The Steel Kiss

by Jeffery Deaver

  The day was pleasant and the massive double doors--large enough for the delivery of the biggest props--were open onto 46th Street. A breeze wafted in, carrying smells that Heady liked: car exhaust, perfume from who knew where, charcoal smoke from the nut and pretzel vendors. The traffic was chaotic and people in every style of clothing you could imagine streamed past constantly, surging in every direction. He'd never developed affection for Motown. But now, a convert, he was a devout Manhattanite, even though he lived in Paramus.

  And he loved his job too. On nice days like this, with the doors open, passersby sometimes stopped and glanced in, curious to watch the set builders at work. One of Heady's proudest days was when someone called him to the door. The carpenter, anticipating a question about a tool or what set he was working on, was astonished when the man asked for an autograph. He'd loved the sets from the revival of The King and I and wanted Heady to sign the Playbill.

  Heady heated up some water in the microwave, poured in some instant Starbucks coffee and sipped the black brew while he made notes about the cuts he was about to make. He glanced at the bench to make sure a necessary accessory was handy: sound-dampening earmuffs. He absolutely had to wear these because of a device that sat in the middle of the workshop.

  The huge Ayoni table saw was the latest addition here. The bulk of the work done in set building on Broadway is carpentry--cutting, framing, joining. The Ayoni was rapidly becoming a workhorse for that task. Weighing in at over three hundred pounds, the device featured circular blades with edges sharp as shark's teeth. The steel blades were interchangeable, in varying thicknesses and tooth depth and shape--the thicker, with larger teeth, were meant for rough frames, the thinner and finer for finishing work. These wicked disks spun at nearly two thousand RPM and screamed as loudly as a jet plane's engines.

  The saw would slice through the thickest wood like tearing newsprint and featured a computer chip that remembered settings and dimensions for the past fifty jobs.

  To cut the two-by-four pieces for the base of the maze, Heady got a heavy, rough-cut blade from a rack on the wall. Before removing the blade presently mounted to the Ayoni, however, and replacing it with this one, he'd have to shut the power off. The unit was hardwired into the theater's electrical system, since its motor--running at a gutsy eight horsepower--drew 220 volts and many amps.

  The manufacturer recommended that you shut off the power to the entire facility at the main circuit breaker before replacing blades, but here at the theater no workers ever did, since the breaker was in the basement. But perhaps because the Ayoni Corporation knew that purchasers might not always cut the main juice, the saw itself had two power cutoffs. One was the device's own circuit breaker. The second was the on/off switch that started the blade spinning. It was a bit inconvenient to reach down, to the base of the machine, find the circuit breaker and click it off, but no way was Heady going to swap blades without doing so. The tool was as dangerous as a guillotine. (He'd heard about an accident in which an assistant had fallen next to an Ayoni as it ran and instinctively reached out to steady himself. His forearm hit the blade and was severed halfway between wrist and elbow in an instant. The poor man had felt not a bit of pain for a good ten seconds, so fast and clean was the cut.)

  So he now reached down and popped the breaker.

  Then, just to double-check, he flipped on the power switch; nothing. He returned it to the off position. Heady now gripped the blade with his left hand and held it steady while, with a socket wrench in his right, he began to loosen the nuts fixing the disk to the shaft. He was glad that he'd taken the redundant precautions; it occurred to him that should the unit happen to start, not only would he lose the fingers of his left hand but the wrench would crush his right to a pulp.

  Two thousand RPM.

  But in five minutes the blade was changed safely. The power was back on. And he readied the first piece to cut.

  There was no doubting the saw's efficiency; it made all the carpenters' lives so much easier. On the other hand, Healy had to admit he wasn't looking forward to spending the next few hours changing blades and slicing up the wood for the maze.

  Fact was, the thing scared the hell out of him.

  The waitress offered a flirt.

  Mid-thirties, Nick guessed. With a pretty, heart-shaped face, black hair, black as oil, tied up tight, the curls just waiting to escape. Tight uniform too. Low cut. That was one thing he'd change if he became owner of the restaurant. He'd like a little more family-friendly staff. Though maybe the old farts in the neighborhood liked the view Hannah offered.

  He smiled back, but with a different smile from hers, polite and formal, and asked for Vittorio. She stepped away, returned and said he'd be out in a few minutes. "Have a seat, have some coffee."

  She tried another flirt.

  "Black please. One ice cube."

  "Iced coffee?"

  "No. A cup. Hot coffee but an ice cube in it."

  Sitting down in the window booth she took him to, Nick looked around at the place. Nice, he assessed. He liked it right away. The linoleum would have to go--too many heel marks--and he'd lose the wallpaper and paint the walls. Maybe dark red. The place had plenty of windows and good lighting. The room could handle walls that color. And he'd put up some paintings. Find some of old Brooklyn, this very neighborhood if he could.

  Nick loved the borough. Most people didn't know that BK had been a city unto itself until 1898, when it got absorbed and became a part of New York. In fact, Brooklyn had been one of the biggest cities in the country (was still the biggest borough). He'd find some prints of the waterfront and Prospect Park. Maybe portraits of some famous Brooklynites. Walt Whitman. Sure, had to have him. "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry," the poem--good, he'd get a ferry print. And Amelia's father--also from BK--had told him that George Washington and the colonial troops had fought the British here (and lost, but retreated safely to Manhattan, thanks to a frozen river). George Gershwin. Mark Twain supposedly named his character Tom Sawyer after a heroic firefighter from Brooklyn. He'd get pictures of them all. Maybe those pen-and-ink drawings. They were cool. They were classy.

  Definitely not one of native son Al Capone, though.

  A shadow over him and Nick rose.

  "Vittorio Gera." A thick man, both olive-skinned and ill-colored at the same time. His suit was one size too big and Nick wondered if the reason the restaurant was on the block was his poor health. Probably. The perfect hair, gray, was a piece.

  "Nick Carelli."

  "Italian. Where's the family from?"

  "Flatbush."

  "Ha!"

  Nick added, "Long time ago, Bologna."

  "We've got Italian on the menu."

  "The lasagna's good, I hear."

  "It is." Gera sat. "But have you ever had bad lasagna?"

  Nick smiled.

  The waitress brought the coffee. "Anything for you?" she asked Gera.

  "No, I'm fine, Hannah. Thank you." She turned and left.

  The man brought his weathered hands together and lowered his head. "So, I'm Vito."

  "Well, Vito, I'm interested in your place. Very interested."

  "You ever done restaurants?"

  "Eaten in them. All my life."

  Well, most of my life...

  The large man laughed. "They're not for everybody."

  "It's the sort of thing I'd like to do. Always have. A neighborhood place, you know. People can hang out here. Friendly. Socialize. And whatever happens to the economy, people still have to eat."

  "That's all true. But hard work. Hard work." Looking him over. "Though you don't seem to be the sort of man who's afraid of work."

  "No, I'm not. Now, I've gotten the deal sheet from my lawyer and I've looked it over. Seems good. And the asking price? I've got some money I inherited from my mother when she passed--"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Thank you. And I'm talking to a couple of banks. Now, we're in the ballpark. About the price. A little horse trading and I'm sure we can c
ome to an agreement."

  "Sure--you pay what I'm asking and it's an agreement." The man was sort-of joking, sort-of not. This was business.

  Nick leaned back and said confidently, "Before we go any further I have to tell you something."

  "Sure."

  "I'm an ex-con."

  Vito leaned forward and regarded Nick closely, as if he'd just said that he had plastic skin, take a look.

  Nick kept his eyes on Vito's and a sincere smile on his face. "The charges were armed robbery and assault. I didn't do it. I've never done any crime. And I'm working to prove my innocence and I think I'll be exonerated. Maybe I can show you that proof in a few days, maybe it'll take a little longer. But I'm really hoping we can go forward with this anyway."

  "You didn't do it." Not a question. But an invitation to continue.

  "No. I was trying to help somebody and I got caught up in the system."

  "You can't get a liquor license. That's a third of our income."

  "My lawyer's working on a waiver with the city. He thinks it'll go through. With an exoneration, there's no problem."

  "I don't know, Nick. This is a whole 'nother thing. I been here, I've been the owner for twenty years. Reputation, you know."

  "Sure. I understand." Nick was sounding confident because he was confident. "But my lawyer says I can get a court to issue a pardon, complete vindication."

  "I've gotta sell soon, Nick." Vito's hands rose, palms up. "Have some issues. Health." He looked across the room, populated by about thirty patrons. One man wanted his check. Gera called to a waiter and pointed it out.

  "Help is the problem," he said. "People come and go and don't show up or're rude to customers. They steal. You have to let them go. You're like a father and schoolmaster, you know, headmaster, all the time. And they'll try to rob you."

  "I'm sure. A business like any other. You got to be on top of it. I was thinking maybe I could hire you to be a consultant for a while."

  "I don't know about that. The health thing. My wife and our daughter're taking care of me. She's moving back into the house. My older daughter. I'll have to take it easy. There're pros out there, you know. Consultants. Food industry consultants. They're pricey but it'd be a good idea in your case."

  "I know. But think about it, Vito. I'd be happy to pay you. You wouldn't even have to come in. I could come see you twice a week or something."

  "You seem like a nice guy, Nick. And you didn't have to tell me about your past. Not like you're applying to be a fry cook and I check out your references. We agree and you show up at the closing, all I care about is you have a check. But you were straight with me. I gotta tell you, though, I need to think about it."

  "I don't expect anything else. And, Vito--the asking price?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I could go there."

  "You're not much of horse trader."

  "I know something good when I see it. Okay, think about it. But a favor?"

  "What's that?"

  Nick said, "Don't sell to anybody else without giving me a chance to pitch my case again. Just give me that chance."

  A close examination. "All right. I'll let you know. Oh, and Nick?"

  "Yeah, Vito?"

  "I liked it you didn't hit on Hannah. My younger daughter." He nodded to the black-haired waitress in the tight uniform. "You scored points there. I'll think about it, Nick, talk it over with my family. Let you know."

  The men shook hands. "Now, I got one other question, Vito."

  "Sure, son. What's that?"

  Nick leaned back and smiled.

  CHAPTER 30

  I don't know, Amie."

  Sachs poured some Twinings black tea and gave an inquiring glance to her mother.

  They had returned from Rose's X-ray and EKG appointment--everything was on track for the surgery in a few days--and were sitting in the sunny kitchen of Sachs's Carroll Garden town house. Rose was living both here and in her own home, six blocks away. When the woman had appointments it was easier for her to stay here, since her doctor and the hospital where the bypass surgery would occur were nearby. And she'd recover here, after the operation.

  "I don't know about Nick." Rose took the NYPD souvenir mug, containing the tea, and added a shot of half-and-half. Sachs was working on a half-empty Starbucks. Tepid, like Nick's. She nuked it back to steaming and sat down across from Rose.

  "Was a shock to me. Him showing up." Sachs examined her mother, wearing a skirt and blouse, hose, a thin gold chain, as befit a thin neck. As always, she'd dressed up for her doctor's appointment as if going to church. "I'm still not sure what to think."

  "How was it for him, inside the joint?" Rose could have a sense of humor. This had developed later in life.

  "We haven't talked about it. No reason to. We don't have anything in common anymore. He's like a stranger. I don't talk to store clerks or somebody I meet on the street about personal things. Why would I talk to him?"

  Sachs sensed she was explaining too much, and too quickly. Rose seemed to make this observation too.

  "I just hope it works out for him," Sachs said, ending the conversation. "I should get back to Lincoln's. Never had a perp like this one."

  "He's a domestic terrorist? That's what the press is saying. And did you hear that story on MSNBC? People aren't taking escalators or elevators. A man had a heart attack in an office building in Midtown, walking up ten flights. He didn't trust the elevator."

  "No. I missed that. Did he die?"

  "No."

  Another victim to rack up for Unsub 40.

  She asked, "What do you want me to pick up for dinner? Wait, is Sally coming over?"

  "Not tonight. She has bridge."

  "You want to go? I can run you over to her place."

  "No, not feeling like it."

  Sachs thought back to the time when her mother and father had been queen and king of the neighborhood bridge club. What a time that was... Cocktails flowed, half of the crowd smoked like a tire fire, and the play for the last few hands was laughably inept, thanks to outrageous strategies concocted in gin and rye hazes. (Sachs had relished those party nights; she could sneak out and hang with the other kids in the neighborhood and even go for a joyride or set up a drag race. Amelia Sachs had been, her own admission, a bad girl.)

  The doorbell rang. Sachs walked to the door and looked out.

  Well.

  Eased the door open.

  "Hi," she said to Nick Carelli. Her voice must've sounded cautious. He smiled uncertainly.

  "Took a chance and drove by. Saw your car."

  She eased back and he stepped into the hallway. He was in black jeans, a light-blue dress shirt and navy sport coat. This was dressing up for Nick Carelli. He was carrying a large shopping bag and she smelled garlic and onions.

  "I can't stay," he said, handing the bag over. "I brought you and Rose lunch."

  "You didn't call."

  "No. I wasn't far away. At a restaurant."

  "Well." Sachs looked down. "Thanks, but--"

  "Best lasagna in the city."

  The "but" hadn't referred to the food. She wasn't sure what it was meant to aim at. She glanced down at the bag.

  Nick lowered his voice. "I had a breakthrough last night. In the files you gave me. I found a lead. A guy I think can confirm I didn't have anything to do with the 'jacking."

  "Really? It was in the files?" Treading water verbally here. His unexpected arrival had shaken her.

  "Still need to do some digging. Like being a cop all over again."

  Then she frowned. "Nick, is he connected?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. But what I told you before. I'm using a buddy from school to get the particulars. He's fine, he's clean. Never any trouble with the law."

  "I'm glad, Nick." Her face softened.

  "Uhm, Ame... Amelia, look, is your mother here?"

  A pause. "She is."

  "Can I say hi?"

  "I'm not sure that's a good idea. I told you she hasn't been feeling well." />
  A voice from the hallway called, "I'm well enough to say hello, Amie."

  They turned to see the wiry figure in the hallway, backlit by the large bay windows against the far wall.

  "Hello, Rose."

  "Nick."

  "Mom--"

  "You brought lunch?"

  "Just for you two. I can't stay."

  "We're not ladies who lunch," Rose said slowly. And Sachs wondered if Rose was about to go on the assault. But her mother added, "We're ladies who dine. We'll save it for tonight." Rose was looking at the logo on the bag. "Vittorio's. I know it. Good place."

  "Lasagna, veal piccata, salad, garlic bread."

  Another glance at the heavy bag. "And, Nick, where are the five people coming to join us?"

  He laughed. Sachs tried to.

  "Come into the living room. I have the strength to converse but not to stand for very long."

  She turned.

  Oh, brother. This is just plain strange. Sachs sighed and followed the other two. She diverted to the kitchen, refrigerated the food and debated getting Nick some coffee. But decided it would take too long to brew and then cool to his taste. She wanted this to be a brief visit. She returned and found Rose in her lounger, Nick on an ottoman in front of the couch, as if sitting on a backless piece of furniture testified to the temporary nature of his stay. Sachs stood for a moment and then pulled a chair from the dining table, set it near her mother and sat down. Upright, leaning forward slightly. She wondered what her California friend Kathryn Dance, an investigator with skills in body language analysis, would have concluded about her posture and the messages it was telegraphing.

  "Amie told me about your brother, you taking responsibility for the crime. Your trying to prove your innocence."

  Rose was never one to withhold any stories she'd been told. Sachs had often thought it was a good thing that her mother was largely ignorant of social media. She would have been the hub of a million rumors zipping through the Internet.

  "That's right. I found some leads. I hope they'll pan out. Maybe not, but then I'll still keep trying. Rose, Amelia told me you'd been staying with her off and on. That's why I took the chance of coming by today, not just to play delivery boy. I wanted to apologize to you. Both of you together."