"I know that. I just want some people who're in the loop to hear it."
Perone said, "I knew that merch'd come back to haunt me. Are we through?"
"Almost."
"Oh, Christ."
"Now, there's a guy named Vittorio Gera. Owns a restaurant in BK. The place is his name. Vittorio's."
"Yeah?"
"I want you to have somebody visit him, tell him he's going to sell the place to me. For half of what he's asking."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Have that somebody lean on his wife and daughters. I think he's got grandchildren too. Just get some pictures of them in the park and send them to him. That should do it. If not, have somebody visit his youngest daughter. Hannah. She's the one looks like a slut. Just take her for a ride around the block."
"You do have a style, Nick."
"You robbed me, Perone. I don't need any shit from you."
"All right. I'll get the paperwork put together." Then Perone was frowning. "How'd you tip to me, Nick? Couldn't've been that easy. I cover tracks real good. Always have. Who's this friend of yours?"
"Name's Freddy Caruthers."
"So he could put me together with the Algonquin heist merch. And put you and me together."
Nick said, "Which brings me to my last request."
Perone was nodding slowly. His eyes remained on something behind Nick, on a hat on the coatrack or on a grease spot on the wall or a photo of him playing golf at Meadowbrook.
Or maybe on nothing at all.
"Freddy drove me partway today. I told him I was worried there was a cop after me and we ducked into the garage at Grand Central Center, the mall. I took a cab the rest of the way."
"Cop?"
"No, no, I made it up. I just wanted Freddy to cool his heels." Nick'd had an idea this was how it was going to shake out.
Perone said softly, "We can take care of that." He made a call. A moment later Ralph, of the solid chest and flamboyant suspenders and icy glare, was back.
"Nick Carelli, Ralph Seville."
A moment of mano eye lock, then hands were shaken.
"Got a job for you," Perone said.
"Sure, sir."
Nick pulled out his phone, slipped the battery in, turned it back on. He texted Freddy; he didn't want to hear the man's voice.
On way back. Any sign of Kall?
There wouldn't be, of course.
Nope.
Nick typed and sent:
Where R U?
The reply was:
Purple level near Forever 21 door.
Nick's next message was:
C U in 15.
From Freddy:
All good?
Nick hesitated then typed.
Gr8
Nick gave Ralph the information about Freddy's location. "He's in a black Escalade." He then cut a glance toward Perone. "No buried-alive shit. Fast, painless."
"Sure. I don't need to send messages. This is just loose ends."
"And I don't want him to know it was me."
Ralph gave a grimace. "I'll do what I can. But."
"Just try. The phone's got my texts. And my prints're in his SUV."
"We'll take care of everything." Ralph nodded. And left the office. Nick caught sight of a large, nickel-plated automatic pistol in his waistband. Thinking one of those bullets would be in his friend's brain in a half hour.
Nick rose and he and Perone shook hands. "I'll get a cab back to the city."
"Nick?"
The man paused.
"You interested in doing some work with me?"
"I just want to open my business and settle down and get married. But, sure, I'll think about it." Nick walked out of the office, lifting his phone and dialing a number.
CHAPTER 43
Rhyme was looking at Amelia Sachs when her phone rang.
She glanced away from him and stepped to the recesses of the parlor to take a call. Her back was to the room. He wondered if it was her mother. Her shoulders were slumped. Was all okay? He knew the troubled history of mother and daughter but also knew that it had improved with the years. Rose had mellowed. Sachs had too, with regard to her mother. Years go by, edges dull. Entropy. And now, of course, the woman's illness. Someone's physical condition, as he well knew, can change all.
He couldn't hear or deduce much. Finally: "restaurant" and "worked out" and "congratulations." She sounded enthusiastic. Then, after she'd listened for a time: "I have faith in you."
Not Rose. Then who?
He turned back to the evidence charts, wheeled closer. His meditation was interrupted by Lon Sellitto. "Anything close in NCIC?"
"No," Rhyme said. The fourteen people files and the seven property files in the National Crime database were geared toward individuals with outstanding warrants or who were otherwise suspects and toward stolen property; it was possible to run a profile of a crime or pattern of crimes and shoot out a few names but that wasn't what the FBI's system was designed for.
Juliette Archer said, "In the media and academic sites I found plenty of stories or reports of instances of hacking smart systems. Mostly for the sake of hacking. Nature of the hobby, my son tells me. The challenge. Nobody's intentionally weaponized an appliance, though some hackers've taken control of cars and stoplights."
"Stoplights. That's a scary thought." From Sellitto.
She continued, "It's cheaper to use wireless controls in them--public works doesn't have to dig and lay cables."
Sellitto said, "Solid backgrounding. You'd make a good cop."
"Passing the physical'd be a problem."
Sellitto muttered, "Linc sits on his ass all day long. You can consult. Give him some competition. Keep him sharp." The rumpled detective was once more scanning the charts. "The hell's his profile? Maybe explosives but we ain't had any bangs lately. Toxins but nobody's been poisoned. He's a fine woodworker. What's he build, do you think? Cabinets or bookshelves? With the glass, maybe that's it."
"No," Rhyme said, "the glass fragments were old. And Amelia found glazing compound. I don't think furniture glass is mounted with glazing. That's for residences. Besides, see the rubber? It was found with the ammonia. That told me he replaced a broken window and cleaned the new one with a squeegee and paper towel." His voice faded as he looked at the chart. "Window."
Pulaski said, "Even psycho killers need to do home repairs. Probably it's not related to the case."
Rhyme mused, "But he'd just recently repaired it. The trace was fresh and found with other evidence from the scene. Just speculating here but if you were going to break into somebody's house or an office--"
"You could front you were a repairman," Sellitto said.
Sachs said, "Put on coveralls. Carry a new piece of glass with you. Break in, get what you need inside, then replace the glass, clean it and leave. Anybody looking would think you were the super or'd been hired to do repairs."
Archer added, "And he pretended to be a workman once before--in the Theater District."
Sellitto said, "Maybe he broke in somewhere to find out if there was some device that had one of those controllers in it. That DataWise thing."
"He doesn't need to," Archer pointed out. "His first vic, Todd Williams, downloaded the list of products with controllers and the people or companies who bought them."
Did she actually say "vic"? Rhyme was amused.
"Yeah, yeah," Sellitto said. "That's right."
Rhyme said, "I could see it if the shards of glass we found were frosted--he'd replaced the glass with clear so he could see his kill zone. But the broken pane was clear. Old or cheap but clear. I want to work with this. Assuming our window repairman scenario is valid and--let's be bold here--he's planning another attack, then it's because there's no embedded product at the target location."
Sachs quickly said, "And that's because he's going after somebody who's not on the list. A specific person, rather than a random consumer."
"Good," Rhyme said. "Let's work with that."
"But why?" From Archer.
Rhyme's eyes closed momentarily. Then opened fast. "Somebody who's a threat. What Lon was just suggesting. It's his second mission. To stop those who're after him or a threat to him. Us. Maybe a witness, somebody who knows him and might be growing suspicious. Anything on the charts that might suggest a victim unrelated to the products, nothing to do with his manifesto against consumers?"
He scanned the charts. Although the source for some items had not been isolated (Queens??), everything had been identified--except one thing.
"Damn it, Mel. What the hell is the plant? We asked the Horticultural Society ages ago."
"It was yesterday."
"Ages, like I said," Rhyme snapped. "Call. Find out."
Cooper looked the number up once more and placed the call. "Professor Aniston? This is Detective Cooper. NYPD. I sent you that sample of vegetation trace evidence we found at a crime scene. Have you had any luck? We're under some time pressure... Sure." Cooper glanced toward them. "He's looking it up now."
"Which suggests it wasn't a particularly burdensome request in the first place," Rhyme muttered, probably louder than he should have.
Cooper's body language changed as the call resumed. He wrote on a pad beside him. "Got it, thanks, Professor." He disconnected. "It's rare. You don't find it very often."
"That's what rare means, Mel. What the hell is it?"
"It's a fragment of leaf from a hibiscus. But what's rare is that it's a blue one. There'll be limited sources--"
"My God!" Sachs pulled her phone out, hit speed dial. "This is Detective Five Eight Eight Five. Sachs. I need officers at Four Two One Eight Martin Street, Brooklyn. Possible ten thirty-four in progress. Suspect is white male, six two to six four, weight one fifty. Possibly armed... I'm en route."
She hung up, grabbed her jacket. "My mother's house. I got her a blue hibiscus for her birthday. It's in her backyard, right by a window to the basement. He rigged something there."
Sachs sprinted for the door, making a second call.
A circuit breaker had popped.
Rose Sachs was now in her Brooklyn town house's dank basement, the place redolent of mold. She was making her way slowly to the panel. Slowly not because of her cardiac condition, but because of the clutter.
Looking over the boxes, the shelves, the racks of plastic-wrapped clothing.
Even here she felt good--the "even" because she was dodging a spider's elaborate web.
Good.
Spending some time in her own house for a change.
She loved her daughter, appreciated everything Amie did for her. But the girl--the woman--had been such a, well, mother hen about the surgery. Stay at my house, Mom. Come on. No, I'll drive you. No, I'll pick up dinner.
Sweet of her. But the fact was Rose wasn't going to break apart in the days leading up to the operation. No, it was obvious what Amie was thinking--that Rose might not wake up from the deep sleep while the surgeon was slicing out components of her heart and replacing them with little tubes from a lesser part of her body.
Daughter wanted to spend as much time with mother as possible--just in case Part A didn't get along with Part B, which, by the way, God never did intend.
Upstairs her mobile phone was ringing.
They could leave a message.
Or maybe Amelia's persistence--and insistence--was simply her uncompromising nature.
And for this, Rose thought smiling, she herself was to blame. She was thinking of the turbulent days with her daughter. What had been the source of Rose's moods, her paranoia, her suspicion? Thinking that father and daughter were conspiring to get away from Mom?
But that wasn't paranoia at all. They were conspiring.
As well they should have. What a shrew I was. Who knew what was the reason... There were probably meds I could have taken, probably therapists I could have shared with. But that would have been a weakness.
And Rose Sachs had never done well with weakness.
At this moment, lost in these reflections, she felt a burst of pride. Because the upside of that attitude was that she'd created a strong daughter. Herman had given the girl heart and humor. Rose had given her steel.
Uncompromising...
The lights here in the cellar were working--it was on the second floor that the lamp had gone out. She wondered why the breaker had popped. She hadn't turned anything on, no iron or hair dryer. She'd been reading. And pop, out went the lights. But the house was old; maybe one of the breakers was bad.
Now the home line was ringing--an old-fashioned ring, ring, ring.
She paused. Well, there was voice mail on that one too. Telemarketer on the landline probably. She didn't use that phone much anymore, mostly her cell phone.
Welcome to the twenty-first century. What would Herman have thought?
Moving aside a few boxes to clear a path to the breaker box, she thought of Nick Carelli.
Rose supposed that the story was true, that he'd taken the blame for his brother. That seemed good, that seemed noble. But, as she'd told her daughter, if he'd really loved Amie, wouldn't he have found a better way to handle it? A cop had to accept that you did things the right way when it came to the law. Her husband had been a lifelong policeman, a portable--a foot patrolman--walking the beat in a number of places, mostly in Times Square. He'd done his job with calm determination and was never confrontational, defusing conflicts, not fanning flames. Rose could never see Herman taking the fall for anybody. Because, even if for a good cause, that would have been a lie.
A tightening of her lips. Another matter: Her daughter was wrong, wrong, wrong to have any contact with Nick at all. Rose had seen his eyes. He wanted them to get back together, clear as day. Rose wondered what Lincoln knew about it. Rose's advice would have been for Amie to drop Nick instantly, even if the mayor himself gave him a big, fat blue ribbon saying Pardon.
But such was the nature of children. You bore them, shaped them as best you could and then turned them out into the world--bundles that contained all your gold stars and all your cinders.
Amie would do the right thing.
Rose hoped.
Continuing toward the breaker box, she noticed the window next to it was quite clean, for a change. Maybe the gardener had washed it. She'd have to thank him when he came next week.
Rose passed some old boxes labeled A's High School. Rose laughed softly, remembering those crazy years, Amie spending her free hours on car repair and fielding modeling jobs for some of the top agencies in Manhattan (remembered how one time the seventeen-year-old girl had had to wear black polish at a fashion shoot not because the scene involved gothic chic but because it had proven impossible to dig out the General Motors grease out from under her nails).
Rose decided she'd take one of the boxes upstairs. What fun to look through it. They could do that together. Maybe tonight, after dinner.
And she began to slide boxes out of the way to clear a path to the breaker box.
CHAPTER 44
Sitting on a doorstep, in overalls and cap, I'm a workman once more, taking a workman's break. Newspaper and coffee at hand, lingering before I have to get back to the job.
And glancing through the basement window of Mrs. Rose Sachs's town house in idyllic Brooklyn. Ah, there she is, coming into view.
It's worked well, my plan. The other day, staking out Red's town house, just six blocks away, I'd spotted an elderly woman stepping from the police girl's doorway and locking the dead bolt. A clear resemblance. Aunt or mother. So I followed her here. A little touch of Google... and the relationship became clear.
Hi, Mom...
Red needs to be stopped and needs to be taught a lesson. Killing this woman will do the trick nicely.
Rose, a lovely name.
Soon to be a dry, dead flower.
I would have liked to use one of my trusted controller exploits again but the other day I scanned diligently and found no embedded circuits begging to be let into the network or shooting data heavenward. But, a
s I know from woodworking, sometimes you must improvise. Brazilian rosewood, short supply? So go with Indian. Not as rich. Not as voluptuously purple. Cuts differently. Smooths differently. But you make do.
And occasionally the pram, the dresser, the gingham-dressed bed works out better than you'd planned.
So. Let's see now if my improv here works out. It really was quite simple. I rigged a circuit from a garage door opener to short out a light in Rose's living room. A few minutes ago I pressed the opener button on the remote, which popped the breaker. And Rose started downstairs to find the box and reset it.
Normally she'd have an easy job of simply flicking the switch back into the on position.
Let there be light...
Except that won't happen. Because I also diverted the main line from the incoming wire to the circuit breaker box itself. The metal door is, in effect, a live wire, carrying 220 volts and many wonderful heart-stopping amps. Even if she's inclined to do the wise thing, the safe thing and cut off the main power before resetting the breaker, she'll still have to open the door to do that.
And zap.
Now she's feet away from the breaker box. Then, unfortunately, she moves out of view.
But it's clear where she is. And she'll be reaching for the handle now...
Yes!
Anticlimactic. But I see it's worked perfectly.
When she completed the circuit with her body the main line shorted out, extinguishing all the electricity to the house--the upstairs and basement and front door lights went dark.
I imagine I heard a growling buzz but that would have to be in my mind's ear. I'm too far away for that.
Goodbye, Rose.
Rising and hurrying away.
A block down this pleasant street I hear sirens. Getting louder. Curious. Are they coming here? Could it be they're en route to me?
Has Red figured something out? That I was about to visit the wrath of Edison upon Momma?
No, impossible. It's just a coincidence.
I can't help but be delighted with the handiwork. Have you learned your lesson, Detective Red? I am not someone to bully.
What a day, what a day.
He was so looking forward to getting home.
Dr. Nathan Eagan eased the big sedan through traffic in Brooklyn, Henry Street in the Heights. Not too congested. Good. He stretched, heard a joint pop. The fifty-seven-year-old surgeon was tired. He'd been in operating suites for six hours today. Two gallbladders. One appendectomy. A couple of others. Didn't need to. But the kid with the scalpel needed some help. Some medicine was about diagnostics and referrals and business. Some was about slicing open the human body.