun for a long time. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt under a denim jacket. Nick Carelli had been Sachs's lover before Rhyme. They'd met on the force--both cops, though in different divisions. They'd lived together, they'd even talked about getting married.
Sachs had not seen Nick in years. But she remembered vividly the last time they'd been together in person: a courthouse in Brooklyn. They'd exchanged brief glances and then the bailiffs had led him away, shackled, for transfer to state prison to begin his sentence for robbery and assault.
CHAPTER 13
It is an exciting concept," said Evers Whitmore in a tone that belied the descriptive participle.
Which didn't mean he wasn't truly ecstatic; it was just so very hard to read him.
He was referring to Rhyme's theory of the escalator's defect: It didn't matter whether the access panel opened because of metal fatigue, bad lubrication, a curious roach shorting out the servo motor, even someone's pushing the switch accidentally. Or an act of God. The defect was in the fundamental design of the unit--that if the door opened for any reason, the motor and gears should have stopped immediately. An automatic cutoff switch would have saved Greg Frommer's life.
"Had to be cheap to install," Juliette Archer said.
"I would imagine so," Whitmore said. Then he tilted his head and looked at the unit in Rhyme's hallway carefully. "I have another theory too. What does the access panel weigh?"
From Rhyme and Archer in unison: "Forty-two pounds."
"Not that heavy," the lawyer continued.
Archer: "The spring was a convenience, not a necessity."
Rhyme liked this one too. Double-barrel legal theories. "They should never have added a spring. Workmen could unlatch the panel and use a hook to pull it up, or just lift it. Good."
The attorney got a call on his mobile and listened for some time, asking questions and jotting notes in his perfectly linear handwriting.
When he disconnected he turned to Rhyme, Archer and Cooper. "I think we may have something here. But to understand it fully, you need some background in the law."
Not again...
Rhyme nonetheless lifted a please-continue eyebrow and the lawyer launched into yet another lecture.
"Law in America is a complicated creature, like a platypus," Whitmore said, removing and cleaning his glasses once again (Rhyme could only think of them as spectacles). "Part mammal, part reptile, part who knows what else?"
Rhyme sighed; Whitmore missed the impatience waft and kept up the narrative. Eventually he got to his point: The Frommer case would be largely determined by "case law," not legislative statutes, and the court would look to precedent--prior similar decisions--to decide if Sandy Frommer could win a judgment against Midwest.
With what hovered near enthusiasm in his voice, Whitmore said, "My paralegal, Ms. Schroeder, found no cases where escalators were considered defective because of the lack of interlocks. But she did unearth several cases of heavy industrial machinery--printing presses and die stampers--in which liability was found when the devices continued to work after access panels were opened. The facts are close enough to support a finding that Mr. Frommer's injury occurred because of a design defect."
Archer asked, "Is it possible to find escalators made by other companies that do have an interlock switch?"
&
nbsp; "A good question, Ms. Archer. Also researched by Ms. Schroeder. I'm afraid, though, that the answer is no. Because Midwest Conveyance seems to be the only escalator manufacturer on earth that makes a product with the ill-chosen feature of a pop-up access panel. However, she did find an elevator manufacturer whose cars have a cutoff--to apply the brakes in the event the car starts to move when a worker is in the shaft with the access panel open."
"And that would be a good case to cite," Archer said, "since 'escalator' sounds a lot like 'elevator.'"
Impressing Whitmore once again apparently. "It does indeed. I've found there's an art to subliminally guiding the jury to favor your client. Now, again, I don't intend to go to trial but I'll include a reference to those cases when I contact Midwest Conveyance about settlement. Now we have our theory. A sound one. A good one. I'll spend the next few days preparing the complaint. After we file I'll subpoena the company's engineering records, history of complaints, safety reports. If we're lucky we might find a CBA memo that shoots them in the foot."
Archer asked what that was; apparently her TV show legal education had failed her on this point. As for Rhyme, he had no clue either.
Whitmore added, "Cost-benefit analysis. If a company estimates that ten customers a year will die because of its carelessness in building a product and that it will have to pay out wrongful death judgments of ten million dollars in compensation but that it will cost twenty million dollars to fix the problem ahead of time, the manufacturer may choose to release the product anyway. Because it's economically more sound."
"Companies actually make that calculus?" Archer asked. "Even though they're signing death warrants for those ten people?"
"You may have heard of U.S. Auto. Not too long ago. An engineer wrote an internal memo that there could be gasoline leaks, resulting in catastrophic fires, in a very small percentage of sedans. It would cost X amount to fix it. The management decided it was cheaper to pay the wrongful death or personal injury judgments. And they went with that decision. Of course the company's out of business now. The memo came to light and they never recovered from the public relations disaster. The moral of the story, of course, is--"
Archer said, "To make the ethically right choice."
Whitmore said, "--to never commit decisions like that to paper."
Rhyme wondered if he was joking. But there was no smile accompanying the words.
Whitmore continued, "I'm assembling information on Mr. Frommer's earning potential--how he would have returned to a white-collar job like he used to have. Managerial. To increase our claim for future earning potential. I'll take depositions from the wife and his friends, former fellow workers. Expert medical witnesses on the pain and suffering he experienced. I want to hit Midwest with everything we can. A case like this, I believe, they'll do whatever they must to avoid trial."
His phone hummed and he glanced at the screen.
"It's Ms. Schroeder, in my office. Maybe some new cases we can use." He answered. "Yes?"
Rhyme noticed that the attorney had stopped moving. Completely. Not a twist of neck, shift of weight. He stared at the floor. "You're sure? Who told you?... Yes, they're credible." At last a splinter of emotion crossed the man's face. And it wasn't positive. He disconnected. "We have a problem." He looked around the room. "Is there any way we could set up a Skype call? And I need to do so immediately."
"You have a minute?" Nick Carelli asked Amelia Sachs.
She was thinking, manically because of her shock at his presence, how odd it was that he didn't look much different, all these years later. All these years spent in prison. Only his posture had changed. Still in good shape otherwise, he was now slouching.
"I... I don't..." Stammering and hating herself for it.
"I was going to call. Thought you'd hang up."
Would she have? Of course. Probably.
"I came by, gave it a shot."
"Are you...?" Sachs began. And thought: Finish your goddamn sentences.
He laughed. That low, happy laugh she remembered. Took her right back, a wormhole to the past.
Nick said, "No, I didn't escape. Good behavior. Called me a model prisoner. Parole board, unanimous."
Summoning reason, at last. If she got rid of him fast, maybe he'd try to come back later. Hear him out now. Be done with it.
She stepped outside and closed the door. "I don't have much time. I've got to get my mother to the doctor's."
Shit. Why say that? Why tell him anything?
His brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"
"Some heart issues."
"Is she--"
"I really don't have a lot of time, Nick."
"Sure, sure." Looking her over fast. Then back to her eyes. "I read about you in the paper. You've got a partner now. The guy used to be head of IR."
Investigation Resources, the old name of the division that Crime Scene was part of. "I met him a couple times. Legend. Is he really...?"
"He's disabled, yes." Silence.
He seemed to sense niceties were clinkers. "Look, I need to talk to you. Tonight, maybe tomorrow, could we get coffee?"
No. Gate closed, window shut, water over dam, under bridge.
"Tell me now."
Money, a recommendation for a job? He was never getting back on the force; a felony conviction precluded that.
"Okay, I'll make it fast, Ame..."
Using his pet name for her grated.
He took a breath. "I'll just lay it all out for you. The thing is, about my conviction? The 'jacking, assault? You know all the details."
Of course she did. The crime was a bad one. Nick had been busted for being behind a string of hijackings of merchandise and prescription drug shipments. In the last one, before he was caught, he'd beaten a driver with his pistol. The Russian immigrant, father of four, had been in the hospital for a week.
He leaned forward, eyes drilling into hers. He whispered, "I never did it, Ame. Never did a single thing I was arrested for."
Her face flushed, hearing this, and her heart began throbbing. She glanced back through the curtained window that bordered the door. No sign of her mother. She'd also looked away to buy a moment to wrestle with what she'd just heard. Finally she turned back. "Nick, I don't know what to say. Why is this coming up now? Why are you here?"
And her heart continued beat frantically, like the wings of a bird cupped in your hands. She thought: Could it be true?
"I need your help. Not a soul in the world is going help me but you, Ame."
"Don't call me that. That's the old life. That's not now."
"Sorry. I'll tell you fast, I'll explain." A lengthy breath, in and out. Then: "Donnie was the one working the hijackings. Not me."
Nick's younger brother.
She could hardly comprehend this. The quiet one of the two siblings was a dangerous criminal? She recalled that the hijacker had worn a ski mask and was never identified by the truck driver.
Nick continued, "He had his problems. You know."
"The drugs. Drinking, sure. I remember." The two brothers were so very different, not even resembling each other. Donnie was almost rat-like in manner and nature, Sachs remembered thinking back then, feeling uneasy with the spontaneous image. In addition to the looks, Nick got the confidence, Donnie the uncertainty and anxiety--and the need to numb both of those. She'd tried to engage him in conversation when they went out to dinner, tell jokes, ask about his continuing-education classes but he'd grow shy and evasive. And occasionally hostile. Suspicious. She believed he was envious of his elder brother for having a former fashion model girlfriend. She remembered too how he would disappear into the men's room and return buoyant and talkative.
Nick continued, "The evening it all went down, the bust... Remember, you were on night watch?"
She nodded. As if she could ever forget.
"I got a call from Mom. She thought Donnie'd started using again. I asked around and heard he might be meeting somebody near the Third Street Bridge. Had some deal going down."
The ancient bridge, over a hundred years old, spanned the Gowanus, a sludgy canal in Brooklyn.
"I knew something bad was going to happen, if it hadn't already. That 'hood? Had to be. I headed over there right away. I didn't see Donnie but around the corner was the truck, the semi, parked, the doors open. The driver was on the ground, bleeding from his ears, the truck was empty. I called nine one one from a pay phone, anonymous, reported it. Then I went straight to Donnie's apartment. There he was, stoned. And he wasn't alone." He was now staring into her eyes; his were fierce. She had to look down. "Delgado, remember him? Vinnie Delgado."
Vaguely. A gangbanger in BK. Bay Ridge, maybe. Not really connected, not high up anyway. A piece of scum, acting like the Godfather, even though his base of operation was a dive of a magazine/tobacco store. Dead, she also believed--executed for encroaching on a serious crew's turf.
"He got Donnie to work for him. Helping Delgado's crew 'jack and move some stuff off trucks, get it to the fences, middlemen. Promised Donnie all the 'ludes and coke he wanted."
Sachs was furiously assessing. Then told herself: Stop. Truth or lies, none of this was her business.
"Delgado and his minder told me there was a problem. Apparently one of the Five Families wasn't happy about the 'jackings Delgado had been running, the Gowanus in particular. They'd had their eye on that truck. Huge score of prescription drugs, remember? Delgado said somebody needed to take the fall. He gave me two options. Point the finger at Donnie, in which case Delgado would have to take him out, since he'd spill everything in prison. Or... me. Somebody who could do the time and keep his mouth shut." A shrug. "How's that for a choice?"
"You didn't contact OCT?"
He laughed. The NYPD Organized Crime Task Force was good--but it was good at marshaling big cases against high-profile mobsters. They could have done little to keep Donnie Carelli alive.
"What did Donnie say?"
"When he sobered up I talked to him. I told him what Delgado had said. He was crying, gone all to pieces. What you'd think. He was desperate, begging me to save him. I said I'd do it for him and Mom. But it was his last chance. He had to get clean."
"What happened then?"
"I took some of the merch Donnie had and some money, threw it in my car. Wiped the piece Donnie had, the one he'd beaten the driver with, and got my own prints on it. Then made another anonymous call, reported my tag number being at the scene.
The Steel Kiss Page 11
