The Steel Kiss

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Let's see if the company or the city is ordering inspections of similar models."

  "Yes, good." He hadn't thought of this.

  "Computer I can use?"

  Rhyme pointed out a desktop nearby. He knew she could use her right hand on the controller but keyboarding was not a possibility. "Could you set Juliette up with a headset and microphone. For computer three."

  "Sure. Over here."

  Her self-confidence suddenly dimmed and for the first time since he'd met her, Archer seemed uneasy, presumably for having to rely on someone else's help, other than her brother's. She was looking at the computer as if it were a stray dog whose tail was not wagging. Arguing with Rhyme about starting her internship had been different. They were equals. Here she was having to rely on an able-bodied person. "Thank you. I'm sorry."

  "This is the least of my trials and tribulations." Thom fitted her with the headset and a touchpad for her right hand. Then he booted up the computer. "You can print out anything you find. But we don't do that much. Easier for everybody to use the monitors." Rhyme used a page-turning frame but that was mostly for books, magazines or documents that arrived in hard-copy form.

  "Those are some of the biggest screens I've ever seen." Archer's good cheer had returned in part. She murmured something into the headset and Rhyme saw the screen change as a search engine popped up. "I'll get to work. First, everything I can find about the escalator itself."

  Mel Cooper called, "Do you want the model and serial number?"

  "Model is MCE-Seventy-Seven," Archer said absently, staring at the screen. "I've got the serial too. Memorized them from the manufacturer's info plate when I came in just now."

  And she slowly recited the lengthy numbers into the microphone. The computer responded dutifully to her low, melodic voice.

  CHAPTER 11

  Still playing infrastructure paparazzo with his digital camera, Mel Cooper continued to prowl about within the scaffolding enshrouding the escalator.

  "How did they get it in?" he called. "This thing is huge."

  "Removed the roof, cut holes in all the floors, lowered it in by helicopter. Or maybe it was angels or superheroes. I forget."

  "Legitimate question, Lincoln."

  "Irrelevant question. Therefore illegitimate. What are you seeing?"

  "Give me a minute."

  Rhyme sighed.

  Speed. They needed to move fast. To help Sandy Frommer, of course. But also, as Archer had thought and Whitmore had confirmed, to get a settlement before spurious plaintiffs appeared, hoping for a windfall. He had explained: "The other passengers on the escalator who leapt off. The injuries were minor--or nonexistent--but that doesn't mean they won't sue. And then," the lawyer had added, "there'll be those who claim emotional distress because they simply saw a gruesome accident and their lives will be changed forever. They'll never get on an escalator again... Nightmares. Eating disorders. Loss of income from taking workdays off. Yes, it's true. Nonsense, but true. This is the world of personal injury law."

  Archer now called from the computer station she was parked in front of: "The city's suspended the operation of all MCE-Seventy-Seven models pending inspection. Reading from the Times. There are fifty-six installed in New York City, nearly a thousand elsewhere. No other reports of malfunctions."

  Interesting. Rhyme wondered if an inspection might find something beneficial to their case. He wondered how fast it would be concluded.

  Finally Cooper joined Rhyme and slipped the SD memory card out of the Sony camera. He loaded it into a computer slot and called up the pictures on a high-def monitor. The screen was big enough that dozens of images fit side by side.

  Rhyme moved closer.

  "Here're the parts that seem relevant." The tech stepped to the screen and pointed. "The panel that popped up. It serves as both a step--the top, immobile step--and an access panel for maintenance and repairs. Hinged on the far side, away from the escalator stairs. I'd guess the weight about forty or so pounds."

  Archer called, "Forty-two." She'd found specifications, she explained, in a Midwest Conveyance installation and maintenance manual.

  Cooper continued, "And it's assisted by a spring so when the catch is released the door pops up about sixteen inches."

  Consistent with Sachs's observation and photos.

  "A worker can lift it all the way from there and use a rod to keep it open--like the sort used to support car hoods." Pointing, Cooper indicated images he'd taken. "To close the door workers lower it by pushing it down or, I'd guess, standing on it, until a triangular bracket on the bottom of the door meets a spring-fed pin on a fixed bar. Here. The bracket pushes the pin in until the panel's all the way down and the pin snaps into a hole to lock it closed."

  "How is it released?" Rhyme asked.

  "Push-button switch in a receptacle behind a locked cover on the side of the escalator. Here. Circuit runs to the servo motor here. It retracts the pin, releasing the access panel."

  "So," Rhyme mused. "What could have caused it to pop? Ideas? Come on, think."

  Archer: "The latching bracket broke off."

  But an examination of Sachs's pictures seemed to show that it was still attached to the bottom of the access panel.

  "Maybe the pin snapped," Rhyme said. "The de Havilland Comet. Nineteen fifties."

  Both Archer and Cooper looked his way.

  He explained: "First commercial jetliner. Three of them exploded in midair because of metal fatigue--a window failed at high altitude. Fatigue is one of the main mechanical failure modes. Other modes are buckling, corrosion, fouling, fracture, impact, stress, thermal shock, a few more. Fatigue occurs when a material--could be metal or anything else--is subject to cyclical loading."

  "The jetliner," Archer offered. "Pressurization over and over."

  "That's what happened. Right. In that case, there were square windows and doors; the stress was concentrated in the corners. The redesigned planes had round ports and windows. Less stress and fatigue. So the question here is, did the opening and closing of the access panel on the escalator lead to fatigue on the part of the latching pin?"

  Cooper highlighted the latch. "No signs of wear on this one but it's new. I wonder how old the original was, how many times the door had been opened and closed."

  Rhyme felt once more the frustration at not having the actual evidence before him.

  He heard a sound of a jostled table as Juliette Archer maneuvered closer to him, clumsily manipulating the chair's controller with her right finger; handling a two-hundred-pound wheelchair deftly took considerable practice.

  New to the game...

  "The one that failed, in the mall, was six years old," she said.

  "How did you find that out?"

  "Press releases from Midwest Conveyance, announcing they'd been awarded the contract for the escalators at the mall. Seven years ago. Construction occurred the next year. According to maintenance recommendations, the unit should be inspected and lubricated five times a year. Allowing for breakdowns and unplanned repairs, I'd say the door was opened and closed fifty times."

  Rhyme looked at Cooper's picture of the pin holding the triangular bracket that kept the panel shut. It was only about an inch long but thick. It seemed unlikely that the pin would fatigue with that limited number of openings.

  Archer added, "And one of the maintenance steps is to examine the pin for excessive wear. Presumably for fatigue too."

  "What's it made of? Steel?"

  Archer said, "That's right. All the escalator parts are steel, except for a few housings that had nothing to do with the accidents. And the exterior pieces. They're aluminum and carbon fiber."

  She certainly had attacked the manual and specification sheet quickly.

  Rhyme said, "Even if it was in good shape, the latch might have come loose and the pin might not have fully reseated itself. Vibrations could have worked it loose."

  Maybe... Lot of speculation in this case.

  "Who made the locking mecha
nism?"

  Without looking at the documents she'd loaded onto her screen she said, "The manufacturer. Midwest Conveyance. Wasn't a separate company."

  Rhyme said, "Possibly metal fatigue, possibly maintenance issues. What else might've caused it to open?"

  "Could somebody," Archer asked, "have hit the switch accidentally or as a prank?"

  Cooper called up some pictures. "Here's the switch. It's on the outside of the unit, on the bottom, near the emergency cutoff." He pointed. "But it's behind a small locked door."

  Rhyme said, "Amelia checked on that. She looked over the CCTV at the mall. She said nobody was near the access switch when the panel opened."

  Archer's face screwed up with an ironic frown. "And that video?"

  "The Department of Investigations impounded it."

  She cocked her head as her eyes slipped to Cooper. "We're civilians but you're NYPD, right?"

  "I'm not here," he said quickly.

  "You're--"

  "I'm unofficial. On vacation. If I were to get official investigative material now I'll be sent on permanent vacation."

  Scanning the photographs. "What else could be the culprit?" Rhyme mused.

  "Okay. No one pushed the button intentionally. Maybe a short circuit or other electrical problem activated the switch. It tripped the motor--it's called a servo--and that retracted the pin and popped the door."

  "Let's look at the wiring."

  Mel expanded the pictures he'd taken inside the escalator. Rhyme noted that a wire ran along the interior wall from the push-button switch on the outside. The switch wire ended in a plug inserted in one of the outlets on the side of the servo unit inside.

  "The connections're exposed," Cooper said.

  "They are indeed," Rhyme said. He gave a brief smile.

  An instant later Archer too grinned. "I get it. A bit of metal or foil or something conductive might've drifted onto the plug and completed the connection. The servo pulled the pin back and the door popped up." She added, "I couldn't find any similar incidents involving this model escalator. Escalators can be dangerous. But usually it's getting clothes or shoes caught in the mechanism. That happens more than you'd think. A hundred and thirty-seven people died last year in escalator accidents around the world. The worst single disaster, some years ago, was an explosion in the London Underground. Dust and particles accumulated and then caught fire and blew up. Like a grain elevator explosion. Have you ever seen those?"

  "They don't happen in Manhattan very often," Rhyme said absently, mulling over what she'd told him.

  "I have," offered Mel Cooper. "Seen one."

  Rhyme grimaced at the irrelevance. "And the defect is--"

  "That Midwest Conveyance didn't shield the plugs," Archer said. "Would have been easy. Recess them, put them under a covering. Something like that."

  Cooper offered, "Or they shouldn't use plugs at all. Hardwire the switch and the servo motor. Maybe the company wanted to save money."

  The first hint there might have been punitive-level behavior on the part of the manufacturer.

  "Who makes--?"

  Archer answered his question before he finished it. "Just like the locking mechanism. Both the servo motor and the switch were made by Midwest Conveyance. Their component parts unit. And a division. Not a subsidiary. They can't hide behind the corporate veil."

  Cooper said, "I thought you were an epidemiologist."

  "Boston Legal. Believe me. It's really very good. I also like Better Call Saul."

  Cooper said, "L.A. Law too."

  "Oh, it's good."

  Please...

  Rhyme was puzzling out how foreign substances could have tricked the servo motor into opening the door.

  "I have an idea," Archer said.

  "What's that?"

  "You're a scientist. You like empirical evidence."

  "The highest deity in my pantheon," Rhyme said, not much caring how pretentious it sounded.

  She nodded toward the escalator. "Does it work?"

  "The drive motor, gears, servo motor and switch do. And it's plugged in."

  "So let's experiment. Turn it on and try to get the panel to open."

  Rhyme had a thought. He turned toward the kitchen and shouted, "Thom! Thom! I need a drink."

  The aide appeared in the doorway. "A little too early, as I recently pointed out."

  "Too early for a Coke?"

  "You never drink soda. There isn't any in the house."

  "But if I recall, there's a deli right around the corner."

  The hardware stores--there were two of them within hoofing distance of the White Castle--had been a bust.

  No one recalled seeing a customer fitting the description of Unsub 40. And neither of them sold ball-peen hammers. So for the past hour Amelia Sachs had pounded the sidewalk, canvassing the other shops along the windblown, littered sidewalks of this workaday 'hood: the body shops, auto parts stores, phone card outlets, car services, wig stores, taquerias, dozens of other places. One clerk in a drugstore was "pretty sure" he'd seen, on the street, a man matching the description of Unsub 40 but couldn't remember exactly where he'd been, what he'd been wearing, if he'd been carrying anything.

  The sighting possibly confirmed White Castle Charlotte's belief that he'd come in this direction. But as to a destination--that was still a mystery. And of course there were bus stops and subway stations he might have walked to, or garages where he might park his car--even if he hadn't used the hamburger joint's lot. She also checked for CCTVs in the commercial outlets but none of the lenses were focused on the sidewalk, just on the doors, parking lots and interiors. Besides, there were scores of cameras and even if the unsub had stepped inside a surveilled store or taken a shortcut through a parking lot, she didn't have the manpower or time to go through hundreds of hours of video. Todd Williams's killing was a terrible crime but it wasn't the only terrible crime within the five boroughs of New York City. In this business you always had to balance.

  And the balance rule applied to your personal life too.

  Mobile phone out. She made a call.

  "Amie."

  "Mom. How you feeling?"

  "Good," Rose Sachs said, which, from Rose Sachs, might mean good or might mean bad or might mean any stop in between. The woman didn't let a lot out.

  "Be there soon," Sachs told her.

  "I can get a cab."

  Sachs chuckled. "Mom."

  "All right, dear. I'll be ready."

  Looping back, she canvassed stores and shops on the opposite side of the boulevard.

  And finally had a solid hit: at a gypsy cab company. She gave the hirsute, lanky manager a description of their unsub and the man immediately frowned and said in a thick Middle Eastern accent, "Yes, I think so. Very skinny man. Had big bag of White Castle hamburgers. Big bag. For skinny man, funny."

  "You remember when?"

  He couldn't exactly, but agreed it might have been two weeks ago--possibly the day Todd Williams was murdered. Nor could he recall who the driver was and the service kept no records of destinations but he said he'd query his employees and find out more.

  She lowered her eyes to him. "This is important. The man is a killer."

  "I will start now. Yes, I will do that."

  She believed him. Mostly because of his uneasy eyes when he had glanced at her proffered shield, which told her that not all his licenses were in seamless order; he would be certain to cooperate, in exchange for her tacit agreement not to send the Taxi and Limousine Commission to visit.

  Turning south, she began walking back toward her car, parked at the White Castle lot. A few stops at locations that seemed like unlikely ones for leads: a wig shop, a nail salon, a windowless computer repair operation. Then onto the sidewalk again. Suddenly Sachs noted something from the corner of her eye. Movement. Not unusual here, though on this blustery day the sidewalks were largely deserted. But it had been a special sort of movement. Fast, deflecting. As if somebody didn't want to be seen.

 
She unbuttoned her jacket and, right hand lounging near her Glock, was looking around. She was at an auto repair operation with a number of vehicles, from motorcycles to box trucks, all parked helter-skelter, many of them dismantled to varying degrees. The person who'd moved in close by, if a person it was and not a shadow or swirl of trash or dust, had slipped between two of the larger trucks, a bright-yellow Penske rental and a twenty-foot white van whose only logo was two massive breasts in spray paint, bold red.

  Running the odds that Unsub 40 had been coming for his multi-burger lunch once more and had recognized her from the mall and begun to follow.

  Not likely but not impossible either. She tapped her Glock and moved closer to the trucks. No further sign of the shadow. Sachs continued into the lot, weaving through the vehicular graveyard. The wind snapped her jacket tail up and down and fanned her hair dramatically. Bad shooting mode. She pulled a rubber band from her pocket and bound the strands into a ponytail. A look around once more. The only living things visible were seagulls and pigeons, a curious and bold rat. No, two. Were the birds or rodents the movement she'd seen? Paper trash skidded along sidewalk and street, then soared. Maybe that was the intruder, yesterday's New York Post.

  No sign of threat.

  Her phone hummed, startling her. She looked down. The ID showed Thom's name. As always, when he, not Rhyme, called, she felt a tap in her heart that there might be bad medical news. She answered quickly. "Thom."

  "Hey, Amelia. Just wondering if you're going to be staying here tonight. Having dinner?"

  She relaxed. "No, I'm taking my mom to an appointment. And she's staying over at my place."

  "Can I make a care package?"

  She laughed, knowing it would be a very good care package indeed. But the logistics of collecting it--driving all the way to Rhyme's--were problematic. "No, thanks. But I really appreciate it. I..."

  Her voice faded as, in the background through the speaker she heard words spoken by someone who sounded familiar.

  No. Couldn't be.

  "Thom, is Mel there? Mel Cooper?"

  "Yes, he is. You want to talk to him?"

  I sure as hell do. She said politely, "Please."

  A moment later: "Hi, Amelia."

  "Hey, Mel. Uhm, what're you doing at Lincoln's?"

  "He vacationed me. Though that's a verb I can see he's not very happy I used. I'm helping him with the Frommer case."