“UAV Three—”
Shales ripped off his headset and flung it away.
Right hand back to the trackball.
Gently, gently—man, it was easy to oversteer.
Looking from radar to Google, he saw the Hellfire’s path veering away from the houses. Soon the direction was due west, toward what the satellite map promised was nothingness. The nose camera in the missile still showed only haze.
Then the altitude and speed began to drop fast. The propellant was gone. There was nothing more Shales could do; he’d lost control of the missile. He sat back, wiped his hands on his slacks. Staring at the monitor of the view from the Hellfire’s nose camera. He could see only overcast.
The altitude indicator showed: 1500 feet.
670.
590…
What would he see as the Hellfire crashed to earth? Empty desert? Or a school bus on a field trip? Farmworkers staring in horror at what was falling toward them?
Then the haze broke and Shales had a clear view of the missile’s destination directly ahead.
However loud and spectacular the impact eighteen hundred miles away was, it registered in the NIOS Kill Room as a simple, silent change of image: from a barren plain of dirt and brush to a screen filled with flickering black and white, like a TV when a storm takes out the cable.
Shales spun back to the drone controls, disengaged the autopilot. He looked at the camera’s monitor, still focused on the courtyard of the safe house. The children were still there, the boy, presumably the brother, gently kicking the ball to the girl, who chased after it like a driven terrier. A woman stood in the doorway watching them both, unsmiling.
Jesus Lord, he repeated, not wondering or caring who they were or how they came to be in a safe house that the “impeccable” intelligence had assured was occupied only by a terrorist.
He zoomed out with the camera.
The garage door was open. Rashid was gone. Of course, he would be. The wary eyes earlier had told Shales that the terrorist suspected what was happening.
He scooped up the headsets and placed them on his head. Replugged the jack.
“—opy, Three Nine Seven?”
“Three Nine Seven to Texas Center,” he snapped. “Mission aborted at operator’s discretion. Returning to base.”
CHAPTER 71
DO YOU WANT SOME SCOTCH?” Rhyme asked, from the center of his parlor, near a comparison microscope. “I think you need some.”
Looking up from her desk in the corner of the room, where she was packing up files, Nance Laurel swiveled toward Rhyme with furrowed brow, wrinkling a crease into her makeup. He suspected a lecture on the unprofessionalism of drinking on the job would be forthcoming.
Laurel asked, “What distillery?”
Rhyme replied, “Glenmorangie. Twelve or eighteen years.”
“Anything peatier?” she wondered aloud, to his additional surprise. Sachs’s too, and amusement, to tell from the faint smile on his partner’s face.
“No. Try it, you’ll like it.”
“Okay. The eighteen. Naturally. Drop of water.”
Rhyme gripped the bottle and clumsily poured. She did the water herself. His bionic arm lacked sufficient subtlety. He asked, “Sachs?”
“No, thanks. I’ll get something else.” She was organizing evidence bags and boxes, which—even in cases that were falling apart—had to be meticulously cataloged and stored.
“Thom and Mel?”
The tech said he was fine with coffee. Thom too declined. He’d grown fond of bourbon Manhattans lately but had explained to Rhyme that drinks that involved a recipe should only be enjoyed on weekends, when no business was likely to intrude.
Thom pulled a bottle of French Chardonnay from the refrigerator in which blood and tissue samples were often stored. He lifted it toward Sachs. She said, “You read my mind.”
He opened and poured.
Rhyme sipped some of the fragrant whiskey. “Good, no?”
“It is,” Laurel agreed.
Rhyme reread the letter about Moreno’s renunciation of his U.S. citizenship. He was as angry as Laurel that this technicality had derailed the case.
“He hated the country that much,” Pulaski asked, “that he’d give up his citizenship?”
“Apparently so,” Laurel said.
“Come on, boys and girls,” Rhyme chided, then sipped some more whiskey. “They won round one. Or the first inning. Whatever clichéd figure of speech and mixed metaphor you like. But we still have a perp, you know. Unsub Five Sixteen, responsible for an IED in a coffee shop and the Lydia Foster homicide. Those are Major Cases. Lon Sellitto’ll assign us to work them.”
“It won’t be my case, though,” Nance Laurel said. “I’ve been told to get back to my regular caseload.”
“This’s bullshit,” Ron Pulaski spat out, surprising Rhyme with his vehemence. “Moreno’s the same person he was when he got shot—an innocent victim. So what if he wasn’t a citizen?”
“Bullshit it is, Ron,” Laurel said, her voice more resigned than angry. “That’s exactly right.”
She finished her whiskey and walked over to Rhyme. She shook his hand. “It’s been a privilege working with you.”
“I’m sure we will again.”
A faint smile. But something about the exquisite sadness in the expression told him that she believed her life as a prosecutor was over.
Sachs said to her, “Hey, you want to have dinner sometime? We can dish on the government.” She added in a whisper that Rhyme could hear, “And dish on men too?”
“I’d like that. Yes.”
They exchanged phone numbers, Sachs having to check to find out what her new one was. She’d bought a half dozen prepaids in the past few days.
Then the ADA carefully assembled her files, using paper clips and Post-it Notes to mark relevant categories. “I’ll have copies sent to you for the unsub case.”
The short woman hefted the briefcase in one hand, the litigation bag in the other and with one last look around the room—and no other words—walked out, her solid heels thudding on the wood, then the marble of the hallway. And she was gone.
CHAPTER 72
JACOB SWANN DECIDED, WITH SOME REGRET, that he couldn’t rape Nance Laurel before he killed her.
Well, he could. And part of him wanted to. But it wouldn’t be wise—that was what he meant. A sexual assault left far too much evidence. Minimizing the clues in any murder was hard enough—trying to make sure sweat, tears, saliva, hairs and those hundred thousand skin cells we slough off daily weren’t available to be picked up by some diligent crime scene tech.
Not to mention fingerprints inside the latex gloves or on skin.
He’d need another option.
Swann was presently in a restaurant on Henry Street across from the prosecutor’s apartment in Brooklyn, a four-floor walk-up. He was nursing a very bittersweet Cuban coffee.
Scanning Laurel’s abode. Not a doorman building, he noticed. Good.
Swann had decided that now he could use a cover crime for the murder: In addition to prosecuting patriotic Americans for taking out vile traitors, Laurel had sent plenty of rapists to jail. He’d looked up her conviction record—extremely impressive—and learned that among those she’d put away were dozens of serial rapists and molesters. One of these suspects could easily decide to get his revenge following his release. Or a relative of a prisoner might do just that.
Her own past would come back to get her.
Yes, he’d gotten word from headquarters that the investigation into Moreno’s death was over. But that didn’t mean it might not surface again. Laurel was the sort who might leave government service and start writing letters or articles in the papers or online about what had happened, about NIOS, about the STO assassination program.
Better if she just went away. And anyway, Swann had set off a bomb in Little Italy and stabbed an interpreter and limo driver to death. If nothing else, Laurel might be called on to help in the investigat
ion of those crimes. He needed her dead and all her files destroyed.
He fantasized. Not about the sex but about faking the attack, which he was looking at like a recipe. Planning, preparation, execution. He’d break into her apartment, stun her with a blow to the head (not the throat; there couldn’t be a connection to Ms. Lydia Foster, of course), rip her clothes off, make sure her breasts and groin displayed severe striking hematoma (no biting, though he was tempted; that bothersome DNA). Then he’d beat her to death and penetrate her with a foreign object.
He didn’t have time to go to an adult bookstore with video booths or a porn theater and scoop up a bit of somebody’s DNA to swab on her. But he had stolen some stained and torn underwear, teenager’s size, from the trash behind a tenement not far away. Fibers from this garment he’d work under her fingernails and hope the teen had been masturbating at some point in the past few days. Likely.
This would be enough evidence.
He dipped his tongue into the coffee. Enjoyed the intense sensation throughout his mouth; it’s a myth that different tastes are experienced in different parts of the tongue: salt, sour, sweet, bitter. Another sip. Swann cooked with coffee sometimes—he’d made a Mexican mole-type sauce for pork with 80 percent cacao and espresso. He’d been tempted to submit it for a contest then decided it wasn’t a good idea for him to be too public.
He was running through the plan for Nance Laurel again when he spotted her.
Across the street the ADA had appeared from around the corner. She was in a navy-blue suit and white blouse. In her small pudgy hands were an old-fashioned attaché case, brown and battered, and a large litigation bag. He wondered if either was a present from her father or mother, both of whom were attorneys too, Swann had learned. They were in the low-rent district of the profession. Her mother, public defender. Her father, poverty law.
Doin’ good deeds, helping society, Swann reflected. Just like their stocky little girl.
Laurel was walking with eyes cast downward and laboring under the weight of the litigation bag. Though her face was a cryptic mask, she now gave off a slight hint of depression, the way Italian parsley in soup suggests but doesn’t state. Unlike bold cilantro.
The source of the somber mood was no doubt the foundering Moreno case. Swann nearly felt bad for her. The prosecution would have been the jewel in her crown but now she was back to a life of sending José, Shariq, Billy and Roy into the system for crack and rapes and guns.
Wasn’t me. No way. I don’t know, man, I don’t know where it came from, really…
Except, of course, she wouldn’t be handling any such cases.
Wouldn’t be doing anything at all after tonight. Would be cold and still as a slab of loin.
Nance Laurel found her keys and unlocked the front door, stepped inside.
Swann would give it ten, fifteen minutes. Time for her to let her guard down.
He lifted the small, thick cup to his nose, inhaled and slipped his tongue into the warm liquid once more.
CHAPTER 73
WHAT DO WE KNOW ABOUT the last of our ten little Indians?” Lincoln Rhyme asked absently.
The setback about Moreno’s citizenship had defeated Nance Laurel but it had only stoked his hunt lust. “I don’t care what Albany wants, Sachs, I want our unsub. Five Sixteen’s too dangerous to stay free. What do we know?” He looked over the evidence whiteboards. “All right, we know Five Sixteen was in the Bahamas around the time of the shooting. We know that he killed the student-prostitute Annette Bodel. We know that he set the bomb to eliminate leads to the whistleblower. We know he killed Lydia Foster. We know he was following our Sachs around town. What can we make of that?…Sachs!”
“What?”
“The other driver, the one that Moreno usually used? Did you ever get in touch with him?”
“No. Never called back.”
This happened frequently when the police phoned, asking for a return call.
Usually this was out of reluctance to get involved.
Sometimes there were other reasons.
She tried the driver once more and shook her head. She placed another call—to Elite Limos, Rhyme deduced. She asked if they had heard from their employee. A brief conversation and she hung up.
“Never called in after he went to see a sick relative.”
“Don’t trust it. We may have a third victim of our unsub. Find out where he lives, Pulaski. Get a team from the closest precinct to his house and see what’s there.”
The young officer pulled out his mobile and called Dispatch.
Rhyme wheeled back and forth in front of the charts. He didn’t believe he’d ever had a case like this, where the evidence was so fragmentary and sparse.
Bits, scraps, observations, 180-degree changes in direction.
Nothing else…
Hell.
Rhyme steered toward the shelf with the whiskey bottles. He lifted the Glenmorangie and awkwardly poured another hit, then seated the cap on his tumbler and sipped.
“What’re you doing?” Thom asked from the doorway.
“What am I doing, what am I doing? Now, that’s an odd question. Usually the interrogatory ‘what’ introduces a sentence in which the inquirer is unable to make any deductions about a situation.” A substantial sip. “I think you’ve wasted a perfectly good sentence, Thom. It’s pretty clear what I’m doing.”
“You’ve already had too much.”
“That’s a declarative sentence and it makes much more sense. It’s valid. I disagree with it but it’s logically valid.”
“Lincoln!” Thom strode forward.
Rhyme glared. “Don’t even think—”
“Wait,” Sachs said.
Rhyme assumed she was taking Thom’s side in the alcohol dispute but when he wheeled around he found her eyes were not on him or the aide but on the whiteboards. She walked forward and Rhyme noticed that she wasn’t wincing or limping. She was spry and balanced. Her eyes narrowed. This was her predatory gaze. It made the tall woman frightening and, to Rhyme, appealing.
He set the whiskey down. His eyes rose to the boards and scanned like radar. Were there some facts he’d missed? Had she made a deduction that had eluded him? “Do you see something about Five Sixteen?”
“No, Rhyme,” she whispered. “It’s something else. Something else entirely.”
CHAPTER 74
NANCYANN OLIVIA LAUREL was sitting on a couch in her Brooklyn Heights apartment, a brown JCPenney slipcover over blue upholstery that had been worn smooth by her family and their friends years and years ago.
Hand-me-downs. A lot of those here. Laurel was tapped by a memory: Her father surreptitiously fishing in the sofa’s crevices for coins that had fallen from the pockets of visitors. She’d been eight or so and he’d made a joke of it, a game, when she’d walked into the room unexpectedly.
Except it wasn’t a game, and she knew it. Even children can be ashamed of their parents.
Still tasting the smoky scotch, she looked around this home. Her home. Hers alone. In a reflective mood. Despite, or maybe because of, the threadbare, recycled accoutrements, the sense of the place was comfort, even on a pitiful day like this one. She’d worked hard to make it that way. The walls, coated with dozens of layers of paint, going back to Teddy Roosevelt’s era, were a cream shade. For decorations: a silk flower arrangement from a Chelsea crafts fair, an autumn wreath from the Union Square farmers’ market, art too. She had paintings and sketches, some original and some prints, all of scenes that had resonated with her personally, horses, farms, rocky streams, still lifes. No idea why they appealed. But she’d known instantly that they did and she’d bought them if there was any way she could spare the cash. Some alpaca yarn hangings, colorful rectangles. Laurel had taken up knitting a few years ago but couldn’t find the time or the inclination to complete the scarves for friends’ nieces.
What now? she thought.
What now…
The teakettle’s whistle was blowing. Had been blowing. S
hrill. She was suddenly aware of it. She went into the small space and put a rose hip bag in the mug—navy blue on the outside, white in, matching her outfit, she realized. She should change.
Later.
Laurel stared at the kettle for a full minute. Shut off the heat but did not pour the boiling liquid. She returned to the couch.
What now?
This was the worst of all possible outcomes. If she’d won the convictions of Metzger and Barry Shales, well, that would have made her world. It would have made her life. There was no way to describe the importance that this case had taken on for her. She remembered in law school being mesmerized by the stories of the greats of the legal system in America—the lawyers, prosecutors and judges. Clarence Darrow, William O. Douglas, Felix Frankfurter, Benjamin Cardozo, Earl Warren…so many, many others. Louis D. Brandeis she thought of often.
The federal Constitution is perhaps the greatest of human experiments…
There was nothing as marvelous as the machine of justice and she wanted so badly to be a part of it, to make her own imprint on American law.
Her proudest day was law school graduation. She remembered looking out over the audience. Her father had been alone. This was because her mother was arguing a case before the Court of Appeals in Albany—the highest state appellate court—trying to get a homeless man’s murder conviction reversed.
Laurel couldn’t describe how honored she was that the woman wasn’t present that day.
The Moreno case was to be her way of validating sacrifices like those. Okay, and of making a name for herself too. Amelia had nailed it right when she’d sussed out the political career track. The ambition remained even if her name ultimately decorated no ballot.
Yet even a loss at the Metzger trial would have succeeded in a way. NIOS’s Kill Room would have been exposed. That might have been enough to sink the assassination program forever. The hungry media and more-starved congressmen would have been all over NIOS like flies.
She’d have been sacrificed—her career would have ended—but at least she would have made sure the truth of Metzger’s crimes came out.
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