The Deliveryman

by Jeffery Deaver

  When they'd arrived at the church--probably the site of the weapons, or some lead to send them to the stash, Sachs joined the team for the takedown, ready to move in the minute the boy appeared in danger, even if they didn't find the weapons. But, as it turned out, Javier didn't need as much protection as they'd thought. (Sachs grimaced at the thought that she had missed the LCP .380 pocket gun he'd carried in his pencil box--though, true, he'd been in the company of police at his father's murder scene and then with Child Protective Services personnel; she assumed he'd been properly searched.)

  The ATF now had possession of the weapons--five hundred of some of the most sophisticated submachine guns on earth. Street value of three-quarters of a million. And the Mexican police had seized a large factory in Chihuahua, "Juarez-Trenton Exhaust Systems," which produced not a single emissions control device but had quite the sophisticated operation, from computer design to stringent quality control. Several trucking company officials were also in custody. More arrests were expected.

  As Rhyme put the finishing touches on his report, he was interrupted. A figure appeared in the doorway. "Damn, you were gonna come watch but you missed it."

  Rhyme grumbled, "I missed it."

  "You didn't see it?"

  "No, like I said. I missed it. What exactly?"

  "A goal! 'Nother one. A header..." He pointed to Rhyme. "Yo, Mr. Rhyme, you could hit headers! Don't need your legs for that!"

  Indisputable, Rhyme reflected, looking over at the boy.

  Javier and Thom had been in the music room across the hall, presently playing the soccer game--on, no less, Rhyme's biggest and most expensive high-def monitor, wheeled from lab to den for the purpose of lowly amusement.

  "It was unfair," called Thom Reston, representing Brazil. "We're down three-nil." Javier was Mexico.

  "What's unfair?" Rhyme called to his unseen aide.

  "Well, he's younger. He's more agile."

  "It's a video game," Rhyme reminded.

  "Thumbs require agility too."

  Javier returned to the match. "You gotta come watch!"

  "All right." He saved his document and wheeled into the den, where, in concession for being a spectator, he was given a slug of single-malt by Thom, before returning to the game.

  Rhyme sipped, Rhyme watched.

  The boy would be staying here tonight. Child and Family Services had finally tracked down the aunt, in Chicago. She would be arriving to take him to her suburban home tomorrow. She was married, Sachs had reported, and had two children of her own.

  Rhyme actually cheered the boy on, drawing a scowl from Thom.

  Twenty minutes later Sachs arrived and he wheeled from the digital stadium and joined her in the parlor lab.

  She'd been interviewing the suspects in the case--Morales and his wife kept mum but Ortiz and Stan Coelho were happy to talk, though some of the latter's willingness to spill may have been due to happy drugs.

  "None of them can think of who might've killed him." She nodded at the evidence table, meaning Rinaldo. Morales, his wife and the other two minders, of course, weren't prime suspects; the success of their arms importing scheme depended on a living deliveryman.

  "Somebody within the 128s? A rival crew? A contractor who just happened to hear about the guns and wanted to steal the shipment?"

  She shrugged. And even as he'd asked the question he'd decided such perps were unlikely. No, his and Sachs's first conclusion somehow smelled right: that Rinaldo's was a random death, unrelated to the arms scheme.

  Wrong time, wrong place.

  These were, he knew, the hardest homicides to close.

  "Well, we've still got the evidence. A mountain's worth of it." He glanced at the tables. "The answer's there someplace."

  "I'll call Mel in and we'll get to it."

  At that moment Rhyme's computer sounded with an incoming email. He glanced up and read the message. It was from the assistant district attorney he'd worked with from time to time--the one, in fact, who'd run the Baxter case, which had concluded in a guilty verdict against the scam artist, just a few days ago, Rhyme's first foray into white collar crime.

  A second email arrive a moment later. From the office of the chief of detectives.

  Curious.

  He was aware of Sachs looking his way, her head cocking.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "The ADA and some NYPD brass. They want to meet with me. Today. Something about the Baxter case."

  "What do you think it's about, Lincoln?" she asked.

  Then her voice braked to a stop. He looked her way. She'd just broken their unspoken but immutable rule. That it was the worst kind of bad luck to use first names when addressing each other. Rhyme had no more use for superstition than he had for sentiment and reverence, but it was a jarring moment.

  Still, he smiled. "No clue what's up. Maybe I'm getting a good citizen award." He turned to summon Thom to bring the disabled-accessible van around but he heard young Javier Rinaldo's laugh and Thom mournful cry of "No way, not again!"

  Rhyme wheeled toward the den.

  City hall could wait.

  An emergency at a busy department store leaves its victim horribly injured.

  Was it a freak accident--or the work of an unseen criminal?

  Please turn the page for a preview of

  The Steel Kiss

  Available in March 2016

  Tuesday

  I

  Blunt Force

  Chapter One

  Sometimes you catch a break.

  Well, how 'bout this?

  Amelia Sachs had been driving her arterial-red Ford Torino along a commercial stretch of Brooklyn's Henry Street, more or less minding pedestrians and traffic, when she spotted the suspect.

  What're the odds?

  She was helped by the fact that Unsub Forty was unusual in appearance. Tall and quite thin; he stood out in the crowd. Still, that alone would hardly get you noticed in the throng here. But on the night he'd beaten his victim to death, two weeks before, a witness reported that he'd been wearing a pale-green-checked sport coat and Braves baseball cap. Sachs had done the requisite--if hopeless--posting on the wire of those facts and moved on to other aspects of the investigation and other investigations.

  But an hour ago a portable from the 84, walking a beat near the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, had spotted a possible and called Sachs--the lead gold shield on the case. The murder had been late at night, in a deserted construction site, and the perp apparently hadn't known he'd been witnessed in the outfit, so he must've felt safe donning the garb again. The patrol officer had lost him in the crowds but she'd sped here anyway, calling in backup, even if this part of the city was an urban sprawl populated by ten thousand other souls. The odds that she'd find Mr. Forty were, she told herself wryly, nonexistent at best.

  But, damn, there he was, walking in a long lope. Tall, skinny, green jacket, cap and all, though from behind she couldn't tell what team was being supported.

  She skidded the '60s muscle car to a stop in a bus zone, tossed the NYPD official business placard on the dash and eased out of the car, minding the suicidal bicyclist who came within inches of contact. He glanced back, not in recrimination, but, she supposed, to get a better look at the tall, redheaded former fashion model, with focus in her eyes and a weapon on her black-jeaned hip.

  Onto the sidewalk, following a killer.

  This was her first look at the prey. The gangly man moved in long strides, feet long but narrow (in running shoes, she noted; better for sprinting over the damp April concrete--much better than her leather-soled boots). Part of her wished he was more wary--so he would look around and she could get a glimpse of his face. That was still an unknown. But, no, he just plodded along in that weird gait, his long arms at his side, backpack slung via one strap over his sloping shoulder.

  She wondered if the murder weapon was inside: the ball-peen hammer, with its rounded end, meant for smoothing edges of metal and rivets. That was the side he'd used fo
r the murder, not the opposite end. The conclusion as to what had caved in Todd William's skull came from a database that Lincoln Rhyme had created for the NYPD and Medical Examiner's Office, the specific file: Weapon Impact on Human Bodies. Section Three: Blunt Force.

  She'd had to do the analysis herself. Without Rhyme.

  A thud in her gut at this thought. Forced herself to move past it.

  Picturing the wounds again. Horrific, what the thirty-five-year-old Manhattanite had suffered, beaten to death and robbed as he approached an after-hours club named, so very meta, 40o North--a reference, Sachs learned, to the latitude of the East Village, where it was located.

  Now, Unsub Forty was crossing the street, with the light. What an odd build. Over six feet yet he couldn't've weighed more than one fifty.

  Sachs saw his destination and alerted the backup that the suspect now was entering a five-story shopping center on Henry. She plunged in after him.

  Forty headed up to the second floor, into a Starbucks.

  Sachs eased behind a pillar near the escalator, about twenty feet from the open entryway to the coffee franchise. Careful to remain out of sight. She needed to make sure he didn't suspect there were eyes on him. He wasn't presenting as if carrying--there's a way people tend to walk when they have a gun in their pocket, as any street cop knows, a wariness, a stiffer gait--but that hardly meant he was pistol free. And if he tipped to her and started shooting? Carnage.

  Glancing inside the shop quickly, she saw him reach down to the food section and pick up two sandwiches, then apparently order a drink. He paid and stepped out of sight, waiting for his cappuccino or mocha. Something fancy. A filtered coffee would have been handed over right away.

  Would he eat in or leave?

  Sachs debated. Where was the best place to take him? Would it be better outside on the street or in the shop or the mall itself? Yes, the center and the Starbucks were crowded. But the street more so. Neither was great.

  It was then that she saw a delivery man wheel by with some cartons containing the Starbucks logo, the mermaid.

  Which meant there was no back entrance to the shop. Forty was trapped in a cul-de-sac. Yes, there were people inside, potential bystanders, but fewer than in the mall or on the street.

  She called the backup. "I want to take him here."

  "Inside, Amelia? Sure. That's best?"

  He's not getting away, Sachs thought. "Yes. Get up here, stat."

  "We're moving."

  A fast glance inside then back to cover. She still couldn't see him. He must be sitting in the back of the place. She eased to the right and then moved closer to the open archway of the coffee shop. If she couldn't see him, he couldn't see her.

  She and the team would flank--

  Suddenly Sachs cringed at the abrupt, piercing scream close behind her. A horrid wail of a person in pain. So raw, so high, she couldn't tell man or woman.

  The sound came from the up escalator.

  Oh, Jesus...

  The top panel of the device, the one that that riders stepped off the moving stairs onto, had popped open and a passenger had fallen into the interior of the machine.

  "Help me! No!" A man's voice. Then the words coalesced into a scream again.

  Customers and employees gasped and cried out. Those on the steps of the malfunctioning unit, which were still moving, leapt off. The riders on the adjoining escalator, going down, jumped too, maybe thinking it was about to engulf them as well.

  Sachs glanced toward the coffee shop.

  No sign of Forty. Had he seen her badge or weapon when he, like everyone else, turned to stare at the accident?

  She called the backup and told them to cover the exits. Then sprinted to the escalator, noting somebody had pressed the EMERGENCY button. The stairs slowed and then halted.

  "Make it stop, make it stop!" More screams from the person inside.

  Sachs stepped into the upper part of the platform and looked into the gaping hole. A middle-aged man was trapped in the gears of the motor, mounted to the floor about eight feet below the aluminum panel that had popped open. The motor continued to turn, despite someone's hitting the EMERGENCY button, and she supposed that it merely disengaged a clutch to the moving stairs. The poor man was caught at the waist. He was on his side, flailing at the machine. The gears had dug deep into his body and blood had soaked his clothing and was flowing onto the floor of the escalator pit. He was about forty-five and wore a white shirt with a name badge on it, an employee of one of the stores.

  Looking at the crowd. There were employees here, a few security people, but no one was doing anything to help. Stricken faces. Those who were reacting were taking cellphone video.

  She called down to him, "We've got rescue on the way. I'm coming down there."

  "God, it hurts!" More screaming. She felt the vibration in her chest.

  That bleeding had to stop. Now. Just go.

  She muscled open the hinged panel--apparently this was the route workmen used for access to the mechanics. A breath. And claustrophobic Amelia Sachs started into the narrow pit, ten feet from the floor to the top of the panel. There was a ladder for workers to use--but it consisted of narrow metal bars, which were slick with the man's blood; apparently he'd been slashed as well when the stairs shoved him into the sharp edge of the panel. She gripped the hand-and footholds hard; if she were to fall, she would land right on top of the man. And she herself might be entangled in another set of gears, which still turned. Once, her feet went out from under her and her arm muscles cramped. Her booted foot brushed a gear, which tugged at her cuff. She yanked it away.

  Then down to the floor...Hold on, hold on. Saying, or thinking, this to both him and herself.

  The poor man's screams weren't diminishing.

  "Please, oh God, oh God..."

  Her feet planted on the concrete floor, nearly slipping on the blood. She almost pitched facefirst into the second set of gears. Caught herself just in time.

  "I'm a police officer," she told him. "Medics'll be here any minute."

  "It's bad, it's bad. It hurts so much. Oh, so much."

  Lifting her head, she shouted, "Somebody from maintenance, somebody from management! Shut this damn thing off! Not the stairs, the motor!"

  Where the hell's the fire department? She had no idea what to do. She pulled her jacket off and pressed it against the shredded flesh of his belly and groin. It did little to stanch the blood.

  "Ah, ah, ah," he whimpered.

  Looking for wires to cut--she carried her very sharp and very illegal switchblade knife in her back pocket--but there were none visible. How the hell can you make a machine like this and not have an off switch? Jesus. Furious at the incompetence.

  "My wife," the man whispered.

  "Shhh," Sachs soothed. "It'll be all right." Though she knew it wouldn't be all right. His body was a bloody mess. Even if he survived, he'd never be the same.

  "My wife. She's...go see her. My son. Tell them I loved them."

  "You're going to tell 'em that yourself."

  "You're a cop." Gasping.

  "That's right. And there'll be medics here--"

  "Give me your gun."

  "Give you--"

  More screaming. Tears down his face.

  "Please, give me your gun! How do I shoot it? Tell me!"

  "I can't do that, sir." She put her hand on his arm. With her other palm she wiped sweat.

  "It hurts so much... I can't take it." A scream louder than the others.

  She had never seen such a hopeless look in anyone's eyes.

  "Please, for Christ's sake, your gun!"

  Amelia Sachs reached down quickly and drew her Glock from her belt.

  "The answer is there."

  A pause as the words echoed off the glossy, scuffed walls, their color academic green.

  "The answer. It may be obvious, like a bloody knife containing the perp's fingerprints, DNA and initials. Or less so, like three ligands--and what is a ligand?"

 
"Olfactory molecules, sir." A shaky male voice.

  Lincoln Rhyme continued, "Less obvious, I was saying. The answer may be in three olfactory molecules. But it is there. The connection between the killer and killee that can lead us to his door and lead the jury to relocate him to a new home for twenty to thirty years. Someone give me Locard's Principle."

  A woman in the front row called out, "With every crime there is a transfer of material between the scene or the victim. Locard used the word 'dust' but 'material' is generally accepted. Trace evidence, in other words. Fingerprints too. Footprints." He knew her name was Juliette Archer. He was aware of a few other students' names. Hers he'd learned first.

  Lincoln Rhyme gave no response. Correct answers might be acknowledged but never praised, which was reserved for an insight that transcended the baseline. He was impressed nonetheless, as he had not yet assigned any reading material that discussed the great French criminalist; that was on the syllabus for two weeks hence. He gazed out at the faces, as if perplexed. "Did you all write that down? It appears some of you did not write it down."

  Pens began to skitter; laptop keyboards began to click.

  It was only the second class session of Introduction to Crime Scene Analysis and protocols had yet to be established. The students' memories would be supple and in good form but not infallible. Besides, recording means possessing, not just comprehending.

  "The answer is there," he repeated, well, professorially. "In criminalistics--forensic science--there is not a single crime that cannot be solved. The only question is one of resource, ingenuity and effort. How far are you willing to go to identify the perp?"

  "Captain Rhyme?" From a young man in the back of the classroom, which contained about thirty people, ranging from early twenties to forties, skewed toward the younger. Despite the stylish, spiky hipster hair, the man had police in him. While the college catalog bio--not to mention the tens of thousands of Google references--offered up Rhyme's official rank at the time of retirement. It was unlikely that anyone unconnected with the NYPD would use it.

  With a genteel move of his right hand, the professor turned his wheelchair to face the student. Rhyme was quadriplegic, largely paralyzed from the neck down; his left ring finger and, now, after some surgery, right arm and hand were the only southern extremities working.