The Kill Room

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Fine. Little tussle. But he got the worst of it." A nod at Swann. "He's been read his rights. He hasn't asked for a lawyer but he's not being cooperative."

  "We'll see about that," Laurel said. "Let's talk to him. I may need your help, Lincoln. We'll bring him over here."

  "Not necessary." He glanced down at the Merits wheelchair. "They tell me it's particularly good on rough terrain. Let's find out."

  Without a hesitation the chair sped over the lawn straight to the perp.

  Nance Laurel and Sachs joined him. The ADA looked down at Swann. "My name is--"

  "I know who you are."

  One of her trademarked pauses. "Now, Jacob, we know Harry Walker's behind this. He had you plant fake intelligence to trick NIOS into assassinating Robert Moreno as a cover so you could kill his guard, Simon Flores, who was blackmailing Walker. You were at the South Cove Inn when it happened, waiting for the drone strike. Just afterward, before the rescue workers got there, you broke into suite twelve hundred and stabbed Flores and Eduardo de la Rua to death. Then you went to Flores's lawyer's office in Nassau and tortured and killed him, stole the documents Flores had left for safekeeping--the documents Walker was worried would be made public.

  "After my investigation started, Metzger gave Walker updates and names--to destroy evidence and be on guard against the police running the case. But Walker told you to do more than that--to eliminate witnesses and the investigators. You killed Annette Bodel, Lydia Foster and Moreno's driver, Vlad Nikolov--" Laurel glanced toward Sachs and Rhyme. "Officers in Queens found his body in the basement of his house."

  Swann merely looked down at his bandaged hand and said nothing.

  The prosecutor continued, "You also arranged with some associates in Nassau to kill Captain Rhyme and others working with him down there... And then there was this." She offered a nod around the marred suburban landscape, resembling a combat zone.

  The depth of this information, laid out so unemotionally by Nance Laurel, must have taken Swann by surprise but he hesitated only a moment then said in a calm voice, "First of all, as for this incident..." He nodded at Boston's house. "Regarding the weapons, all three of us have Class Three federal firearms licenses and concealed-carry permits valid in the state of New York. Now, in my job at Walker Defense, I'm involved in national security. We came here on a tip that Spencer Boston represented a dangerous security leak. My associates and I were simply going to check that out and discuss the matter with him. Next thing I know, tactical troops were threatening us. They claimed they were NYPD but how was I supposed to know? Not a single person offered me their identification."

  Amelia Sachs actually laughed at this.

  Laurel asked, "Do you expect me to believe that?"

  "Ah, the important question, Ms. Laurel, is will a jury believe it? And I suspect they might. And as for those other crimes you mentioned? All speculation. I guarantee you don't have anything on me."

  The prosecutor looked at Rhyme, who wheeled up closer. He realized that Swann was intensely studying his insensate legs and left arm. He was truly curious but Rhyme had no idea what he was thinking or what the purpose for the examination was.

  The criminalist, in turn, looked the suspect up and down and smiled as he often did at the arrogance of perps. "Don't have anything, don't have anything." Musing thoughtfully. "Oh, I think maybe we do, Jacob. Now, I don't care much for motives, but we have a couple of good ones here, I have to admit. You killed Lydia Foster--and wanted to kill Moreno's driver--because you thought the subject would come up of why Simon Flores wasn't accompanying Moreno on the trip. And that would make us wonder why he wasn't here too. And your motive for killing Annette Bodel was that she could place you at the scene in the Bahamas when the shooting happened."

  Swann gave a blink but recovered quickly and simply cocked his head in curiosity.

  Rhyme paid him no mind and addressed the sky. "Now, for more objective evidence: We have a short brown hair from the Lydia Foster crime scene." He glanced at Swann's scalp. "We can do a mandatory DNA swab and I'm sure it will match. Oh, and we're still working on tracing that silver necklace you bought Annette Bodel--to attract the barracuda to hide the fact you'd tortured and killed her. I'm sure somebody will have seen you buy it."

  This opened Swann's mouth slightly. A tongue touched the corner of his lips.

  "And we found some allspice and hot sauce on the clothing of Eduardo de la Rua. I thought that was from his breakfast the morning of May ninth. But knowing your affinity for the culinary arts, I wonder if you'd been cooking the night before you killed him. Maybe you made dinner for Annette. It'll be interesting to examine your suitcase and clothing and see if there's associated trace.

  "And speaking of food: We found some trace in two locations in New York: combine them and apparently you end up with a very interesting dish involving artichoke, licorice, fish roe and vanilla. Did you happen to see the recent recipe in the New York Times? I understand the Patchwork Goose is quite the restaurant. And you should know that I have an expert witness to testify about the food."

  Rhyme knew Thom would love being thus described.

  Swann was completely silent now. In fact, he seemed numb.

  "Now, we're looking into whether you had access to a particular type of military IED, which was used at the Java Hut. And saltwater-laced sand was found both there and at Annette Bodel's apartment in Nassau. We'll subpoena your clothes and shoes and see if you happen to have any grains left on them. Your washing machine too. Hm, do we have anything else?"

  Sachs said, "The two-stroke oil trace."

  "Ah, yes, thank you, Sachs. You left some two-stroke oil trace at one of the scenes and I'm sure we'll find the same fuel mixture in your office at Walker Defense or at Homestead Air Reserve Base, if you were there before or after the attack on May 9. Thanks particularly for that find, by the way--the oil; that's how we figured out that NIOS was using drones, not flesh-and-blood snipers. Excuse me, UAVs.

  "But, I digress. Now, that interesting blade of yours..." Rhyme had seen the evidence bag containing the Japanese chef's knife. "We'll match its tool mark profile with wounds on the bodies of Lydia Foster, de la Rua, Flores and the lawyer in the Bahamas. Oh, and the limo driver too.

  "More? Okay. We're datamining your credit card, ATM withdrawals and mobile phone usage." He took a breath. "And we're subpoenaing the Walker Defense Technical Services and Support operation to see whom they've been datamining and spying on. Now, that pretty much wraps up my formal presentation. Prosecutor Laurel?"

  A trademark pause, which by now Rhyme found rather charming. She then said in an at-attention tone, "Do you see where we're going with this, Jacob? We need you to testify against Harry Walker. If you do that we'll work something out."

  "What does that mean, 'work something out'? How many years?"

  "Obviously I can't say for certain but probably we're looking at thirty."

  "Not much in it for me, then, is there?" he asked, gazing back at her coolly.

  She replied, "The alternative is I don't fight extradition to the Bahamas. And you spend the rest of your life in one of their prisons."

  That seemed to bring Swann up short. Still he remained silent.

  This wasn't, technically, Rhyme's concern. But he felt he should contribute. "And who knows, Jacob?" Rhyme said, an amused tone in his voice. "Maybe ADA Laurel here might see if you could get a spot in the kitchen in whatever facility you're sent to." He shrugged. "Just a thought."

  Laurel nodded. "I'll do what I can."

  Swann looked over the smoke-damaged house of Spencer Boston. Then turned back. "When do you want to talk?"

  Nance's response was to dig into her pocketbook and extract a battered tape recorder.

  CHAPTER 91

  BUSINESS ISN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE, the arms business, I mean," Swann was telling them. "Walker Defense was having problems, bad problems, with the wars winding down."

  Sachs said to Rhyme, "That's right. A lot of the factory facili
ties were shuttered when I was there."

  "Yes, ma'am. Lost sixty percent of our revenue and the company was in the red. Mr. Walker was used to a nice lifestyle. A couple of his ex-wives were too. Along with his present one and she was thirty years younger than him. Without a good income she might not've been too inclined to hang around."

  "Was it his Aston Martin in the lot?" Sachs asked.

  "Yes. One of his. He's got three."

  "Oh. Well. Three."

  "But it was more than that. He believed--I believed too--that the company was doing good work, good for the country. The rifle system for the drone, for instance. And that was just one of them. It was important work. We needed to keep the company afloat."

  Swann continued, "Orders weren't coming from the U.S. like they used to so Mr. Walker ramped up business in other countries. But there's a huge surplus of arms out there. Not much demand. So he created some."

  Nance Laurel asked, "By bribing officers and defense ministers in the armed services in Latin America, right?"

  "Exactly. Africa and the Balkans too. Middle East some but you've got to be careful there. Don't want to be found out selling weapons to any insurgents who take out U.S. soldiers. Okay, Simon Flores, Moreno's guard, was with the Brazilian army. Mr. Walker's Latin American operation is based in Sao Paulo and so Flores was real aware of the bribes. When he left the army he took plenty of proof with him--enough to put Mr. Walker away for the rest of his life. Flores started blackmailing him.

  "Flores had met Moreno and liked the work he was doing. Moreno hired him to be his guard. I guess Flores figured it'd be a good cover. He could travel around with Moreno throughout the Caribbean, buy property, invest the cash, hit the offshore banks--and still get to play soldier as a bodyguard." A glance toward Rhyme. "And, yeah, you got it right. Flores didn't think it was smart to come to our home turf on May first. And Mr. Walker was worried that the subject would come up."

  Sachs asked, "And you faked the intel about Moreno?"

  "No, it wasn't faked. But selective, I guess you could say. I emphasized the fertilizer bomb materials. Then NIOS issued the STO, effective May ninth, and I took a trip down to Nassau to wait for the fireworks. Afterward, we were sure the whole thing would go away but then we heard about your case against Metzger and Barry Shales. Mr. Walker had me do what I could to stop it from going forward. Oh, Metzger didn't know what I was up to, by the way. Yeah, he wanted Walker and all his other suppliers to lose evidence and erase emails but that was it."

  "Okay, that's enough to get us started," Laurel said. She nodded to Amelia Sachs. "He can go to detention now."

  Sachs had a question first, though. "At Walker, why did you come to get me in the lobby? It was a risk. I might've caught a glimpse of you when you were tailing me."

  "A risk, sure." Swann gave a shrug. "But you were good. You derailed me a couple of times. I wanted to see you up close. See if you had any liabilities." He nodded at her knee. "Which I found out. If you hadn't been one step ahead of me in Boston's house, it might've turned out different."

  Sachs rounded up a couple of uniforms from the NYPD and they helped Swann to his feet and started to direct him to a blue-and-white transport. He paused and turned back. "Oh, one thing. In my house? The basement?"

  Sachs nodded.

  "You'll find somebody there. A woman. Her name's Carol Fiori. A British tourist."

  "What?" Sachs blinked. Laurel took a moment to process this.

  "It's a long story but, anyway, she's in the basement."

  "You...she's in your basement. Dead? Injured?"

  "No, no, no. She's fine. Probably bored. She's handcuffed down there."

  "What did you do, rape her?" Laurel asked.

  Swann seemed insulted. "Of course not. I made dinner for her is what I did. Asparagus, potatoes Anna and my own version of Veronique--grass-fed veal with grapes and beurre blanc. I have the meat flown in from a special farm in Montana. Best in the world. She didn't eat any. I didn't think she would. But I gave it a shot." He shrugged.

  "What were you going to do with her?" Sachs asked.

  "I didn't really know," Swann said. "I didn't know."

  CHAPTER 92

  THE SITE WAS SECURE, Shreve Metzger had been told, and he piloted his government car from the staging area a few blocks away through the trim streets to the home of his administrations director.

  His friend.

  His Judas.

  Metzger was astonished to see that the man's pleasant suburban house, where he'd had dinner two weeks ago, looked like some of the battlefield locales he remembered from Iraq, except for the lush grass and the Lexuses and Mercs parked on the street nearby. Trees smoldered and smoke dribbled skyward from Boston's windows. The smell would be in the walls for years, even after painting. And forget the furniture and clothing.

  Metzger's own brand of Smoke filled him. He thought again for the hundredth time that day: How could you have done this, Spencer?

  As with anybody who had affronted him--from rude coffee vendor to someone like this traitor--Metzger felt a mousetrap snap, a nearly overwhelming urge to grab them, shatter their bones, scream, draw blood. Utterly destroy.

  But then, thinking that Boston's life as he'd lived it would be over with, Metzger decided that was punishment enough. The Smoke within him faded.

  A good sign, Dr. Fischer?

  Probably it was. But would the serenity last? Maybe, maybe not. Why did all the important battles have to be lifetime battles? Weight, anger, love...

  He flashed an ID at a couple of local uniforms and ducked under the tape, walking toward Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs.

  He greeted them and then learned his administrations director's motive for leaking the STO. The sin arose not from conscience or ideology or money. But simply because he was passed over for the job of head of NIOS.

  Metzger was stunned. For one thing, Boston was totally wrong for the senior job. For all his scrawny physique and bland eyes, Metzger was a killer. Whatever makes your own personal Smoke go away defines you.

  Spencer Boston, on the other hand, was a diligent and meticulous national security professional, an organizer, a player, a dealer, a man who got things done in the hazy streets of Managua or Rio. Who didn't own a gun and wouldn't know how to use one--or have the guts to do so.

  What on earth would he do with an organization like NIOS, whose sole purpose was to end lives?

  But ambition doesn't grow from logic, Metzger knew.

  He now nodded a tepid farewell to Rhyme and Sachs. He'd hoped to confront Spencer Boston but Sachs had explained that the administrations director had gone to be with his wife and children in Larchmont. He hadn't been officially arrested yet. There was still considerable debate as to what crime, if any, he'd committed. The charges would be federal, not state, however, so the NYPD's involvement was marginal.

  Nothing more to do here.

  Spencer, how could you...

  He turned abruptly toward his car.

  And nearly walked smack into stocky Assistant District Attorney Nance Laurel.

  They both froze, inches away from each other.

  He was silent. She said, "You were lucky this time."

  "And what exactly does that mean?"

  "Moreno's renunciation of his citizenship. That's why the case got dropped. The only reason."

  Shreve Metzger wondered if she held everyone's eyes so steadily. Probably. Everyone except lovers', he suspected. In this they were the same. And he wondered where on earth that thought had come from.

  She continued, "How did you manage to pull it off?"

  "What?"

  "Did Moreno really renounce? Were those documents from the embassy in Costa Rica legitimate?"

  "Are you accusing me of obstruction?"

  "You're guilty of obstruction," she said. "That's a given. We're choosing not to pursue those charges. I just want to know specifically about the renunciation documents."

  Meaning calls had been made from Washington to A
lbany dictating that obstruction charges not be brought. Metzger wondered if this was a farewell present from the Wizard. Probably not. A case like that would look bad for everybody.

  "I don't really have anything more to say on that topic, Counselor. Take it up with State."

  "Who's al-Barani Rashid?"

  So she had at least two entries in the STO queue--Moreno's and Rashid's.

  "I can't discuss NIOS operations with you. You don't have a clearance."

  "Is he dead?"

  Metzger said nothing. He kept his hazel eyes locked easily on hers.

  Laurel pressed ahead, "You're positive Rashid is guilty?"

  The Smoke boiled and cracked his skin like an eggshell. He whispered harshly, "Walker used me, he used NIOS."

  "You let yourself be used. You heard what you wanted to about Moreno and stopped asking questions."

  Smoke, plumes and plumes of Smoke now. "What's wrong, Counselor? Upset that all you ended up with was a run-of-the-mill homicide? A CEO at a defense contractor orders a couple of hits? Boring. Won't make CNN the way a federal security director's going to jail would."

  She didn't rise to the argument. "And Rashid? No mistakes there, you're convinced?"

  Metzger couldn't help but recall that Barry Shales--and he--had nearly blown two children to oblivion in Reynosa, Mexico.

  CD: Not approved...

  An urge to strike Laurel swelled. Or to lash out with cruel words about her short stature, wide hips, excessive makeup, her parents' bankruptcy, her failed love life--a deduction but surely accurate. Metzger's anger had inflicted only a half dozen bruises or welts over the years; his words had hurt legions. The Smoke did that. The Smoke made you inhuman.

  Just leave.

  He turned.

  Laurel said evenly, "And what's Rashid's crime--saying things about America you didn't like? Asking people to question the values and the integrity of the country?...But isn't being free to ask questions like that what America's all about?"

  Metzger stopped fast, turned and snapped, "Spoken like the most simple-minded, cliche-ridden of bloggers." He reseated himself in front of her. "What is it with you? Why do you resent what we do so much?"