The Kill Room

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Because of the money." Laurel nodded at the whiteboard.

  "Exactly. I was thinking possibly a terrorist connection."

  "Moreno wasn't a terrorist. We've established that."

  Sachs thought, You've established that. The facts haven't. "But still..." She nodded at the board too. "Never coming back to the U.S., the bank transfers, vanishing into thin air...A reference to 'blowing up' something in Mexico City."

  "It could mean a lot of things. Construction work, demolition, for one of his Local Empowerment Movement companies, for instance." Still, the implications of the discoveries seemed to bother her. "Did the driver notice any surveillance?"

  Sachs explained what Farada had said about Moreno's looking around, uneasy.

  Laurel asked, "Does he know if Moreno saw anything specific?"

  "No."

  Nance Laurel scooted her chair forward and stared at the evidence board, her pose oddly parallel to Rhyme's when he parked his Storm Arrow in front of the charts.

  "And nothing about Moreno's charitable work, anything that cast him in a favorable light?"

  "The driver said he was a gentleman. And he tipped well."

  This didn't seem to be exactly what Laurel was looking for. "I see." She glanced at her watch. The time was getting close to 11 p.m. She frowned as if she expected the time to be hours earlier. For a moment Sachs actually believed that the woman was considering camping out for the night. But she began to organize all the piles of papers on her table, saying, "I'm going home now." A glance at Sachs. "I know it's late but if you could just write up your notes and what Agent Dellray found, then send them--"

  "To you, on the secure server."

  "If you could."

  *

  WHEELING BACK AND FORTH in front of the sparse whiteboards and listening to the staccato, insistent typing of Amelia Sachs at the keyboard of her computer.

  She didn't seem happy.

  Lincoln Rhyme certainly wasn't. He scanned the boards again. The goddamn boards...

  The case was nothing but hearsay, ambiguous and speculative.

  Soft.

  Not a single bit of evidence collected, evidence analyzed, evidence rendered into deduction. Rhyme sighed in frustration.

  A hundred years ago the French criminalist Edmond Locard said that at every crime scene a transfer occurs between the perpetrator and the scene or the perp and the victim. It might be virtually impossible to see, but it was absolutely there to find...if you knew how to look and if you were patient and diligent.

  Nowhere was Locard's Principle more true than in a homicide like Moreno's. A shooting always leaves a wealth of clues: slugs, spent cartridges, friction ridge prints, gunshot residue, footprints, trace materials at the sniper's nest...

  He knew clues existed--but they remained out of reach. Infuriating. And with every passing day, hell, every hour, they grew less valuable as they degraded, were contaminated and possibly were stolen.

  Rhyme had been looking forward to analyzing the recovered evidence himself with his own hand, probing, examining...touching. An intense pleasure that had been denied him for so many hard years.

  But that possibility was looking more and more unlikely, as time passed with no word from the Bahamas.

  An officer from Information Services called and reported that while there were many database hits for "Don Bruns" or "Donald Bruns," none was ranked as significant by IS's Obscure Relationship Algorithm system. ORA takes disparate information, like names, addresses, organizations and activities, and uses supercomputers to find connections that traditional investigation might not. Rhyme was only mildly disappointed with the negative results. He hadn't expected much; government agents at that level--especially snipers--surely would swap out their covers frequently, use cash for most purchases and stay off the grid as much as possible.

  He now glanced toward Sachs, her eyes fixed on her notebook as she typed a memo for Laurel. She was fast and accurate. Whatever afflicted her hip and knee had spared her fingers. She never seemed to hit backspace for corrections. He recalled when he started in policing, years ago, women officers never admitted they could type, for fear of being marginalized and treated like administrative assistants. Now that had changed; those who keyboarded faster could get information faster and were therefore more efficient investigators.

  Sachs's expression, however, suggested that of a put-upon secretary.

  Thom's voice: "Can I get you--?"

  "No," Rhyme snapped.

  "Well, since the question was directed toward Amelia," the aide fired back, "why don't we let her answer? Can I get you anything to eat, drink?"

  "No, thanks, Thom."

  Which gave Rhyme a certain sense of petty satisfaction. He declined Thom's offer too. And he returned to brooding.

  Sachs took a phone call. Rhyme heard music tinning from her phone and knew who the caller was. She hit speaker.

  "What do you have for us, Rodney?" Rhyme called.

  "Lincoln, hi. Moving slowly but I've traced the whistleblower's email from Romania to Sweden."

  Rhyme looked at the time. The hour was early morning in Stockholm. He supposed the body clock of geeks operated on its own time.

  The Computer Crimes Unit cop said, "I actually know the guy operating the proxy service. We had a running argument about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo a year or so ago and we played hack against each other for a while. He's good. Not as good as me, though. Anyway, I charmed him into helping us, as long as he doesn't have to testify."

  Despite his sour mood at the moment Rhyme had to laugh. "The good old boy network is alive and well--literally, a network."

  Szarnek may have laughed too, though it was hard to tell because of the music that filled in the gaps between his words.

  "Now, he knows for sure that the email originated in the New York area and that no government servers were involved in any of the routing. They were sent from a commercial Wi-Fi. The whistleblower might've bootlegged somebody's account or used free Wi-Fi at some coffee shop or hotel."

  "How many locations?" Sachs asked.

  "There are about seven million unprotected accounts in the New York area. Give or take."

  "Ouch."

  "Oh, but I've managed to eliminate one."

  "Only one? Which?"

  "Mine." He laughed at his own joke. "But don't worry, we can shrink the number down pretty fast. There's some code we have to break but I'm borrowing supercomputer time at Columbia. I'll let you know ASAP if I find something."

  They thanked the cop. He returned to his awful music and beloved boxes, Sachs to her angry keyboarding and Rhyme to the anemic whiteboards.

  His own mobile rang and he gripped the unit, noting that the area code was 242.

  Well, this is interesting, he thought and answered the call.

  CHAPTER 22

  HELLO, IS THAT YOU, CORPORAL?"

  "Yes, Captain, yes," replied Royal Bahamas Police Force officer Mychal Poitier. A faint laugh. "You seem surprised to hear me. You didn't think I would call back."

  "No, I didn't."

  "It's late. I have called at a bad time, maybe?"

  "No, I'm glad you did."

  Ringing bells sounded in the distance. Where was Poitier? The hour was late, yet Rhyme could hear the murmur of crowds, large crowds.

  "When we spoke earlier I wasn't alone. Some of my answers may have seemed odd."

  "I was wondering about that."

  Poitier said, "You may have gathered that there was some disinclination to cooperate." He paused as if wondering whether or not this was actually a word.

  "I did gather that."

  A blast of music like a calliope, the classic circus theme, swelled.

  Poitier continued, "And you were perhaps curious why a young officer like me was put in charge of what would seem to be a very important case when I'd never run a homicide before."

  "Are you young?" Rhyme asked.

  "I am twenty-six."

  Young under some circumstan
ces, not so young under others. But for homicide work, yes, he was a rookie.

  Now a loud noise, a clanging, filled the air around Poitier.

  The corporal continued, "I'm not in the office."

  "I gathered that too." Rhyme laughed. "You're on the street?"

  "No, no, I have a job in the evenings. Security at a casino in a resort on Paradise Island. Near the famous Atlantis. You know it?"

  Rhyme didn't know. He had never been to a beach resort in his life.

  Poitier asked, "Do your police officers have second jobs too?"

  "Yes, some of them do. It's hard to make a good living in policing."

  "Yes, yes, that is true. I didn't want to come in to work, though. I would rather have stayed on the missing student case but I need the money...Now, I don't have much time. I bought a phone card, ten minutes. Let me explain about the Moreno case and my involvement. You see, I have been on the waiting list to move to our Central Detective Unit for some time. It's always been my goal to be a detective. Well, last week a supervisor told me that I had been selected for a junior position at CDU. And, far more surprising, that I would be given a case to supervise--the Moreno homicide. I had believed it would be a year or more before I would even be considered for the unit. And to be given a case myself? That was unthinkable. But I was, naturally, delighted.

  "Then I was told I'd been selected because the case was merely administrative at that point. A cartel was behind the death--as I told you before. Probably from Senor Moreno's home country of Venezuela. Certainly the sniper had already left the country, returned to Caracas. I was to gather the evidence, take some statements at the inn where Senor Moreno died and send the file to the Venezuelan national police. I would be the liaison if they wished to come to Nassau to investigate further. Then I was to assist some senior detectives running the case of the other murder I mentioned."

  The prominent lawyer.

  More clanging, shouting. What was it, a slot machine payoff?

  There was a pause and then Poitier called to someone nearby. "No, no, they're drunk. Just watch them. I'm busy. I must make this call. Escort them out if they get belligerent. Call Big Samuel."

  Back to Rhyme: "You are suspecting conspiracy at the top, dark intrigues, to quash the Moreno investigation. In a way, yes. First, we must ask, why would the cartels want to kill him? Senor Moreno was well liked in Latin America. The cartels are businessmen first. They would not want to alienate the people they need for workers and mules by killing a popular activist. My impression--from some research I have done--is that the cartels and Moreno tolerated each other."

  Rhyme told him, "Like I told you, we feel the same."

  The corporal paused. "Senor Moreno was very outspoken against America. And his Local Empowerment Movement, with its anti-U.S. bias, was growing in popularity. You know that?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "And he had connections with organizations that had terrorist leanings. This is no surprise either, I'm sure."

  "We're aware of that, as well."

  "Now, it occurred to me that perhaps--" His voice lowered. "--your government wished this man dead."

  Rhyme realized he'd been selling the corporal short.

  "And so you see the situation my superiors--in fact the entire Ministry of National Security and our Parliament--found themselves in." Nearly whispering now. "What if our investigation shows that this was true? The CIA or the Pentagon sent a sniper down here to shoot Senor Moreno? And what if a police investigation finds that man and identifies the organization he works for. The implications could be great. In retaliation for that embarrassing revelation, there might be decisions made in the U.S. to change the immigration policy regarding the Bahamas. Or to change Customs' policy. That would be very hard for us. The economy is not good here. We need Americans. We need the families who come here so their children can play with the dolphins and grandmother can do aerobics in the pool and husband and wife slip back to the room for their first romance in months. We can't lose our tourists. Absolutely. And that means we can't ruffle the feathers of Washington."

  "Do you think there would be that retribution if you conducted a more rigorous investigation?"

  "It's a reasonable explanation for the otherwise inexplicable fact that the lead investigator in the Moreno case--that is, myself--was, only two weeks ago, making certain proper fire exits existed in new buildings and that Jet Ski rental companies had paid all their fees on time."

  Poitier's voice rose in volume and there was some steel in it. "But I have to tell you, Captain: I may have been assigned to Business Inspections and Licensing but there wasn't a single inspection or license I handled that was not completed in a timely, thorough and honest manner."

  "I don't doubt it, Corporal."

  "So it is troublesome for me to be given this case and yet not be given this case, if you understand my meaning."

  Silence, broken by a slot machine clattering loudly into Rhyme's ear.

  When the noise stopped, Mychal Poitier whispered, "The Moreno case is in dry dock here, Captain. But I assume yours is steaming ahead."

  "Correct."

  "And you are, I assume, pursuing a conspiracy charge."

  Selling him short indeed. "That's right."

  "I looked for that name, Don Bruns. You said it was a cover."

  "Yes."

  "There was nothing in any of our records here. Customs, Passport Control, hotel registers. He could easily have slipped onto the island, though, unseen. It's not difficult. But there are two things that might help you. I will say I didn't neglect the case entirely. I interviewed witnesses, as I said. A desk clerk at the South Cove Inn told me that someone called the front desk two days before Robert Moreno arrived to confirm his reservation. A male caller, an American accent. But the clerk thought this was odd because Moreno's guard had called just an hour or so before, also to check on the reservation. Who was the second caller--the one in or from America--and why was he so interested in Moreno's arrival?"

  "Did you get the number?"

  "I was told it was an American area code. But the full number was not available. Or, to be frank, I was told not to dig further to find the number. Now, the second thing is that the day before the shooting, someone was at the inn, asking questions. This man spoke to a maid about the suite where Senor Moreno was staying, if there were groundskeepers regularly outside, did the suite have curtains, where did his guard stay, about the men's comings and goings. I'm assuming this was the man who called, but I don't know, of course."

  "Did you get a description?"

  "Male, Caucasian, mid-thirty years of age, short-cut hair, light brown. American accent too. Thin but athletic, the maid said. She said too he seemed military."

  "That's our man. First, he called to make sure Moreno was still arriving. Then he showed up the day before the shooting to check out the target zone. Any car? Other details?"

  "No, I'm afraid not."

  Beep.

  Rhyme heard the sound over the line and he thought: Shit, NIOS's tapping us.

  But Poitier said, "I only have a few minutes left. That's the tone warning me the time on my card is expiring."

  "I'll call you back--"

  "I must go anyway. I hope this--"

  Rhyme said urgently, "Please, wait. Tell me about the crime scene. I asked you earlier about the bullet."

  That's key to the case...

  A pause. "The sniper fired three times from a very far distance, more than a mile. Two shots missed and those bullets disintegrated on the concrete wall outside the room. The one that killed Moreno was recovered largely intact."

  "One bullet?" Rhyme was confused. "But the other victims?"

  "Oh, they were not shot. The round was very powerful. It hit the windows and showered everyone with glass. The guard and the reporter interviewing Moreno were badly cut and bled to death before they got to the hospital."

  The million-dollar bullet.

  "And the brass? The cartridges?"

 
"I asked a crime scene team to go search where the sniper had to shoot from. But..." His voice dimmed. "I was, of course, very junior and they told me they didn't want to bother."

  "They didn't want to bother?"

  "The area was rugged, they said, a rocky shoreline that would be hard to search. I protested but by then the decision had been made not to pursue the case."

  "You yourself can search it, Corporal. I can tell you how to find the place he shot from," Rhyme said.

  "Well, the case is suspended, as I said."

  Beep.

  "There are simple things to look for. Snipers leave a great deal of trace, however careful they are. It won't take much time."

  Beep, beep...

  "I'm not able to, Captain. The missing student still hasn't been found--"

  Rhyme blurted: "All right, Corporal, but please--at least send me the report, photos, the autopsy results. And if I could get the victims' clothing. Shoes particularly. And...the bullet. I really want that bullet. We'll be very diligent about the chain of custody."

  A pause. "Ah, Captain, no, I'm sorry. I have to go."

  Beep, beep, beep...

  The last that Rhyme heard before the line went silent was the urgent hoot of a slot machine and a very drunken tourist saying, "Great, great. You realize it just cost you two hundred bucks to win thirty-nine fucking dollars."

  CHAPTER 23

  THAT NIGHT RHYME AND SACHS lay in his SunTec bed, fully reclined.

  She had assured him that the bed was indescribably comfortable, an assessment for which he would have to take her word, since his only sensation was the smooth pillowcase. Which in fact was quite luxurious.

  "Look," she whispered.

  Immediately outside the window of Rhyme's second-story bedroom, on the ledge, was a flurry of movement, hard to discern in the dusk.

  Then a feather rose and drifted out of sight. Another.

  Dinnertime.

  Peregrine falcons had lived on this sill, or one of the others outside the town house, ever since Rhyme had been a resident. He was particularly pleased they'd chosen his abode for nesting. As a scientist, he emphatically did not believe in signs or omens or the supernatural, but he saw nothing wrong with the idea of emblems. He viewed the birds metaphorically, thinking in particular of a fact that most people didn't know about them: that when they attack they are essentially immobile. Falling bundles of muscle with legs fixed outward and wings tucked, streamlined. They dive at over two hundred miles per hour and kill prey by impact, not rending or biting.