The Kill Room lr-10 Read online

  “‘Somebody’? ‘They’?” Rhyme asked acidly. “That’s as specific as the ‘something’ detaining my doctor. Seems infectious. Like the flu.”

  “Hey, Linc. All I know.”

  Rhyme cast a wry look toward Sachs. “I notice that no one called me about this. Did anybody call you, Sachs?”

  “Not a jingle.”

  Sellitto said, “Oh, that’s ’causa the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “Whatever’s going on, it’s a secret. And it’s gotta stay that way.”

  Which was, Rhyme decided, at least a step toward intriguing.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rhyme was looking up at the two visitors, as different as could be, now stepping into his parlor.

  One was a man in his fifties, with a military bearing, wearing an untailored suit — the shoulders were the giveaway — in navy blue, bordering on black. He had a jowly, clean-shaven face, tanned skin and trim hair, marine-style. Has to be brass, Rhyme thought.

  The other was a woman hovering around the early thirties. She was approaching stocky, though not overweight, not yet. Her blond, lusterless hair was in an anachronistic flip, stiffly sprayed, and Rhyme noted that her pale complexion derived from a mask of liberally applied flesh-toned makeup. He didn’t see any acne or other pocks and assumed the pancake was a fashion choice. There was no shadow or liner around her gun-muzzle black eyes, all the more stark given the cream shade of the face in which they were set. Her thin lips were colorless too and dry. Rhyme assessed that this was not a mouth that broke into a smile very often.

  She would pick something to look at — equipment, the window, Rhyme — and turn a sandblast gaze on it until she had stripped it down to understanding or rendered it irrelevant. Her suit was dark gray, also not expensive, and all three plastic buttons were snugly fixed. The dark disks seemed slightly uneven and he wondered if she’d found a perfect-fitting suit with unfortunate accents and replaced them herself. The low black shoes were unevenly worn and had been doctored recently with liquid scuff cover-up.

  Got it, Rhyme thought. He believed he knew her employer. And was all the more curious.

  Sellitto said of the man, “Linc, this is Bill Myers.”

  The visitor nodded. “Captain, an honor to meet you.” He used Rhyme’s last title with the NYPD, from when he’d retired on disability some years ago. This confirmed Myers’s job; Rhyme had been right, brass. And pretty senior.

  Rhyme motored the electric wheelchair forward and thrust his hand out. The brass noted the jerky motion, hesitated then gripped it. Rhyme noticed something too: Sachs stiffen slightly. She didn’t like it when he used the limb and digits like this, unnecessarily, for social niceties. But Lincoln Rhyme couldn’t help himself. The past decade had been an effort to rectify what fate had done to him. He was proud of his few victories and exploited them.

  Besides, what was the point of a toy if you never played with it?

  Myers introduced the other mysterious “somebody.” Her name was Nance Laurel.

  “Lincoln,” he said. Another handshake, seemingly firmer than Myers’s, though Rhyme, of course, couldn’t tell. Sensation did not accompany movement.

  Laurel’s sharp gaze took in Rhyme’s thick brown hair, his fleshy nose, his keen dark eyes. She said nothing other than “Hello.”

  “So,” he said. “You’re an ADA.”

  Assistant district attorney.

  She gave no physical reaction to his deduction, which was partly a guess. A hesitation, then: “Yes, I am.” Her voice was crisp, sibilant emphasized.

  Sellitto then introduced Myers and Laurel to Sachs. The brass took in the policewoman as if he was very aware of her rep too. Rhyme noticed that Sachs winced a bit as she walked forward to shake hands. She corrected her gait as she returned to the chair. He alone, he believed, saw her subtly pop a couple of Advil into her mouth and swallow dry. However much the pain she never took anything stronger.

  Myers too, it turned out, was a captain by rank and ran a branch of the department that Rhyme had not heard of, new apparently. The Special Services Division. His confident demeanor and cagey eyes suggested to Rhyme that he and his outfit were quite powerful within the NYPD. Possibly he was a player with an eye on a future in city government.

  Rhyme himself had never had an interest in the gamesmanship of institutions like the NYPD, much less what lay beyond, Albany or Washington. All that interested him at the moment was the man’s presence. The appearance of a senior cop with mysterious departmental lineage alongside the focused terrier of an ADA suggested an assignment that would keep at bay the dreaded boredom that, since the accident, had become his worst enemy.

  He felt the throbbing of anticipation, his heart, but via his temples, not his insensate chest.

  Bill Myers deferred to Nance Laurel, saying, “I’ll let her unpack the situation.”

  Rhyme tried to catch Sellitto’s eye with a wry glance but the man deflected it. “Unpack.” Rhyme disliked such stilted, coined terms, which bureaucrats and journalists seeded into their dialogue. “Game-changer” was another recent one. “Kabuki” too. They were like bright red streaks in the hair of middle-aged women or tattoos on cheeks.

  Another pause and Laurel said, “Captain—”

  “Lincoln. I’m decommissioned.”

  Pause. “Lincoln, yes. I’m prosecuting a case and because of certain unusual issues it was suggested that you might be in a position to run the investigation. You and Detective Sachs. I understand you work together frequently.”

  “That’s right.” He wondered if ADA Laurel ever loosened up. Doubted it.

  “I’ll explain,” she continued. “Last Tuesday, May ninth, a U.S. citizen was murdered in a luxury hotel in the Bahamas. The local police there are investigating the crime but I have reason to believe that the shooter’s American and is back in this country. Probably the New York area.”

  She paused before nearly every sentence. Was she picking thoroughbred words? Or assessing liabilities if the wrong one left the gate?

  “Now, I’m not going with a murder charge against the perps. It’s difficult to make a case in state court for a crime that occurs in a different country. That could be done but it would take too long.” Now a denser hesitation. “And it’s important to move quickly.”

  Why? Rhyme wondered.

  Intriguing…

  Laurel continued, “I’m seeking other, independent charges in New York.”

  “Conspiracy,” Rhyme said, his instantaneous deduction. “Good, good. I like that. On the basis that the murder was planned here.”

  “Exactly,” Laurel offered. “The killing was ordered by a New York resident in the city. That’s why I have jurisdiction.”

  Like all cops, or former cops, Rhyme knew the law as well as most lawyers did. He recalled the relevant New York Penal Code provision: Somebody is guilty of conspiracy when — with intent that conduct constituting a crime be performed — he or she agrees with one or more persons to engage in or cause the performance of such conduct. He added, “And you can bring the case here even if the killing took place outside the state because the underlying conduct — murder — is a crime in New York.”

  “Correct,” Laurel confirmed. She might have been pleased he got the analysis right. It was hard to tell.

  Sachs said, “Ordered the killing, you said. What was it, an OC hit?”

  Many of the worst organized crime bosses were never arrested and convicted for the extortion, murders and kidnappings they perpetrated; they could never be tied to the crime scene. But they often were sent to prison for conspiring to cause those events to happen.

  Laurel, however, said, “No. This is something else.”

  Rhyme’s mind danced. “But if we identify and collar the conspirators the Bahamians’ll want to extradite them. The shooter, at least.”

  Laurel regarded him silently for a second. Her pauses were beginning to border on the unnerving. She finally said, “I’ll resist extradition. And
my chances of success I put at over ninety percent.” For a woman in her thirties Laurel seemed young. There was a schoolgirl innocence about her. No, “innocence” was the wrong word, Rhyme decided. Single-mindedness.

  Pigheaded was another cliché that fit.

  Sellitto asked both Laurel and Myers, “You have any suspects?”

  “Yes. I don’t have the identity of the shooter yet but I know the two people who ordered the killing.”

  Rhyme gave a smile. Within him curiosity stirred, along with the sensation a wolf must feel catching a single molecule of a prey’s scent. He could tell Nance Laurel felt the same, even if the eagerness wasn’t quite visible through the L’Oréal façade. He believed he knew where this was going.

  And the destination was far beyond intriguing.

  Laurel said, “The murder was a targeted killing, an assassination, if you will, ordered by a U.S. government official — the head of NIOS, the National Intelligence and Operations Service, based here in Manhattan.”

  This was, more or less, what Rhyme had deduced. He’d thought the CIA or Pentagon, though.

  “Jesus,” Sellitto whispered. “You wanna bust a fed?” He looked at Myers, who gave no reaction whatsoever, then back to Laurel. “Can you do that?”

  Her pause was two breaths’ duration. “How do you mean, Detective?” Perplexed.

  Sellitto probably hadn’t meant anything other than what he’d said. “Just, isn’t he immune from prosecution?”

  “The NIOS lawyers will try for immunity but it’s an area I’m familiar with. I wrote my law review article on immunity of government officials. I’ve assessed my chance of success at about ninety percent in the state courts, and eighty in the Second Circuit on appeal. We get to the Supreme Court, we’re home free.”

  “What’s the law on immunity?” Sachs asked.

  “It’s a Supremacy Clause issue,” Laurel explained. “That’s the constitutional provision that says, in effect, when it comes down to a conflict, federal law trumps state. New York can’t prosecute a federal employee for state crimes if the employee was acting within the scope of his authority. In our situation, I believe the head of NIOS has gone rogue — acting outside what he was authorized to do.”

  Laurel glanced at Myers, who said, “We pivoted on the issue but there’re solid metrics leading us to believe that this man is manipulating the intelligence that formed the basis for the assassination, for his own agenda.”

  Pivoted…metrics…

  “And what is that agenda?” Rhyme asked.

  “We’re not sure,” the captain continued. “He seems obsessed with protecting the country, eliminating anybody who’s a threat — even those who maybe aren’t threats, if he considers them unpatriotic. The man he ordered shot in Nassau wasn’t a terrorist. He was just—”

  “Outspoken,” Laurel said.

  Sachs asked, “One question: The attorney general’s okayed the case?”

  Laurel’s hesitation this time might have covered up bristling at the reference to her boss and his permission to pursue the investigation. Hard to tell. She answered evenly, “The information about the killing came to our office in Manhattan, the jurisdiction where NIOS is located. The district attorney and I discussed it. I wanted the case because of my experience with immunity issues and because this type of crime bothers me a great deal — I personally feel that any targeted killings are unconstitutional because of due process issues. The DA asked me if I knew it was a land mine. I said yes. He went to the attorney general in Albany, who said I could go forward. So, yes, I have his blessing.” A steady gaze at Sachs, who looked back with eyes that were equally unwavering.

  Both of those men, the Manhattan DA and the attorney general of the state, Rhyme noted, were in the opposing political party to that of the current administration in Washington. Was this fair to consider? He decided that cynicism isn’t cynical if the facts support it.

  “Welcome to the hornet’s nest,” Sellitto said, drawing smiles from everybody but Laurel.

  Myers said to Rhyme, “That’s why I suggested you, Captain, when Nance came to us. You and Detectives Sellitto and Sachs operate a bit more independently than regular officers. You’re not as tethered to the hub as most investigators.”

  Lincoln Rhyme was now a consultant to the NYPD, FBI and any other organization wishing to pay the substantial fees he charged for his forensic services, provided the case could be fixed somewhere near the true north of challenging.

  He now asked, “And who is the main conspirator, this head of NIOS?”

  “His name’s Shreve Metzger.”

  “Any thoughts at all about the shooter?” Sachs asked.

  “No. He — or she — could be military, which would be a problem. If we’re lucky he’ll be civilian.”

  “Lucky?” From Sachs.

  Rhyme assumed Laurel meant because the military justice system would complicate matters. But she elaborated, “A soldier’s more sympathetic to a jury than a mercenary or civilian contractor.”

  Sellitto said, “You mentioned two conspirators, along with the shooter. Who else aside from Metzger?”

  “Oh,” Laurel continued in a faintly dismissive tone, “the president.”

  “Of what?” Sellitto asked.

  Whether or not this required a thoughtful hesitation Laurel paused anyway. “Of the United States, of course. I’m sure that every targeted killing requires the president’s okay. But I’m not pursuing him.”

  “Jesus, I hope not,” Lon Sellitto said with a laugh that sounded like a stifled sneeze. “That’s more than a political land mine; it’s a fucking nuke.”

  Laurel frowned, as if she’d had to translate his comment from Icelandic. “Politics aren’t the issue, Detective. Even if the president acted outside the scope of his authority in ordering a targeted killing, the criminal procedure in his case would be impeachment. But obviously that’s out of my jurisdiction.”

  CHAPTER 4

  He was distracted momentarily by the smell of grilling fish, with lime and plantain, he believed. Something else, a spice. He couldn’t quite place it.

  Sniffing the air again. What could it be?

  Compact, with crew-cut brown hair, he resumed his casual stroll along the broken sidewalk — and dirt path, where the concrete slabs were missing altogether. He billowed out his dark suit jacket to vent the heat and reflected he was glad he hadn’t worn a tie. He paused again beside a weed-filled lot. The street of low shops and pastel houses in need of more pastel paint was deserted now, late morning. No people, though two lazy potcake dogs were lounging in the shade.

  Then she emerged.

  She was leaving the Deep Fun Dive Shop and walking in the direction of West Bay, a Gabriel Márquez novel in her hand.

  Tan and sun-blond, the young woman had a tangle of hair, with a single narrow beaded braid from temple to breast. Her figure was an hourglass but a slim hourglass. She wore a yellow-and-red bikini and a translucent orange wrap around her waist, teasing. It fell to her ankles. She was limber and energetic and her smile could be mischievous.

  As it now was.

  “Well, look who it is,” she said and stopped beside him.

  This was a quiet area some distance away from downtown Nassau. Sleepily commercial. The dogs watched lethargically, ears flopped downward like place-marked pages in a book.

  “Hey there.” Jacob Swann removed his Maui Jims and wiped his face. Put the sunglasses back on. Wished he’d brought sunscreen. This trip to the Bahamas hadn’t been planned.

  “Hm. Maybe my phone’s not working,” Annette said wryly.

  “Probably is,” Swann offered with a grimace. “I know. I said I’d call. Guilty.”

  But the offense was a misdemeanor at worst; Annette was a woman whose companionship he’d paid for, so her coy remark wasn’t as cutting as it might have been under different circumstances.

  On the other hand, that night last week had been more than john — escort. She’d charged him for only two hours but had
given him the entire night. The evening hadn’t been Pretty Woman, of course, but they’d each enjoyed the time.

  The hours of their transaction had fled quickly, the soft humid breeze drifting in and out of the window, the sound of the ocean metrically intruding on the stillness. He’d asked if she’d stay and Annette had agreed. His motel room had a kitchenette and Jacob Swann had cooked a late supper. After arriving in Nassau he’d bought groceries, including goat, onion, coconut milk, oil, rice, hot sauce and local spices. He’d expertly separated meat from bone, sliced it into bite-sized pieces and marinated the flesh in buttermilk. By 11 p.m., the stew had simmered over a low flame for six hours and was ready. They’d eaten the food and drunk a substantial red Rhône wine.

  Then they’d returned to bed.

  “How’s business?” he now asked, nodding back to the shop to make clear which business he was talking about, though the part-time job at Deep Fun was also a feeder for clients who paid her a lot more than for snorkel rental. (The irony of the shop’s name was not lost on either of them.)

  Annette shrugged her gorgeous shoulders. “Not bad. Economy’s taken its toll. But rich people still want to bond with coral and fish.”

  The overgrown lot was decorated with bald tires and discarded concrete blocks, a few dented and rusted appliance shells, the guts long scavenged. The day was growing hotter by the second. Everywhere was glare and dust, empty cans, bushes in need of trimming, rampant grass. The smells: grilling fish, lime, plantains and trash fire smoke.

  And that spice. What was it?

  “I didn’t remember I’d told you where I work.” A nod at the shop.

  “Yes, you did.” He rubbed his hair. His round skull, dotted with sweat. Lifted his jacket again. The air felt good.

  “Aren’t you hot?”

  “Had a breakfast meeting. Needed to look official. I’m just back for the day. Don’t know what your schedule is…”

  “Tonight?” Annette suggested. And encouraged.

  “Ah, I’ve got another meeting.” Jacob Swann’s face was not expressive. He simply looked into her eyes as he said this. No wince of regret, no boyish flirt. “I was hoping now.” He imagined they were hungry eyes; that’s how he felt.