The Kill Room

CHAPTER 2

Is he on his way or not?” Lincoln Rhyme asked, not trying to curb the irritation.

“Something at the hospital,” came Thom’s voice from the hallway or kitchen or wherever he was. “He’ll be delayed. He’ll call when he’s free.”

“‘Something.’ Well, that’s specific. ‘Something at the hospital.’”

“That’s what he told me.”

“He’s a doctor. He should be precise. And he should be on time.”

“He’s a doctor,” Thom replied, “which means he has emergencies to deal with.”

“But he didn’t say ‘emergency.’ He said, ‘something.’ The operation is scheduled for May twenty-six. I don’t want it delayed. That’s too far in the future anyway. I don’t see why he couldn’t do it sooner.”

Rhyme motored his red Storm Arrow wheelchair to a computer monitor. He parked next to the rattan chair in which sat Amelia Sachs, in black jeans and sleeveless black shell. A gold pendant of one diamond and one pearl dangled from a thin chain around her neck. The day was early and spring sunlight fired through the east-facing windows, glancing alluringly off her red hair tied in a bun, tucked carefully up with pewter pins. Rhyme turned his attention back to the screen, scanning a crime scene report for a homicide he’d just helped the NYPD close.

“About done,” she said.

They sat in the parlor of his town house on Central Park West in Manhattan. What presumably had once been a subdued, quiet chamber for visitors and suitors in Boss Tweed’s day was now a functioning crime scene lab. It was filled with evidence examination gear and instrumentation, computers and wires, everywhere wires, which made the transit of Rhyme’s wheelchair forever bumpy, a sensation that he experienced only from his shoulders up.

“The doctor’s late,” Rhyme muttered to Sachs. Unnecessarily since she’d been ten feet away from his exchange with Thom. But he was still irritated and felt better laying on a bit more censure. He carefully moved his right arm forward to the touchpad and scrolled through the last paragraphs of the report. “Good.”

“I’ll send it?”

He nodded and she hit a key. The encrypted sixty-five pages headed off into the ether to arrive ultimately six miles away at the NYPD’s crime scene facility in Queens, where they would become the backbone of the case of People v. Williams.

“Done.”

Done…except for testifying at the trial of the drug lord, who had sent twelve- and thirteen-year-olds out into the streets of East New York and Harlem to do his killing for him. Rhyme and Sachs had managed to locate and analyze minute bits of trace and impression evidence that led from one of the youngster’s shoes to the floor of a storefront in Manhattan to the carpet of a Lexus sedan to a restaurant in Brooklyn and finally to the house of Tye Williams himself.

The gang leader hadn’t been present at the murder of the witness, he hadn’t touched the gun, there was no record of him ordering the hit and the young shooter was too terrified to testify against him. But those hurdles for the prosecution didn’t matter; Rhyme and Sachs had spun a filament of evidence that stretched from the crime scene directly to Williams’s crib.

He’d be in jail for the rest of his life.

Sachs now closed her hand on Rhyme’s left arm, strapped to the wheelchair, immobile. He could see from the tendons faintly visible beneath her pale skin that she squeezed. The tall woman rose and stretched. They’d been working to finish the report since early morning. She’d awakened at five. He, a bit later.

Rhyme noticed that she winced as she walked to the table where her coffee cup sat. The arthritis in her hip and knee had been bad lately. Rhyme’s spinal cord injury, which rendered him a quadriplegic, was described as devastating. Yet it never gave him a moment’s pain.

All of our bodies, whoever we are, fail us to some degree, he reflected. Even those who at present were healthy and more or less content were troubled by clouds on the horizon. He pitied the athletes, the beautiful people, the young who were already anticipating decline with dread.

And yet, ironically, the opposite was true for Lincoln Rhyme. From the ninth circle of injury, he had been improving, thanks to new spinal cord surgical techniques and his own take-no-prisoners attitude about exercise and risky experimental procedures.

Which reminded him again that he was irritated the doctor was late for today’s assessment appointment, in anticipation of the upcoming surgery.

The two-tone doorbell chime sounded.

“I’ll get that,” Thom called.

The town house was disability-modified, of course, and Rhyme could have used a computer to view and converse with whoever was at the door and let them in. Or not. (He didn’t like folks to come-a-callin’ and tended to send them away — sometimes rudely — if Thom didn’t act fast.)

“Who is it? Check first.”

This couldn’t be Dr. Barrington, since he was going to call once he’d disposed of the “something” that had delayed him. Rhyme wasn’t in the mood for other visitors.

But whether his caregiver checked first or not didn’t matter apparently. Lon Sellitto appeared in the parlor.

“Linc, you’re home.”

Safe bet.

The squat detective beelined to a tray with coffee and pastry.

“You want fresh?” Thom asked. The slim aide was dressed in a crisp white shirt, floral blue tie and dark slacks. Cuff links today, ebony or onyx.

“Naw, thanks, Thom. Hey, Amelia.”

“Hi, Lon. How’s Rachel?”

“Good. She’s taken up Pilates. That’s a weird word. It’s exercise or something.” Sellitto was decked out in a typically rumpled suit, brown, and a typically rumpled powder-blue shirt. He sported a striped crimson tie that was atypically smooth as a piece of planed wood. A recent present, Rhyme deduced. From girlfriend Rachel? The month was May — no holidays. Maybe it was a birthday present. Rhyme didn’t know the date of Sellitto’s. Or, for that matter, most other people’s.

Sellitto sipped coffee and pestered a Danish, two bites only. He was perpetually dieting.

Rhyme and the detective had worked together years ago, as partners, and it had largely been Lon Sellitto who’d pushed Rhyme back to work after the accident, not by coddling or cajoling but by forcing him to get off his ass and start solving crimes again. (More accurately, in Rhyme’s case, to stay on his ass and get back to work.) But despite their history Sellitto never came by just to hang out. The detective first-class was assigned to Major Cases, working out of the Big Building — One Police Plaza — and he was usually the lead detective on the cases for which Rhyme was hired to consult. His presence now was a harbinger.

“So.” Rhyme looked him over. “Do you have something good for me, Lon? An engaging crime? Intriguing?”

Sellitto sipped and nibbled. “All I know is I got a call from on top asking if you were free. I told ’em you were finishing up Williams. Then I was told to get here ASAP, meet somebody. They’re on their way.”

“‘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.

“What was that wine?”

“That I served with dinner? Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I don’t remember which vineyard.”

“It was scrumptious.”

Not a word Jacob Swann used much — well, ever — but he decided, yes, it was. And so was she. The ropey straps of the bikini bottoms dangled down, ready to be tugged. Her flip-flops revealed blue nails and she wore gold rings on both her big toes. They matched the hoops in her ears. A complicated assembly of gold bracelets as well.

Annette sized him up too and would be recalling his naked physique, muscular, thin waist, powerful chest and arms. Rippled. He worked hard at that.

She said, “I had plans but…”

The sentence ended in a new smile.

As they walked to his car she took his arm. He escorted her to the passenger side. Once inside she gave him directions to her apartment. He started the engine but before he put the car in gear he stopped. “Oh, I forgot. Maybe I didn’t call but I brought you a present.”

“No!” She keened with pleasure. “What?”

He extracted a box from the backpack he used as an attaché case, sitting in the backseat. “You like jewelry, don’t you?”

“What girl doesn’t?” Annette asked.

As she opened it he said, “It’s not instead of your fee, you know. It’s in addition.”

“Oh, please,” she said with a dismissing smile. Then concentrated on opening the small narrow box. Swann looked around the street. Empty still. He judged angles, drew back his left hand — open, thumb and index finger wide and stiff — and struck her hard in the throat in a very particular way.

She gasped, eyes wide. Rearing back and gripping her damaged neck.

“Uhn, uhn, uhn…”

The blow was a tricky one to deliver. You had to hit gently enough so you didn’t crush the windpipe completely — he needed her to be able to speak — but hard enough to make it impossible to scream.

Her eyes stared at him. Maybe she was trying to say his name — well, the cover name he’d given her last week. Swann had three U.S. passports and two Canadian, and credit cards in five different names. He frankly couldn’t recall the last time he’d used “Jacob Swann” with somebody he hadn’t known well.

He looked back evenly at her and then turned to pull the duct tape from his backpack.

Swann put on flesh-toned latex gloves and ripped a strip of tape off the roll. He paused. That was it. The spice the nearby cook had added to the fish.

Coriander.

How had he missed it?

CHAPTER 5

“The victim was Robert Moreno,” Laurel told them. “Thirty-eight years old.”

“Moreno — sounds familiar,” Sachs said.

“Made the news, Detective,” Captain Bill Myers offered. “Front page.”

Sellitto asked, “Wait, the Anti-American American? What some headline called him, I think.”

“Right,” the captain said. Then editorialized bitterly: “Prick.”

No jargon there.

Rhyme noted that Laurel didn’t seem to like this comment. Also, she seemed impatient, as if she had no time for deflective banter. He remembered that she wanted to move quickly — and the reason was now clear: Presumably once NIOS found out about the investigation they’d take steps to stop the case in its tracks — legally and, perhaps, otherwise.

Well, Rhyme was impatient too. He wanted intriguing.

Laurel displayed a picture of a handsome man in a white shirt, sitting before a radio microphone. He had round features, thinning hair. The ADA told them, “A recent picture in his radio studio in Caracas. He held a U.S. passport but was an expatriate, living in Venezuela. On May ninth, he was in the Bahamas on business when the sniper shot him in his hotel room. Two others were killed, as well — Moreno’s guard and a reporter interviewing him. The bodyguard was Brazilian, living in Venezuela. The reporter was Puerto Rican, living in Argentina.”

Rhyme pointed out, “There wasn’t much of a splash in the press. If the government’d been caught with their finger on the trigger, so to speak, it would’ve been bigger news. Who was supposedly responsible?”

“Drug cartels,” Laurel told him. “Moreno had created an organization called the Local Empowerment Movement to work with indigenous and impoverished people in Latin America. He was critical of drug trafficking. That ruffled some feathers in Bogotá and some Central American countries. But I couldn’t find facts to support that any cartel in particular wanted him dead. I’m convinced Metzger and NIOS planted those stories about the cartels to deflect attention from them. Besides, there’s something I haven’t mentioned. I know for a fact that a NIOS sniper killed him. I have proof.”

“Proof?” Sellitto asked.

Laurel’s body language, though not her facial features, explained that she was pleased to tell them the details. “We have a whistleblower — within or connected to NIOS. They leaked the order authorizing Moreno to be killed.”

“Like WikiLeaks?” Sellitto asked. Then shook his head. “But no, it wouldn’t have been.”

“Right,” Rhyme said. “Or the story would’ve been all over the news. The DA’s Office got it directly. And quietly.”

Myers: “That’s right. The whistleblower capillaried the kill order.”

Rhyme ignored the captain and his bizarre language. He said to Laurel: “Tell us about Moreno.”

She did, and from memory. Natives to New Jersey, his family had left the country when the boy was twelve and moved to Central America because of his father’s job; he was a geologist with a U.S. oil company. At first, Moreno was enrolled in American schools down there, but after his mother’s suicide he changed to local schools, where he did well.

“Suicide?” Sachs asked.

“Apparently she’d had difficulty with the move…and her husband’s job kept him traveling to drilling and exploration sites throughout the area. He wasn’t home very much.”

Laurel continued her portrait of the victim: Even at a young age Moreno had grown to hate the exploitation of the native Central and South Americans by U.S. government and corporate interests. After college, in Mexico City, he became a radio host and activist, writing and broadcasting vicious attacks on America and what he called its twenty-first-century imperialism.

“He settled in Caracas and formed the Local Empowerment Movement as an alternative to workers to develop self-reliance and not have to look to American and European companies for jobs and U.S. aid for help. There are a half dozen branches throughout South and Central America and the Caribbean.”

Rhyme was confused. “It’s hardly the bio of a terrorist.”

Laurel said, “Exactly. But I have to tell you that Moreno spoke favorably about some terrorist groups: al-Qaeda, al-Shabaab, the East Turkestan Islamic Movement in Xinjiang, China. And he formed some alliances with several extremist groups in Latin America: the Colombian ELN — the National Liberation Army — and FARC, as well as the United Self-Defense Forces. He had strong sympathy for the Sendero Luminoso in Peru.”

“Shining Path?” Sachs asked.

“Yes.”

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Rhyme reflected. Even if they blow up children. “But still?” he asked. “A targeted killing? For that?”

Laurel explained, “Recently Moreno’s blogs and broadcasts were growing more and more virulently anti-American. He called himself ‘the Messenger of Truth.’ And some of his messages were truly vicious. He really hated this country. Now, there were rumors that people had been inspired by him to shoot American tourists or servicemen or lob bombs at U.S. embassies or businesses overseas. But I couldn’t find one incident in which he actually said a single word ordering or even suggesting that a specific attack be carried out. Inspiring isn’t the same as plotting.”

Though he’d known her only minutes Rhyme suspected that Ms. Nance Laurel had looked very, very hard for any such words.

“But NIOS claimed there was intelligence that Moreno was planning an actual attack: a bombing of an oil company headquarters in Miami. They picked up a phone conversation, in Spanish, and the voiceprint was confirmed to be Moreno’s.”

She now rifled through her battered briefcase and consulted notes. “This is Moreno: He said, ‘I want to go after American Petroleum Drilling and Refining, Florida. On Wednesday.’ The other party, unknown: ‘The tenth. May tenth?’ Moreno: ‘Yes, noon, when employees are leaving for lunch.’ Then the other party: ‘How’re you going to, you know, get them there?’ Moreno: ‘Trucks.’ Then there was some garbled conversation. And Moreno again: ‘And this’s just the start. I have a lot more messages like this one planned.’”

She put the transcript back in her case. “Now, the company — APDR — has two facilities in or near Florida: its southeastern headquarters in Miami and an oil rig off the coast. It couldn’t be the rig since Moreno mentioned trucks. So NIOS was sure the headquarters, on Brickell Avenue, was going to be the target.

“At the same time, intelligence analysts found that companies with a connection to Moreno had been shipping diesel fuel, fertilizer and nitromethane to the Bahamas in the last month.”

Three popular ingredients in IEDs. Those substances were what had obliterated the federal building in Oklahoma City. Where they also had been delivered by truck.

Laurel continued, “It’s clear that Metzger believed if Moreno was killed before the bomb was smuggled into the United States his underlings wouldn’t go through with the plan. He was shot the day before the incident in Miami. On May ninth.”

So far it sounded like, whether you supported assassinations or not, Metzger’s solution had saved a number of lives.

Rhyme was about to mention this but Laurel got there first. She said, “It wasn’t an attack Moreno was talking about, though. It was a peaceful protest. On the tenth of May, at noon, a half dozen trucks showed up in front of the APDR headquarters. They weren’t delivering bombs; they were delivering people for a demonstration.

“And the bomb ingredients? They were for Moreno’s Local Empowerment Movement branch in the Bahamas. The diesel fuel was for a transportation company. The fertilizer was for agricultural co-ops and the nitromethane was for use in soil fumigants. All legitimate. Those were the only materials cited in the order approving Moreno’s killing but there were also tons of seed, rice, truck parts, bottled water and other innocent items in the same shipment. NIOS conveniently forgot to mention those.”

“Not intelligence failure?” Rhyme offered.

The pause that followed was longer than most and Laurel finally said, “No. I think intelligence manipulation. Metzger didn’t like Moreno, didn’t like his rhetoric. He was on record as calling him a despicable traitor. I think he didn’t share with the chain of command all of the information he found. So the higher-ups in Washington approved the mission, thinking a bomb was involved, while Metzger knew otherwise.”

Sellitto said, “So NIOS killed an innocent man.”

“Yes,” Laurel said with a flick of animation in her voice. “But that’s good.”

“What?” Sachs blurted, brows furrowed.

A heartbeat pause. Laurel clearly didn’t understand Sachs’s apparent dismay, echoing the detective’s reaction to Laurel’s earlier comment that they’d be “lucky” if the shooter was a civilian, not military.

Rhyme explained, “The jurors again, Sachs. They’re more likely to convict a defendant who’s killed an activist who was simply exercising his First Amendment right to free speech — rather than a hard-core terrorist.”

Laurel added, “To me there’s no moral difference between the two; you don’t execute anybody without due process. Anybody. But Lincoln’s right, I have to take the jury into account.”

“So, Captain,” Myers said to Rhyme, “if the case is going to gain traction, we need somebody like you with your feet on the ground.”

Poor choice of jargon in this instance, given the criminalist’s main means of transportation.

Rhyme’s immediate reaction was to say yes. The case was intriguing and challenging in all sorts of ways. But Sachs, he noted, was looking down, rubbing her scalp with a finger, a habit. He wondered what was troubling her.

She said to the prosecutor, “You didn’t go after the CIA for al-Awlaki.”

Anwar al-Awlaki, a U.S. citizen, was a radical Muslim imam and advocate of jihad, as well as a major player within al-Qaeda’s affiliate in Yemen. An expatriate like Moreno, he’d been dubbed the Bin Laden of the Internet and enthusiastically encouraged attacks on Americans through his blog posts. Among those inspired by him were the shooter at Fort Hood, the underwear airplane bomber, both in 2009, and the Times Square bomber in 2010.

Al-Awlaki and another U.S. citizen, his online editor, were killed in a drone strike under the direction of the CIA.

Laurel seemed confused. “How could I bring that case? I’m a New York district attorney. There was no state nexus in al-Awlaki’s assassination. But if you’re asking if I pick cases I think I can win, Detective Sachs, then the answer’s yes. Charging Metzger for assassinating a known and dangerous terrorist is probably unwinnable. So is a case for assassinating a non — U.S.-citizen. But the Moreno shooting I can sell to a jury. When I get a conviction against Metzger and his sniper, then I’ll be able to look at other cases that are more gray.” She paused. “Or maybe the government’ll simply reassess its policies and stick to following the Constitution…and get out of the murder-for-hire business.”

With a glance at Rhyme, Sachs spoke to both Laurel and Myers. “I’m not sure. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“Feel right?” Laurel asked, seemingly perplexed by the phrase.

Two fingers rubbed together hard as Sachs said, “I don’t know, I’m not sure this’s our job.”

“You and Lincoln?” Laurel inquired.

“Any of us. It’s a political issue, not a criminal one. You want to stop NIOS from assassinating people, that’s fine. But shouldn’t it be a matter for Congress, not the police?”

Laurel underhanded a glance at Rhyme. Sachs certainly had a point — one that hadn’t even occurred to him. He cared very little about the broader questions of right and wrong when it came to the law. It was enough for him that Albany or Washington or the city council had defined an answerable offense. His job was then simple: tracking down and building a case against the offender.

Just like with chess. Did it matter that the creators of that arcane board game had decreed that the queen was all-powerful and that the knight made right-angle turns? No. But once those rules were established, you played by them.

He ignored Laurel and kept his eyes on Sachs.

Then the assistant DA’s posture changed, subtly but clearly. Rhyme thought at first she was defensive but that wasn’t it, he realized. She was going into advocate mode. As if she’d stood up from counsel table in court and had walked to the front of the jury — a jury as yet unconvinced of the suspect’s guilt.

“Amelia, I think justice is in the details,” Laurel began. “In the small things. I don’t prosecute a rape case because society becomes less stable when sexual violence is perpetrated against women. I prosecute rape because one human being behaves according to the prohibited acts in New York Penal Code section one thirty point three five. That’s what I do, that’s what we all do.”

After a pause, she said, “Please, Amelia. I know your track record. I’d like you on board.”

Ambition or ideology? Rhyme wondered, looking over the compact package of Nance Laurel, with her stiff hair, blunt fingers and nails free of polish, small feet in sensible pumps, on which the liquid cover-up had been applied as carefully as the makeup on her face. He honestly couldn’t say which of the two motivated her but one thing he observed: He was actually chilled to see the absence of passion in her black eyes. And it took a great deal to chill Lincoln Rhyme.

In the silence that followed, Sachs’s eyes met Rhyme’s. She seemed to sense how much he wanted the case. And this was the tipping factor. A nod. “I’m on board,” she said.

“I am too.” Rhyme was looking, though, not at Myers or Laurel but at Sachs. His expression said, Thanks.

“And even though nobody asked me,” Sellitto said with a grumble, “I’m also happy to fuck up my career by busting a senior federal official.”

Rhyme then said, “I assume a priority is discretion.”

“We have to keep it quiet,” Laurel replied. “Otherwise evidence will start disappearing. But I don’t think we have to worry at this point. In my office we’ve done everything we can to keep a lid on the case. I really doubt NIOS knows anything about the investigation.”

CHAPTER 6

As he drove the borrowed car to a cay on the southwest shore of New Providence Island, near the huge Clifton Heritage Park, Jacob Swann heard his phone buzz with a text. The message was an update about the police investigation in New York into Robert Moreno’s death, the conspiracy charges. Swann would be receiving details in the next few hours, including the names of the parties involved.

Moving quickly. Much more quickly than he’d expected.

He heard a thump from the trunk of the car, where Annette Bodel, the unfortunate hooker, was crumpled in a ball. But it was a soft thump and there was no one else around to hear, no clusters of roadside scavengers or hangers-out like you often saw in the Bahamas, sipping Sands or Kalik, joking and gossiping and complaining about women and bosses.

No vehicles either, or boaters in the turquoise water.

The Caribbean was such a contradiction, Swann reflected as he gazed about: a glitzy playground for the tourists, a threadbare platform for the locals’ lives. The focus was on the fulcrum where dollars and euros met service and entertainment, and much of the rest of the nation just felt exhausted. Like this hot, weedy, trash-strewn patch of sandy earth, near the beach.

He climbed out and blew into his gloves to cool his sweaty hands. Damn, it was hot. He’d been to this spot before, last week. After a particularly challenging but accurate rifle shot had torn apart the heart of the traitorous Mr. Robert Moreno, Swann had driven here and buried some clothes and other evidence. He’d intended to let them stay forever interred. But having received the odd and troubling word that prosecutors in New York were looking into Moreno’s death, he’d decided it best to retrieve them and dispose of them more efficiently.

But first, another chore…another task.

Swann walked to the trunk, opened it and glanced down at Annette, teary, sweaty, in pain.

Trying to breathe.

He then stepped to the rear seat, opened his suitcase and removed one of his treasures, his favorite chef’s knife, a Kai Shun Premier slicing model. It was about nine inches long and had the company’s distinctive hammered tsuchime finish, pounded by metalsmiths in the Japanese town of Seki. The blade had a VG-10 steel core with thirty-two layers of Damascus steel. The handle was walnut. This knife cost $250. He had models by the same manufacturer in various shapes and sizes, for different kitchen techniques, but this was his favorite. He loved it like a child. He used it to fillet fish, to slice beef translucent for carpaccio and to motivate human beings.

Swann traveled with this and other knives in a well-worn Messermeister knife roll, along with two battered cookbooks — one by James Beard and one by the French chef Michel Guérard, the cuisine minceur guru. Customs officials thought very little about a set of professional knives, however deadly, packed in checked luggage beside a cookbook. Besides, on a job away from home, the knives were useful; Jacob Swann would often cook, rather than hang out in bars or go to movies alone.

Removing the goat meat from the bones last week, for instance, and cubing it for the stew.

My little butcher man, my dear little butcher…

He heard another noise, a thud. Annette was starting to kick.

Swann returned to the trunk and dragged the woman from the car by her hair.

“Uhn, uhn, uhn…”

This was probably her version of “no, no, no.”

He found an indentation in the sand, surrounded by reedy plants and decorated with crushed Kalik cans and Red Stripe bottles, used condoms and decaying cigarette butts. He rolled her over onto her back and sat on her chest.

A look around. No one. The screams would be much softer, thanks to the blow to the throat, but they wouldn’t be silent.

“Now. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to have to form the words. I need answers and I need them quickly. Can you form words?”

“Uhn.”

“Say, ‘yes.’”

“Ye…ye…yessssss.”

“Good.” He fished a Kleenex from his pocket, then pinched her nose with his other hand and when she opened her mouth he grabbed her tongue with the tissue, tugged the tip an inch beyond her lips. Her head shook violently until she realized that was more painful than his pinch.

She forced herself to calm.

Jacob Swann eased the Kai Shun forward — admiring the blade and handle. Cooking implements are often among the most stylishly designed of any object. The sunlight reflected off the upper half of the blade, pounded into indentations, as if flickering on waves. He carefully stroked the tip of her tongue with the point, drawing a streak in deeper pink but no blood.

Some sound. “Please” maybe.

Little butcher man…

He recalled scoring a duck breast just a few weeks ago, with this same knife, slicing three shallow slits to help render the fat under the broiler. He leaned forward. “Now, listen carefully,” he whispered. Swann’s mouth was close to her ear and he felt her hot skin against his cheek.

Just like last week.

Well, somewhat like last week.

CHAPTER 7

Captain Bill Myers had taken his grating verbiage and left, now that he’d handed off the baton of the case to Rhyme and crew.

While the Moreno conspiracy investigation was in some ways monumental, it was ultimately just another of the thousands of felony cases active in New York, and other matters surely beckoned the captain and his mysterious Special Services Division.

Rhyme supposed too that he’d want to distance himself. Myers had backed up the DA — a captain had to do that, of course; police and prosecutors were Siamese twins — but now was the moment for Myers to head to an undisclosed location. Rhyme was thinking of the political ambition he’d smelled earlier, and if that was true the brass would step back and see how the case unfolded. He’d then return to the podium in glory, in time for the perp walk. Or vanish completely if the case exploded into a public relations nightmare.

A very likely possibility.

Rhyme didn’t mind. In fact, he was pleased Myers was gone. He didn’t do well with any other cooks in the kitchen.

Lon Sellitto, of course, remained. Technically the lead investigator, he was now sitting in a creaky rattan chair, debating a muffin on the breakfast tray, even though he’d pecked half the Danish away. But he then squeezed his gut twice, as if hoping the message would be that he’d lost enough weight on his latest fad diet to deserve the pastry. Apparently not.

“What do you know about this guy running NIOS?” Sellitto asked Laurel. “Metzger?”

She again recited without the benefit of notes: “Forty-three. Divorced. Ex-wife’s a lawyer in private practice, Wall Street. He’s Harvard, ROTC. After, went into the army, Iraq. In as a lieutenant, out as a captain. There was talk of him going further but that got derailed. Had some issues I’ll tell you about later. Discharged, then Yale, master’s in public policy along with a law degree. Went to the State Department, then joined NIOS five years ago as operations director. When the existing NIOS head retired last year, Metzger got his job, even though he was one of the youngest on the management panel. The word is nothing was going to stop him from taking the helm.”

“Children?” Sachs asked.

“What?” Laurel replied.

“Does Metzger have children?”

“Oh, you’re thinking someone was pressuring him, using the children to force him to take on improper missions?”

“No,” Sachs said. “I just wondered if he had children.”

A blink from Laurel. Now she consulted notes. “Son and daughter. Middle school. He was disallowed any custody for a year. Now he’s got some visitation rights but mostly they’re with the mother.

“Now, Metzger’s beyond hawkish. He’s on record as saying he would’ve nuked Afghanistan on September twelve, two thousand one. He’s very outspoken about our right to preemptively eliminate enemies. His nemesis is American citizens who’ve gone overseas and are engaged in what he considers un-American activities, like joining insurgencies or vocally supporting terrorist groups. But those’re his politics and’re irrelevant to me.” A pause. “His more significant quality is that he’s mentally unstable.”

“How so?” Sellitto asked.

Rhyme was beginning to lose patience. He wanted to consider the forensics of the case.

But since both Sachs and Sellitto approached cases “globally,” as Captain Myers might have said, he let Laurel continue and he tried to appear attentive.

She said, “He’s had emotional issues. Anger primarily. That’s largely what’s driving him, I think. He left the army with an honorable discharge but he had a half dozen episodes that hurt his career there. Fits of rage, tantrums, whatever you want to call them. Totally lost control. He was actually hospitalized at one point. I’ve managed to datamine some records and he still sees a psychiatrist and buys meds. He’s been detained by the police a few times for violent episodes. Never charged. Frankly, I think he’s borderline with a paranoid personality. Not psychotic but has definite issues of delusion and addiction — addicted to anger itself. Well, to be precise, the response to anger. From what I’ve studied up on the subject, the relief you feel in acting out during an episode of anger is addicting. Like a drug. I think ordering a sniper to kill somebody he’s come to detest gives him a high.”

Studied up indeed. She sounded like a psychiatrist lecturing students.

“How’d he get the job, then?” Sachs asked.

A question that had presented itself to Rhyme.

“Because he’s very, very good at killing people. At least, that’s what his service record indicates.” Laurel continued, “It’ll be hard to get his personality workup to a jury but I’m going to do it somehow. And I can only pray he takes the stand. I’d have a field day. I’d love for a jury to see a tantrum.” She glanced from Rhyme to Sachs. “As you pursue the investigation I want you to look for anything that suggests Metzger’s instability, anger and violent tendencies.”

Now a pause preceded Sachs’s response. “That’s a little fishy, don’t you think?”

The battle of the silences. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I don’t know what kind of forensic evidence we could find showing that this guy has temper tantrums.”

“I wasn’t thinking forensics. I was thinking general investigation.” The ADA was looking up at Sachs — the detective was eight or nine inches taller. “You have good write-ups in your file for psych profiling and witness interrogation. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something if you look for it.”

Sachs cocked her head slightly, eyes narrowed. Rhyme too was surprised that the ADA had profiled her — and presumably the criminalist himself too.

Studied up…

“So.” The word was delivered by Laurel abruptly. The matter was settled; they’d look for instability. Got it.

Rhyme’s caregiver rounded the corner. He was carrying a pot of fresh coffee. The criminalist introduced the man. He noted that Nance Laurel’s made-up façade stirred briefly as she looked at Thom. An unmistakable focus was in her eyes, though as good looking and charming as he was, Thom Reston was not a romantic option for the woman — who wore no heart-finger rings. But a moment later Rhyme concluded her reaction arose not from attraction to the aide himself but because he resembled somebody she knew or had known closely.

Finally looking away from the young man, Laurel declined coffee, as if it were some ethics breach to indulge on the job. She was digging in her litigation bag, whose contents were perfectly organized. Folder tabs were color-coded and he noted two computers, whose eyes pulsed orange in their state of hibernation. She extracted a document.

“Now,” she said, looking up, “do you want to see the kill order?”

Who could say no to that?

CHAPTER 8

Of course they don’t call it that, a kill order,” Nance Laurel assured. “That’s shorthand. The term is ‘STO,’ a Special Task Order.”

“Almost sounds worse,” Lon Sellitto said. “Kind of sanitized, you know. Creepy.”

Rhyme agreed.

Laurel handed Sachs three sheets of paper. “If you could tape them up, so we could all see them?”

Sachs hesitated and then did as the prosecutor requested.

Laurel tapped the first. “Here’s the email that came to our office last Thursday, the eleventh.”

Check the news about Robert Moreno. This is the order behind it. Level Two is the present head of NIOS. His idea to pursue. Moreno was a U.S. citizen. The CD means Collateral Damage. Don Bruns is a code name for the officer who killed him.

— A person with a conscience.

“We’ll see about tracing the email,” Rhyme said. “Rodney.” A glance toward Sachs, who nodded.

She explained to Laurel that they worked with the cybercrimes unit in the NYPD frequently. “I’ll send them a request. Do you have the email in digital form?”

Laurel dug a Baggie containing a flash drive from her briefcase. Rhyme was impressed to see that a chain-of-custody evidence card was attached. She handed it to Sachs, saying, “If you could—”

Just as the detective jotted her name on the card.

Sachs plugged the drive into the side of her computer and began to type.

“You’re going to let them know that security’s a priority.”

Without looking up, Sachs said, “It’s in my first paragraph.” A moment later she sent the request to the CCU.

“Code name sounds familiar,” Sellitto pointed out. “Bruns, Bruns…”

“Maybe the sniper likes country-western music,” Sachs pointed out. “There’s a Don Bruns who’s a songwriter and performer, folk, country-western. Pretty good.”

Laurel cocked her head as if she had never listened to any music, much less something as lively as CW.

“Check with Information Services,” Rhyme said. “Datamine ‘Bruns.’ If it’s a NOC, he’ll still have a presence in the real world.”

Agents operating under non-official covers nonetheless have credit cards and passports that can — possibly — allow their movements to be traced and yield clues to their true identity. Information Services was a new division at the NYPD, a massive datamining operation, one of the best in the country.

As Sachs put the request in, Laurel turned back to the board and tapped a second sheet she’d taped up there. “And here’s the order itself.”

The other document on the board was headed “A.” This gave the information that Nance Laurel had mentioned earlier, supporting data about the shipments of fertilizer and diesel fuel and chemicals to the Bahamas. The shipments were from Corinto, Nicaragua and Caracas.

Laurel nodded toward the flash drive, still inserted into the computer nearby. “The whistleblower also sent a.wav file, a sound file of a phone call or radio transmission to the sniper, apparently from his commander. This was just before the shooting.” She looked expectantly at Sachs, who paused then sat down at the computer again. She typed. A moment later, a brief exchange came from the tinny speakers:

“There seem to be two, no three people in the room.”

“Can you positively identify Moreno?”

“It’s…there’s some glare. Okay, that’s better. Yes. I can identify the task. I can see him.”

Then the transmission ended. Rhyme was about to ask Sachs to run a voiceprint but she’d already done so. He said, “It doesn’t prove he actually pulled the trigger but it gets him on the scene. Now all we need is a body to go with the voice.”

“‘Specialists,’” Laurel pointed out. “That’s the official job title of assassins, apparently.”

“What’s with the NIOS ID code?” Sellitto asked.

“Presumably to make sure they get the right R. A. Moreno. Embarrassing to make that mistake.” Rhyme read. “Interesting that the whistleblower didn’t give us the name of the shooter.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know,” Sellitto said.

Sachs: “Looks like he knows everything else. His conscience extends up to a certain point. He’ll dime out the head of the organization but he’s sympathetic toward the guy who got the assignment to shoot.”

Laurel said, “I agree. The whistleblower has to know. I want him too. Not to prosecute, just for information. He’s our best lead to the sniper — and without the sniper there’s no conspiracy and no case.”

Sachs said, “Even if we find him he’s not going to tell us willingly. Otherwise he already would have.”

Laurel said absently, “You get me the whistleblower…and he’ll talk. He’ll talk.”

Sachs asked, “Any consideration about going after Metzger for the other deaths, the guard and that reporter, de la Rua?”

“No, since only Moreno was named in the kill order and they were collateral damage we didn’t want to muddy the waters.”

Sachs’s sour expression seemed to say: even though they were just as dead as the target. Can’t confuse the precious jury, can we?

Rhyme said, “Give me the details of the killing itself.”

“We have very little. The Bahamian police gave us a preliminary report, then everything shut down from them. They’re not returning calls. What we know is that Moreno was in his suite when he was shot.” She indicated the STO. “Suite twelve hundred. The Kill Room, they’re calling it. The sniper was shooting from an outcrop of land about two thousand yards from the hotel.”

“Well, that’s one hell of a shot,” Sachs said, eyebrows rising. She was quite a marksman, competed in shooting matches often and held records in the NYPD and in private competitions, though she favored handguns over rifles. “We call that a million-dollar bullet. The record for a sniper’s about twenty-five hundred yards. Whoever it was, that shooter’s got some skill.”

“Well, that’s good news for us,” Laurel continued. “Narrows down the field of suspects.”

True, Rhyme reflected. “What else do we have?”

“Nothing.”

That’s all? Some emails, a leaked government document, the name of one conspirator.

And notably absent was the one thing Rhyme needed the most: evidence.

Which was sitting somewhere hundreds of miles away, in a different jurisdiction — hell, in a different country.

Here he was, a crime scene expert without a crime scene.

CHAPTER 9

Shreve Metzger sat at his desk in lower Manhattan, motionless, as a band of morning light, reflected off a high-rise nearby, fell across his arm and chest.

Staring at the Hudson River, he was recalling the horror yesterday as he’d read the encrypted text from NIOS’s surveillance department. The outfit was no more skillful than the CIA’s or NSA’s, but wasn’t quite so visible, which meant it wasn’t quite so hobbled by the inconvenience of FISA warrants and the like. And that in turn meant the quality of its information was golden.

Yesterday, early Sunday evening, Metzger had been at his daughter’s soccer game, an important one — against the Wolverines, a formidable opponent. He wouldn’t have left his seat in the stands, dead center on the field, for anything.

He trod lightly when it came to the children, he’d learned all too well.

But as he pulled on his light-framed glasses — after cleaning the lenses — and read the perplexing then troubling then shattering words, the Smoke formed, fast and unyielding, more a gel than vapor, and it closed around him. Suffocating. He found himself quivering, jaw clenched, hands clenched, heart clenched.

Metzger had recited: I can handle this. This is part of the job. I knew there was a risk of getting found out. He’d reminded himself: The Smoke doesn’t define you; it’s not part of you. You can make it float away if you want. But you have to want. Just let it go.

He’d calmed a bit, unclenched fingers tapping his bony leg in dress slacks (other soccer dads were in jeans but he hadn’t been able to change between office and field). Metzger was five ten and three-quarters and clocked in about 150 pounds. Formerly fat, as a boy, he’d melted the weight away and never let it return. His thinning brown hair was a bit long for government service but that’s the way he liked it and he wasn’t going to change.

Yesterday, as he put the phone away, the twelve-year-old midfielder had turned toward his section in the stands and smiled. Metzger had grinned back. It was fake and maybe Katie knew it. Wished they sold scotch but this was middle school in Bronxville, New York, so caffeine was the strongest offering on the menu, though the Woodrow Wilson PTO’s kick-ass cookies and blondies gave you a high of sorts.

Anyway, liquor was not the way to defeat the Smoke.

Dr. Fischer, I believe you. I think.

He’d returned to the office last night and tried to make sense of the news: Some crusading assistant district attorney in Manhattan was coming after him for Moreno’s death. A lawyer himself, Metzger added up the possible counts and knew the biggest, bluntest truncheon would be conspiracy.

And he’d been even more shocked that the DA’s Office had learned of Moreno’s death because the Special Task Order had been leaked.

A fucking whistleblower!

A traitor. To me, to NIOS, and — worst of all — to the nation. Oh, that had brought the Smoke back. He’d had an image of himself beating the prosecutor, whoever he or she was, to death with a shovel — he never knew the themes his rage would take. And this fantasy, particularly bloody and with a gruesome soundtrack, both mystified and viscerally satisfied with its vivacity and persistence.

When he’d calmed, Metzger had set to work, making calls and sending texts wrapped in the chrysalis of sublime encryption, to do what he could to make the problem go away.

Now, Monday morning, he turned from the river and stretched. He was more or less functioning, after a grand total of four hours’ sleep (very bad; fatigue gives the Smoke strength) and a shower in the NIOS gym. In his twenty-by-twenty office, bare except for safes, cabinets, computers, a few pictures, books and maps, Metzger sipped his latte. He’d bought his personal assistant the same — Ruth’s had been assembled with soy milk. He wondered if he should try that. She claimed the substance was a relaxer.

He regarded the framed picture of himself and his children on a vacation in Boone, North Carolina. He recalled the horseback ride at the tourist stable. Afterward an employee had taken this souvenir snap of the three of them. Metzger had noted that the camera the cowboy-clad employee had used was a Nikon, the same company that made the scopes his snipers used in Iraq. Thinking specifically of one of his men firing a Lapua.338 round 1,860 yards into the shoulder of an Iraqi about to detonate an IED. It’s not like the movies; a round like that will kill you pretty much anywhere it strikes. Shoulder, leg, anywhere. That insurgent had simply come apart and fallen to the sand, as Shreve Metzger exhaled with warm peace and joy.

Smile, Mr. Metzger. You have wonderful children. Do you want three eight-by-tens and a dozen wallet pictures?

There was no Smoke inside him when he was planning and executing the death of a traitor. None at all. He’d told that to Dr. Fischer. The psychiatrist had seemed uneasy and they didn’t explore that theme further.

Metzger glanced at his computer and at his magic phone.

His pale eyes — a hazel color he didn’t care for, yellowish green, sickly — looked out his window again at the slice of Hudson River, the view courtesy of a handful of psychotic fools, who, one clear September day, had removed the buildings that interfered with that vista. And who had inadvertently, to their surviving compatriots’ loss, driven Metzger into his new profession.

With these thoughts, the Smoke coalesced, as it often did when 9/11 came to mind. The memories of that day used to be debilitating. Now they simply stabbed with searing pain.

Let it go…

His phone rang. He regarded caller ID, which reported, in translation, You’re fucked.

“Metzger here.”

“Shreve!” the caller blurted cheerfully. “How are you? Been a month of Sundays since we chatted.”

Metzger had disliked the Wizard of Oz. That is, the wizard himself, as a character (he rather enjoyed the movie). He was furtive and manipulative and arbitrary and had ascended to the throne by false pretense…and yet he commanded all the power in the land.

Much like the caller he was now speaking to.

His own personal Wizard was chiding, “You didn’t call me, Shreve.”

“I’m still getting facts,” he told the man, who happened to be 250 miles away, south, in Washington, DC. “There’s a lot we don’t know.”

Which meant nothing. But he didn’t know how much the Wizard knew. Accordingly he would steer the course of ambiguity.

“Imagine it was bum intelligence about Moreno, right, Shreve?”

“Appears to be.”

The Wizard: “That happens. That surely happens. What a crazy business we’re in. So. All your intel was buttoned up, double- and triple-checked.”

Your…

Choice of stark pronoun noted.

“Of course.”

The Wizard didn’t specifically remind him that Metzger had assured him Moreno’s death was necessary to save lives because the expat had been about to blow up American Petroleum’s headquarters in Miami. When in fact the worst that had happened was a woman protestor threw a tomato at a policeman and missed.

But with the Wizard, conversations involved mostly subtext and his words — or lack thereof — seemed all the more pointed for it.

Metzger had worked with the man for several years. They didn’t meet in person often but on those occasions that they did, the stocky, smiling man always wore blue serge, whatever that exactly was, and impressively patterned socks, along with an American flag pin in his lapel. He never had a problem like Metzger’s, the Smoke problem, and when he spoke he did so always with the calmest of voices.

“We had to act fast,” Metzger said, resenting that he was on the defensive. “But we know Moreno’s a threat. He funds terrorists, he supports arms sales, his businesses launder money, a lot of things.”

Metzger corrected himself: Moreno had been a threat. He’d been shot to death. He wasn’t is anything.

The Wizard of Washington continued in that honey voice of his, “Sometimes you just have to move fast, Shreve, that’s true. Crazy business.”

Metzger took out a fingernail clipper and went to work. He chopped slowly. It kept the Smoke from materializing, a little. Snipping was weird but it was better than gorging on fries and cookies. And screaming at your wife or children.

The Wizard muffled his phone and had another muted conversation.

Who the hell else was in the room with him? Metzger wondered. The attorney general?

Someone from Pennsylvania Avenue?

When the Wizard came back on the line he asked, “And we hear there’s some investigation?”

So. Fuck. He did know. How had word gotten out? Leaks are as big a threat to what I’m doing as the terrorists themselves.

Smoke, big time.

“Seems to be.”

A pause that clearly asked: And when were you going to mention it to us, Shreve?

The Wizard’s stated question, though, was: “Police?”

“NYPD, yes. Not feds. But there’s a solid case for immunity.” Metzger’s law degree had been gathering dust for years but he’d looked up In re Neagle and related cases very carefully before taking on the job here. He could recite the conclusion of that case in his sleep: That federal officials could not be prosecuted for state crimes, provided they were acting within the scope of their authority.

“Ah, right, immunity,” the Wizard said. “We’ve looked into that, of course.”

Already? But Metzger wasn’t really surprised.

A viscous pause. “You’re happy that everything was within the scope of authority, Shreve?”

“Yes.”

Please, Lord, let me keep the Smoke inside now.

“Excellent. Now, it was Bruns who was the specialist, right?”

Either no names or code names over the phone, however well encrypted.

“Yes.”

“The police talked to him?”

“No. He’s deep cover. There’s no way anyone could find him.”

“Of course I don’t need to say — he knows to be careful.”

“He’s taking precautions. Everybody is.”

A pause. “Well, enough said about that matter. I’ll let you take care of it.”

“I will.”

“Good. Because it turns out some Intelligence Committee budget discussions have come up. Suddenly. Can’t understand why. Nothing scheduled but you know those committees. Looking over where the money’s going. And I just wanted to tell you that for some reason — it really frosts me, I’ll say — NIOS is in their sights.”

No Smoke but Metzger was stunned. He couldn’t say anything.

The Wizard steamed forward. “Nonsense, isn’t it? You know we fought hard to get your outfit up and running. Some people were pretty concerned about it.” A laugh that seemed utterly devoid of humor. “Our liberal friends didn’t like the idea of what you were up to at all. Some of our friends on the other side of the aisle didn’t like the fact you were taking business away from Langley and the Pentagon. Rock and a hard place.

“Anyway. Probably nothing’ll come of it. Ah, money. Why does it always come down to money? So. How’re Katie and Seth?”

“They’re fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Glad to hear it. Have to go, Shreve.”

They disconnected.

Oh, Jesus.

This was bad.

What the cheerful Wizard with his serge wizard suit and brash socks and his dark razor-sharp eyes had actually been saying was: You took out a U.S. citizen on the basis of bad intel and if the case goes to trial in state court it’s going to bleed all the way to Oz. A lot of people down in the capital would be keeping a very close eye on New York and the results of the Moreno matter. They were fully prepared to send a shooter of their own after NIOS itself — figurative, of course, in the form of gutted budget. The Service would be out of business in six months.

And the whole affair would have been quiet as a snake’s sleep, if not for the whistleblower.

The traitor.

Blinded by the Smoke, Metzger intercommed his assistant and picked up his coffee again.

All your intel was buttoned up, double- and triple-checked…

Well, about that…

Metzger now told himself, Think the situation through: You’ve made some calls, you’ve sent some texts. Clean-up was well under way.

“You, ah, all right, Shreve?” Ruth’s eyes were on his fingers around the cardboard cup. Metzger realized he was about to crush it and send tepid coffee over his sleeve and several files that only a dozen people in the whole of America were authorized to read.

He released the death grip and managed a smile. “Yes, sure. Long night.”

His personal assistant was in her early sixties, a long, attractive face, still dusted with faint freckles, making her appear younger. She’d been, he’d learned, a flower child decades ago. Summer of Love in San Francisco. Living in the Haight. Now her gray hair was, as often, pulled back in a severe bun and she wore bands of colored rubber on her wrists, bracelets signifying support for various causes. Breast cancer, hope, reconciliation. Who could tell? He wished she wouldn’t; messages like that, even if ambiguous, seemed inappropriate in a government agency with a mission like NIOS’s.

“Is Spencer here yet?” he asked her.

“About a half hour, he said.”

“Have him come to see me as soon as he’s in.”

“All right. Anything else I can do?”

“No, thank you.”

When Ruth had left the office and closed the door, leaving a trail of patchouli oil scent behind her, Metzger sent a few more texts and received some.

One was encouraging.

At least it thinned the Smoke a bit.

CHAPTER 10

Rhyme noted Nance Laurel scrutinizing her face in the dim mirror of the gas chromatograph’s metal housing. She gave no reaction to what she was seeing. She didn’t seem like a primping woman.

She turned and asked Sellitto and Rhyme, “How do you suggest we proceed?”

In Rhyme’s mind the case was already laid out clearly. He answered, “I’ll run the crime scene as best I can. Sachs and Lon’ll find out what they can about NIOS, Metzger and the other conspirator — the sniper. Sachs, start a chart. Add the cast of characters on there, even if we don’t know very much.”

She took a marker and walked to an empty whiteboard, jotted the sparse information.

Sellitto said, “I wanna track down the whistleblower too. That could be tough. He knows he’ll be at risk. He didn’t tip off the press that some company’s using shitty wheat in their breakfast cereal; he’s accusing the government of committing murder. Amelia, you?”

Sachs replied, “I’ve sent Rodney the information about the email and the STO. I’ll coordinate with him and Computer Crimes. If anybody can trace an anonymous upload, he can.” She thought for a moment and said, “Let’s call Fred too.”

Rhyme considered this and said, “Good.”

“Who’s that?” Laurel asked.

“Fred Dellray. FBI.”

“No,” Laurel said bluntly. “No feds.”

“Why not?” Sellitto’s question.

“A chance word’ll get to NIOS. I don’t think we can risk it.”

Sachs countered, “Fred’s specialty’s undercover work. If we say be discreet, that’s how he’ll handle it. We need help, and he’ll have access to a lot more information than NCIC and state criminal databases.”

Laurel debated. Her round, pale face — pretty from some angles, farm girl pretty — registered a very subtle change. Concern? Pique? Defiance? Her expressions were like lettering in Hebrew or Arabic, tiny diacritical marks the only clues to radically different meanings.

Sachs glanced once at the prosecutor, said insistently, “We’ll tell him how sensitive it is. He’ll go along.”

She hit speaker on a phone nearby before Laurel could say any more. Rhyme saw the prosecutor stiffen and wondered if she was actually going to step forward and press her finger down on the cradle button.

The hollow sound of ringing filled the air.

“S’Dellray here,” the agent answered. The muted tone suggested he might’ve been on an undercover set somewhere in Trenton or Harlem and didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

“Fred. Amelia.”

“Well, well, well how’s it goin’? Been a while. Now how imperiled am I, speaking into a telephone that on my end is nice and private but on yours is broadcasting to Madison Square Garden? I do truly hate speakers.”

“You’re safe, Fred. You’re on with me, Lon, Lincoln—”

“Hey, Lincoln. You lost that Heidegger bet, ya know. I’ma peeking in my mailbox everday and as of yesterday, ain’t a single check appeared. Pay to the order of Fred Don’t-Argue-Philosophy-With Dellray.”

“I know, I know,” Rhyme grumbled. “I’ll pay up.”

“Y’owe me fifty.”

Rhyme said, “By rights, Lon should pay part of it. He egged me on.”

“Fuck no I didn’t.” Delivered essentially as one word.

Nance Laurel took in the exchange with a bewildered look. Of all the things she wasn’t, a banterer would be high on the list.

Or maybe she was just angry that Sachs had overridden her and called the FBI agent.

Sachs continued, “And a prosecutor, ADA Nance Laurel.”

“Well, this is a special day. Hey there, Counselor Laurel. Good job with that Longshoremen’s convic. That was you, right?”

Pause. “Yes, Agent Dellray.”

“Never, never, never thought you’d pull that one off. You know the collar, Lincoln? The Joey Barone case, Southern District? We got some fed charges on that boy but the jury went for wrist slaps. Counselor Laurel, other hand, ran downfield in state court and bought that boy twenty years min. I heard the U.S. attorney put a pictura you up in his office…on a dartboard.”

“I don’t know about that” was her stiff response. “I was pleased with the outcome.”

“So, pro-ceed.”

Sachs said, “Fred, we’ve got a situation. A sensitive one.”

“Well, I gotta say the tone of your voice sounds so perplexingly intriguing, don’t stop now.”

Rhyme saw a brief smile on Sachs’s face. Fred Dellray was one of the bureau’s best agents, a renowned runner of confidential informants and a family man and father…and amateur philosopher. But his years as an undercover agent on the street had given him a unique speaking style, as bizarre as his fashion choices.

“The perp’s your boss, the federal government.”

A pause. “Hm.”

Sachs glanced at Laurel, who debated a moment and then took over, reiterating the facts they knew so far about the Moreno killing.

Fred Dellray’s waiting state was calm and confident but Rhyme detected unusual concern now. “NIOS? They’re not really us us. They’re in their own dimension. And I don’t necessarily mean that in a good way.”

He didn’t elaborate, though Rhyme wasn’t sure he needed to.

“I’ll check out a few things now. Hold on.” The sound of typing flew from the speaker like nutshells on a tabletop.

“Agent Dellray,” Laurel began.

“Call me Fred. An’ don’tcha fret. I’m as encrypted as can be.”

A blink. “Thank you.”

“Okay, just looking at our files here, our files…” A lengthy pause. “Robert Moreno, aka Roberto. Sure, here’s some notes on APDR, American Petroleum Drilling and Refining…Looks like our Miami office was scrambled on a potential terrorist incident but it turned out to be a big false a-larm. You want what I got here on Moreno?”

“Please, Fred. Go ahead.” Sachs sat at a computer and started a file.

“Hokay, our boy left the country over twenty years ago and only comes back once a year or so. Well, came back. Let’s see…Watchlisted but never in any active-risk books. He was mostly all talk — so we didn’t pri-oritize him. Hobnobbed with al-Qaeda some and Shining Path, folk like that, but never actually shouted out for an attack.” The agent was whispering to himself. Then he said, “Note here says that the official word is some cartels might’ve been behind the shooting. But that couldn’t be verified…Ah, here’s this.”

A pause.

“Fred, you there?” Rhyme asked impatiently.

“Hm.”

Rhyme sighed.

Then Dellray said, “This could be helpful. Report from State. Moreno was here. New Yawk City. Arrived April thirty, late. Then left May second.”

Lon Sellitto asked, “Anything specific about what he did here, where he went?”

“Nup. That’s gotta be your job, friends. Now, I’ll keep on it from my end. Make some calls down to my folks in the Caribbean and South America. Oh, I got a picture. Want it?”

“No,” Laurel said abruptly. “We need to minimize any communication from your office. I’d prefer phone calls to me or Detectives Sellitto and Sachs or Lincoln Rhyme. Discretion is—”

“The better part of valor,” Dellray intoned cryptically. “Not a single problem in the world on that. But broachin’ that subject: You sure our friends don’t know anything yet? At NIOS?”

“No,” the ADA said.

“Uh-hum.”

Rhyme said, “You don’t sound convinced.”

He chuckled. “Good luck, one and all.”

Sachs clicked the phone off.

“Now, where can I work?” Laurel asked.

“How’s that?” Sachs wondered aloud.

The ADA was looking around. “I need a desk. Or table. It doesn’t need to be a desk. Just something big.”

“Why do you need to be here?”

“I can’t work out of my office. How can I?” As if it were obvious. “Leaks. NIOS’ll eventually find out we’re running the investigation but I need to delay that for as long as possible. Now, that looks good. Over there. Is that all right?”

Laurel pointed to a worktable in the corner.

Rhyme called Thom in and had the aide clear the surface of books and some boxes of old forensics gear.

“I have computers but I’ll need my own line and Wi-Fi router too. I’ll have to set up a private account on it, encrypted. And I’d prefer not to share the network.” A glance toward Rhyme. “If that can be arranged.”

Sachs clearly didn’t like the idea of this new member of the team. Lincoln Rhyme was by nature a solitary person but at least when a case was ongoing he’d come to tolerate, though hardly relish, the presence of others. He had no particular objection.

Nance Laurel hefted her briefcase and the heavy litigation bag onto the table and began unpacking files, organizing them into separate stacks. She looked as if she were a student moving into a dorm on the first day of freshman year, placing her few possessions on the desk and bedside table for most comfort.

Then Laurel looked up to the others. “Oh, one thing: In working the case I need you to find everything you can to make him look like a saint.”

“I’m sorry?” From Sachs.

“Robert Moreno — a saint. He’s said a lot of inflammatory things. He’s been very critical of the country. So I need you to find what he’s done that’s good. His Local Empowerment Movement, for instance. Building schools, feeding third-world children, that sort of thing. Being a loving father and husband.”

“You need us to do that?” Sachs questioned. The emphasis pointed the question in the direction of disbelief…and gave it a nice tidy edge, to boot.

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“It’s just better.” As if obvious.

“Oh.” A pause. “That’s not really an answer,” Sachs said. She wasn’t looking at Rhyme and he didn’t want her to. The tension between her and the ADA was simmering just fine on its own.

“The jury again.” With a glance toward Rhyme who’d apparently fueled her argument earlier. “I need to show he was upright and a good, ethical man. The defense is going to paint Moreno as a danger — like lawyers try to portray a rape victim as somebody who was dressing provocatively and flirting with her attacker.”

Sachs said, “There’s a big difference between those scenarios.”

“Really? I’m not so sure.”

“Isn’t the point of an investigation to get to the truth?”

A pause for digesting these words. “If you don’t win in court, then what good does having the truth do?”

Then, for her, the subject was settled. Laurel said to everyone, “And we need to work fast. Very fast.”

Sellitto said, “Right. NIOS could find out about the case at any time. Evidence could start disappearing.”

Laurel said, “That’s obvious but it’s not what I’m talking about. Look at the board, the kill order.”

Everyone did, Rhyme included. Yet he could draw no immediate conclusion. But he suddenly understood. “The queue.”

“Exactly,” the prosecutor said.

She continued, “Now, I can’t find out anything about this Rashid or where he is. Maybe his kill room’s a hut in Yemen, where he’s selling nuclear bomb parts. Or given Metzger’s zeal, maybe it’s a family room in Ridgefield, Connecticut, where Rashid is blogging against Guantánamo and insulting the president. But we do know that NIOS’s going to kill him before Friday. And who’ll be the collateral damage then? His wife and children? Some passerby? I want Metzger in custody before that.”

Rhyme said, “That won’t necessarily stop the assassination.”

“No, but it’ll send a message to NIOS and Washington that somebody’s looking very carefully at what they’re up to. They might delay the attack and have somebody independent review the STO and see if it’s legitimate or not. That’s not going to happen with Metzger in power.”

Like counsel in a closing argument Laurel then strode forward and dramatically tapped the kill order. “Oh, and these numbers at the top? Eight/twenty-seven, nine/twenty-seven? They’re not dates. They’re tasks in the queue. That is, victims. Moreno was the eighth person NIOS killed. Rashid’ll be the ninth.”

“Twenty-seven total,” Sellitto said.

“As of a week ago,” Laurel said briskly. “Who knows how many it is today?”

CHAPTER 11

A human form, like an unflappable, patient ghost, appeared in Shreve Metzger’s doorway.

“Spencer.”

His administrations director — his right-hand man around headquarters — had been enjoying the cool blue skies and quiet lake shore line in Maine when an encrypted text from Metzger had summoned him. Boston had immediately cut short his vacation. If he’d been pissed off, and he probably had been, he’d given no indication of it.

That would be improper.

That would be unseemly.

Spencer Boston’s was a faded elegance, a prior generation’s. He had a grandfatherly face, creases bracketing his taut lips, and thick, wavy white hair — he was ten years older than Metzger. He radiated an utterly calm and reasonable demeanor. Like the Wizard, Boston wasn’t troubled by the Smoke. He now stepped into the office, shut the door instinctively against prying ears and sat opposite his boss. He said nothing but his eyes dipped to the mobile in his boss’s hand. Rarely used, never to leave the building, the device happened to be dark red in color, though that had nothing to do with its top-secret nature. That was the shade that the company had had available for immediate delivery. Metzger thought of it as his “magic phone.”

The NIOS director realized his muscles were cramping from the pressure on the unit.

Metzger put the phone away and gave a faint nod to the man he’d worked with for several years, ever since Metzger had replaced the prior head of NIOS, who’d disappeared into the vortex of politics. An unsuccessful vanishing.

“Thanks for coming in,” the director said quickly and stiffly, as if he felt he should make some reference to the ruined vacation. The Smoke affected him in many different ways. One of which was to muddle his mind so that, even when he wasn’t angry, he’d forget how to behave like a normal person. When an affliction rules your life, you’re always on guard.

Daddy, are you…are you okay?

I’m smiling, aren’t I?

I guess. It just looks, you know, funny.

The admin director shifted. The chair creaked. Spencer Boston was not a small man. He sipped iced tea from a tall plastic cup, lifted his bushy brows.

Metzger said, “We’ve got a whistleblower.”

“What? Impossible.”

“Confirmed.” Metzger explained what had happened.

“No,” the older man whispered. “What are you doing about it?”

He deflected that incendiary question and added, “I need you to find him. I don’t care what you have to do.”

Careful, he reminded himself. That’s the Smoke talking.

“Who knows?” Boston asked.

“Well, he does.” A reverent glance at the magic phone.

No need to be more specific than that.

The Wizard.

Boston grimaced, troubled too. Formerly with another government intelligence agency, he’d been a very successful runner of assets throughout Central America — his region of choice — in such fulcrum countries as Panama. And his specialty? The fine art of regime change. That was Boston’s milieu, not politics, but he knew that without support from Washington, you and your assets could be hung out to dry at the worst possible moment. Several times he’d been held captive by revolutionaries or insurgents or cartel bosses, he’d been interrogated, he’d probably been tortured, though he never talked about that.

And he’d survived. Different threats in DC; same skills at self-preservation.

Boston’s hand brushed his enviable hair, gray though it was, and waited.

Metzger said, “He—” Wizard emphasis again. “—knows about the investigation but he didn’t say a word about any leaks. I don’t think he knows. We have to find the traitor before word trickles down to the Beltway.”

Sipping the pale tea, Boston squinted more furrows into his face. Damn, the man could give Donald Sutherland a run for his money in the distinguished older power-broker role. Metzger, though considerably younger, had a much more sparse scalp than Boston and was bony and gaunt. He felt he looked weaselly.

“What do you think, Spencer? How could an STO have gotten leaked?”

A look out the window. Boston had no view of the Hudson from his chair, just more late-morning reflected light. “My gut is it was somebody in Florida. The next choice would be Washington.”

“Texas and California?”

Boston said, “I doubt it. They get copies of the STO but unless one of their specialists is activated, they don’t even open them…And, as much as I hate to say it, we can’t dismiss the office here completely.” The twist of his impressive head indicated NIOS headquarters.

Granted. A co-worker in this office might have sold them out, as painful as it was to think about.

Boston continued, “I’ll check with IT security about the servers, copiers and scanners. Polygraph the senior people with download permissions. I’d do a major Facebook autobot search. Well, not just Facebook but blogs and as many other social media sites as I can think of. See if anybody with access to the STO’s been posting anything critical of the government and our mission here.”

Mission. Killing bad guys.

This made sense. Metzger was impressed. “Good. A lot of work.” His eyes strayed to the vista. He saw a window washer on a scaffolding three or four hundred feet up. He thought, as he often did, of the jumpers on 9/11.

The Smoke expanded in his lungs.

Breathe…

Send the Smoke away. But he couldn’t. Because they, the jumpers on that terrible day, hadn’t been able to breathe. Their lungs had been filled with oily smoke rising from the crest of the flames that were going to consume them in seconds, flames roiling into their twelve-by-twelve-foot offices, leaving only one place to go, through windows to the eternal concrete.

His hands began to shake again.

Metzger noted that Boston was regarding him with a close gaze. The NIOS head casually adjusted the photograph of him, Seth and Katie and a snorting horse, taken through a fine set of optics that happened, in that instance, to record a dear memory, but wasn’t dissimilar to a scope that could very efficiently direct a bullet through a man’s heart.

“They have proof of completion, the police?”

“No, I don’t think so. Status is closed, that’s all.”

Kill orders were just that — instructions to eliminate a task. There was never any documentation that an assassination was actually completed. The standard procedure when asked was to deny, deny, deny.

Boston began to ask, “Are we doing anything…?”

“I’ve made calls. Don Bruns knows about the case, of course. A few others. We’re…handling things.”

An ambiguous verb and object. Worthy of the Wizard.

Handling things…

Spencer Boston, of the impressive white mane and more impressive track record as a spy, sipped more tea. The straw eased farther through the plastic lid and gave a faint vibration like a bow on a viola string. “Don’t worry, Shreve. I’ll find him. Or her.”

“Thanks, Spencer. Anytime. Day or night. Call me, what you find out.”

The man rose, buttoned his ill-tailored suit.

When he was gone Metzger heard his magic red phone trill with a text from his surveillance and datamining crowd in the basement.

Identified Nance Laurel as lead prosecutor. IDs of the NYPD investigators to follow soon.

The Smoke diminished considerably at reading this.

At last. A place to start.

CHAPTER 12

Jacob Swann approached his car in the lot of the Marine Air Terminal at LaGuardia airport.

He set his suitcase into the trunk of his Nissan sedan carefully — his knives were inside. No carry-on with them, of course. He dropped heavily into the front seat and stretched, breathing deeply.

Swann was tired. He had left his Brooklyn apartment for the Bahamas nearly twenty-four hours ago and had had only three or so hours’ sleep in that time — most while in transit.

His session with Annette had gone more quickly than he’d expected. But, after he’d disposed of the body, finding an abandoned trash fire to burn the evidence of his visit last week had taken some time. Then he’d had to take care of some other housekeeping, including a visit to Annette’s apartment and a risky but ultimately successful trip back to the site of Moreno’s shooting itself: the South Cove Inn.

He’d then had to get off the island the same way he had last week: from a dock near Millars Sound, where he knew some of the men who clustered daily to work the ships or smoke Camels or ganja and drink Sands, Kalik or, more likely, Triple B malt. They would also handle various odd jobs. Efficiently and discreetly. They’d hurried him via small boat to one of the innumerable islands near Freeport, then there’d been the helicopter ride to a field south of Miami.

That was the thing about the Caribbean. There was Customs and there was custom. And the lower-case version allowed for people like Jacob Swann, with a bankroll of money — his employer had plenty, of course — to get where he needed to be, unnoticed.

After the scoring with the blade, after the blood, he was convinced that Annette had not told anyone about him, about the questions he’d casually asked her a week ago regarding the South Cove Inn, suite 1200, Moreno’s bodyguard and Moreno himself. All those facts could be bundled together, resulting in some very compromising conclusions.

He’d only used the Kai Shun a few times, slice, slice…It probably hadn’t been necessary, she was so frightened. But Jacob Swann was a very meticulous man. You could ruin a delicate sauce simply by too quickly adding hot liquid to the sizzling flour-and-butter roux. And once you’d done that there was no correction. A matter of a few degrees and few seconds. Besides, you should never miss an opportunity to hone your skills. So to speak.

He now pulled to the airport parking lot’s exit kiosk, paid cash then drove a mile on the Grand Central before pulling over and swapping license plates. He then continued on to his house in Brooklyn.

Annette…

Bad luck for the poor prostitute that they’d run into each other when he’d been planning the job at the South Cove. He’d been conducting surveillance when he’d spotted Moreno’s guard, Simon Flores, talking and flirting with the woman. Clearly they’d just come out of a room together and he understood from their body language and banter what they’d been doing.

Ah, a working girl. Perfect.

He waited an hour or two and then circled the grounds casually until he found her in the bar, where she was buying herself watered-down drinks and dangling like bait on a hook for another customer.

Swann, armed with a thousand dollars in untraceable cash, had been happy to swim toward her.

After the good sex and over the better stew he’d learned a great deal of solid information for the assignment. But he’d never anticipated that there’d be an investigation, so he hadn’t cleaned up as completely as he probably should have. Hence, his trip back to the island.

Successful. And satisfying.

He now returned to his town house in the Heights, off Henry Street, and parked in the garage in the alley. He dropped his bag in the front hall, then shed his clothes and took a shower.

The living room and two bedrooms were modestly furnished, inexpensive antiques mostly, a few Ikea pieces. It looked like the digs of any bachelor in New York City, except for two aspects: the massive green gun safe, in a closet, which held his rifles and pistols, and the kitchen. Which a professional chef might have envied.

It was to this room that he walked after toweling off and pulling on a terry-cloth robe and slippers. Viking, Miele, KitchenAid, Sub-Zero, separate freezer, wine cooler, radiant bulb cookers — his own making. Stainless steel and oak. Pots and implements sat in glass-doored cabinets along one entire wall. (Those ceiling racks are showy, but why have to wash something before you cook in it?)

Swann now made French press coffee. He debated what to make for breakfast, sipping the strong brew, which he drank black.

For the meal he decided on hash. Swann loved challenges in the kitchen and had made recipes that could have been formulated by greats like Heston Blumenthal or Gordon Ramsey. But he knew too that food need not be fancy. When he was in the service he would come back from a mission and in his quarters outside Baghdad whip up meals for his fellow soldiers, using military rations, combined with foods he’d bought at an Arabic market. No one joshed with him about his prissy, sanctimonious approach to cooking. For one thing, the meals were always excellent. For another, they knew Swann had very possibly spent the morning peeling some knuckle skin from a screaming insurgent to find out where a missing shipment of weapons might be.

You made fun of people like that at your peril.

He now lifted a one-pound piece of rib-eye steak from the refrigerator and unwrapped the thick white waxed paper. He himself had been responsible for this perfectly sized and edged piece. Every month or so, Swann would buy a half side of beef, which was kept in a cold-storage meat facility for people like him — amateur butchers. He would reserve a whole glorious day to slice the meat from the bones, shape it into sirloin, short ribs, rump, chuck, flank, brisket.

Some people who bought in bulk enjoyed brains, intestines, stomach and other organ meats. But those cuts didn’t appeal to him and he discarded them. There was nothing morally or emotionally troubling about those portions of an animal; for Swann flesh was flesh. It was merely a question of flavor. Who didn’t love sweetbreads, crisply sautéed? But most offal tended to be bitter and was more trouble than it was worth. Kidneys, for instance, stank up your kitchen for days and brains were overly rich and tasteless (and jam-packed with cholesterol). No, Swann’s time at the two-hundred-pound butcher block, robed in a full apron, wielding saw and knife, was spent excising the classic cuts, working to achieve perfectly shaped specimens while leaving as little on the bone as he possibly could. This was an art, a sport.

This comforted him.

My little butcher man…

Now he set his rib eye on a cutting board — always wood, to save his knives’ edges — and ran his fingers over the meat, sensing the tautness of the flesh, examining the grain, the marbling of the fat.

Before slicing, however, he washed and re-edged the Kai Shun on his Dan’s Black Hard Arkansas whetstone, which cost nearly as much as the knife itself and was the best sharpening device on the planet. When he’d been sitting atop Annette, he’d moved from tongue to finger, and the blade had an unfortunate encounter with bone. It now needed to be honed back to perfection.

Finally, the knife was ready and he turned back to the steak, slowly slicing the piece into quarter-inch cubes.

He could have made them bigger and he could have worked faster.

But why rush something you enjoy?

When he was done he dusted the cubes in a mixture of sage and flour (his contribution to the classic recipe) and sautéed them in a cast-iron skillet, scooping them aside while still internally pink. He then diced two red potatoes and half a Vidalia onion. These vegetables he cooked in oil in the skillet and returned the meat. He mixed in a bit of veal stock and chopped Italian parsley and set the pan under the broiler to crisp the top.

A minute or two later, the dish was finished. He added salt and pepper to the hash and sat down to eat the meal, along with a rosemary scone, at a very expensive teak table in the bay window of his kitchen. He’d baked the scone several days ago. Better with age, he reflected, as the herbs had bonded well with the hand-milled flour.

Swann ate slowly, as he always did. He had nothing but pity bordering on contempt for people who ate fast, who inhaled their food.

He had just finished when he received an email. It seemed that Shreve Metzger’s great national security intelligence machine was grinding away as efficiently as ever.

Swann called the Tech Services people and requested some datamining. Then he pulled on thick yellow rubber gloves. To clean the skillet, he scrubbed it with salt and treated the surface with hot oil; cast-iron should never meet soap and water, of course. He then began to wash the dishes and utensils in very, very hot water. He enjoyed the process and found that he did much of his best thinking standing here, looking out at a dogged ginkgo in a small garden in front of the building. The nuts from that plant were curious. They’re used in Asian cuisine — the centerpiece of the delicious custard chawanmushi in Japan. They can also be toxic, when consumed in large quantities. But dining can be dangerous, of course; when we sit down to a meal who doesn’t occasionally wonder if we’ve been dealt the salmonella or E. coli card? Jacob Swann had eaten fugu — the infamous puffer fish with toxic organs — in Japan. He faulted the dish not for its potential for lethality (training of chefs makes poisoning virtually impossible) but for a flavor too mild for his liking.

Scrubbing, scrubbing, removing every trace of food from metal and glass and porcelain.

And thinking hard.

To eliminate witnesses would cast suspicion on NIOS and its affiliates, of course, since the kill order was now public. That was unfortunate and under other circumstances he would have tried to arrange accidents or construct some fictional players to take the blame for the murders that were about to happen: the cartels Metzger had claimed were really responsible for Moreno’s death, or perps the police and prosecutor had put in jail, out for revenge.

But that wouldn’t work here. Jacob Swann would simply have to do what he did best; while Shreve Metzger would deny that kill orders even existed, Swann would make absolutely certain that no evidence of or witnesses to his clean-up operation could possibly tie NIOS or anyone connected with it to the killing.

He could do that. Jacob Swann was a very meticulous man.

Besides, he had no choice but to eliminate these threats. There was no way he’d let anybody jeopardize his organization; its work was too important.

Swann dried the dishes, silver and coffee cup, using thick linen, with the diligence of a surgeon completing the stitches after a successful procedure.

CHAPTER 13

Hands on her hips, Amelia Sachs studied the whiteboard.

She noted Rhyme glance without interest at her flowing script. He wouldn’t pay much attention to what she’d written until hard facts — evidence, mostly, in his case — began to appear.

It was just the three of them at the moment, Sachs, Laurel and Rhyme. Lon Sellitto had gone downtown to recruit a specially picked canvass-and-surveillance team from Captain Bill Myers’s Special Services operation; with secrecy a priority, Laurel didn’t want to use regular Patrol Division officers.

Sachs returned to her desk. She didn’t do well sitting still and that was largely what she’d been doing for the past two hours. Confined here, the bad habits returned: She’d dig one nail into another, scratch her scalp to bleeding. Fidgety by nature, she felt a compulsion to walk, to be outside, to drive. Her father had coined an expression that was her anthem:

When you move they can’t getcha…

The line had meant several things to Herman Sachs. Certainly it could refer to his job, their job — he too had been a cop, a portable, walking his beat in the Deuce, Times Square, at a time when the murder rate in the city was at an all-time high. Fast of foot, fast of thought, fast of eye could keep you alive.

Life in general too. Moving… The briefer you were a target for any harm, the better, whether from lovers, bosses, rivals. He’d recited those words a lot, up until he died (some things, your own failing body, for instance, you can’t outrun).

But all cases require backgrounding and paperwork and that was particularly true in this one, where facts were hard to come by and the crime scene inaccessible. So Sachs was in desk job prison at the moment, plowing through documents and canvassing — discreetly — via phone. She turned from the board and sat once more as she absently dug a thumbnail into the quick of a finger. Pain spread. She ignored it. A faint swirl of red appeared on a piece of intelligence she was reading and she ignored this too.

Some of the tension was due to the Overseer, which was how Sachs had come to think of Nance Laurel. She wasn’t used to anyone looking over her shoulder, even her superiors — and as a detective third, Amelia Sachs had a lot of those. Laurel had fully moved in now — with two impressive laptops up and running — and had had even more thick files delivered.

Was she going to have a folding cot brought in next?

The unsmiling, focused Laurel, on the other hand, wasn’t the least edgy. She hunched over documents, clattered away loudly and irritatingly at the keyboards and jotted notes in extremely small, precise lettering. Page after page was examined, notated and organized. Passages on the computer screen were read carefully and then rejected or given a new incarnation via the laser printer and joined their comrades in the files of People v. Metzger, et al.

Sachs rose, walked to the whiteboards again and then returned to the dreaded chair, trying to learn what she could about Moreno’s trip to New York on April 30 through May 2. She’d been canvassing hotels and car services. She was getting through to human beings about two-thirds of the time, leaving messages the rest.

She glanced across the room toward Rhyme; he was on the phone, trying to get the Bahamian police to cooperate. His expression explained that he wasn’t having any more luck than she was.

Then Sachs’s phone buzzed. The call was from Rodney Szarnek, with the NYPD Computer Crimes Unit, an elite group of thirty or so detectives and support staff. Although Rhyme was a traditional forensic scientist, he and Sachs had worked more and more closely with CCU in recent years; computers and cell phones — and the wonderful evidence they retained, seemingly forever — were crucial to running successful investigations nowadays. Szarnek was in his forties, Sachs estimated, but his age was hard to determine for sure. Szarnek projected youth — from his shaggy hair to his uniform of wrinkled jeans and T-shirt to his passionate love of “boxes,” as he called computers.

Not to mention his addiction to loud and usually bad rock music.

Which now blared in the background.

“Hey, Rodney,” Sachs now said, “could we de-volume that a bit. You mind?”

“Sorry.”

Szarnek was key to finding the whistleblower who’d leaked the STO. He was tracing the anonymous email with its STO kill order attachment, working backward from the destination, the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office, and trying to find where the leaker had been when he sent it.

“It’s taking some time,” the man reported, over a faint 4/4 rock beat of bass and drum. “The email was routed through proxies halfway around the world. Well, actually all the way around the world. So far I’ve traced it back from the DA’s Office to a remailer in Taiwan and from there to Romania. And I’ll tell you, the Romanians are not in a cooperating mode. But I got some information on the box he was using. He tried to be smart but he tripped up.”

“You mean you found the brand of his computer?”

“Possibly. His agent user string…Uhm, do you know what that is?”

Sachs confessed she didn’t.

“It’s information your computer sends out to routers and servers and other computers when you’re online. Anybody can see it and find out exactly what your operating system and browser are. Now, your whistleblower’s box was running Apple’s OS Nine two two and Internet Explorer Five for Mac. That goes back a long time. It really narrows the field. I’m guessing he had an iBook laptop. That was the first portable Mac to have an antenna built in so he could’ve logged into Wi-Fi for the upload without any separate modem or server.”

An iBook? Sachs had never heard of it. “How old, Rodney?”

“Over ten years. Probably one he bought secondhand and paid cash for it, so it couldn’t be traced back to him. That’s where he tried to be smart. But he didn’t figure that we could find out the brand.”

“What would it look like?”

“If we’re lucky it’ll be a clamshell model — they came two-toned, white and some bright colors, like green or tangerine. They’re shaped just what they sound like.”

“Clams.”

“Well, rounded. There’s a standard rectangular model too, solid graphite, square. But it’d be big. Twice as thick as today’s laptops. That’s how you could recognize it.”

“Good, Rodney. Thanks.”

“I’ll stay on the router. The Romanians’ll cave. I just need to negotiate.”

Up with the music, and the line went dead.

Sachs glanced around and found Nance Laurel looking at her, the expression on the ADA’s face both blank and inquisitive. How did she manage that? Sachs told the woman and Rhyme about the cybercrime cop’s response. Rhyme nodded, unimpressed, and returned to the phone. He said nothing. Sachs supposed he was on hold.

Laurel nodded approvingly, it seemed. “If you could document that and send it to me.”

“What?”

A pause. “What you just told me about the tracing and the type of computer.”

Sachs said, “I was just going to write it up on the board.” A nod toward the whiteboard.

“I’d actually like everything documented in as close to real time as possible.” The ADA’s nod was toward her own stacks of files. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

The prosecutor wielded the words “if you…” like a bludgeon.

Sachs did mind but wasn’t inclined to fight this battle. She pounded out the brief memo on her keyboard.

Laurel added, “Thank you. Just send it to me in an email and I’ll print it out myself. The secure server, of course.”

“Of course.” Sachs fired off the document, noting that the prosecutor’s micromanagement didn’t seem to extend to Lincoln Rhyme.

Her phone buzzed and she lifted a surprised eyebrow, noting caller ID.

At last. A solid lead. The caller was a secretary at Elite Limousines, one of dozens of livery operations Sachs had canvassed earlier, inquiring if Robert Moreno had used their services on May 1. In fact, he had. The woman said the man had hired a car and driver for an as-directed assignment, meaning that Moreno had given the driver the locations he wished to go to after being picked up. The company had no record of those stops but the woman gave Sachs the driver’s name and number.

She then called the driver, identified herself and asked if she could come interview him in connection with a case.

In a heavily accented voice, hard to understand, he said he supposed so and he gave her his address. She disconnected and rose, pulling on her jacket.

“Got Moreno’s driver for his visit here on May first,” she said to Rhyme. “I’m going to interview him.”

Laurel said quickly, “Any chance you could write up your notes on Agent Dellray’s news before you go?”

“First thing I’m back.”

She noted Laurel stiffen but it seemed that this was a battle the prosecutor wasn’t willing to fight.

CHAPTER 14

At this point in a standard investigation Lincoln Rhyme would have enlisted the aid of perhaps the best forensics lab man in the city, NYPD detective Mel Cooper.

But the presence of the slim, unflappable Cooper was pointless in the absence of physical evidence and all he’d done was alert the man to be on call — which to Lincoln Rhyme meant being prepared to drop everything, short of open-heart surgery, and get your ass to the lab. Stat.

But that possibility didn’t seem very likely at the moment. Rhyme was now back to the task that had taken all morning: trying to actually get possession of some of the physical evidence in the Moreno shooting.

He was on hold for the fourth time with an official in the Royal Bahamas Police Force in Nassau. A voice, at last: “Yes, hello. Can I help you?” a woman asked in a melodious alto.

About time. But he reined in the impatience even though he had to explain all over again. “This is Captain Rhyme. I’m with the New York City Police Department.” He’d given up on “consulting with” or “working with.” That was too complicated and seemed to arouse suspicion. He’d get Lon Sellitto to informally deputize him if anyone called his bluff. (He wished somebody would, in fact; bluff-callers are people who can get things done.)

“New York, yes.”

“I’d like to speak to someone in your forensics department.”

“Crime Scene, yes.”

“That’s right.” Rhyme pictured the woman he was speaking to as a lazy, not particularly bright civil servant sitting in a dusty un-air-conditioned office, beneath a slowly revolving fan.

Possibly an unfair image.

“I’m sorry, you wanted which department?”

Possibly not.

“Forensics. A supervisor. This is about the Robert Moreno killing.”

“Please hold.”

“No, please…Wait!”

Click.

Fuck.

Five minutes later he found himself talking to the woman officer he was sure had taken his first call, though she didn’t seem to remember him. Or was pretending not to. He repeated his request and this time — after a burst of inspiration — added, “I’m sorry for the urgency. It’s just that the reporters keep calling. I’ll have to send them directly to your office if I can’t give them information myself.”

He had no idea what threat this was meant to convey exactly; he was improvising.

“Reporters?” she asked dubiously.

“CNN, ABC, CBS. Fox. All of them.”

“I see. Yes, sir.”

But the ploy had its effect, because the next hold was for three seconds, tops.

“Poitier speaking.” Deep, melodious, with a British accent and a Caribbean inflection; Rhyme knew the lilt not from having been to the islands himself but owing to his role in putting a few people from that part of the world in New York jails. The Jamaican gangs outstripped the Mafia for violence, hands down.

“Hello. This is Lincoln Rhyme with the New York Police Department.” He wanted to add, Do not, under any fucking circumstances, put me on hold. But refrained.

The Bahamian cop: “Ah, yes.” Cautious.

“Who’m I speaking to? Officer Poitier, did I hear?”

“Corporal Mychal Poitier.”

“And you’re with Crime Scene?”

“No. I’m the lead investigator in the Moreno shooting…Wait, you said you’re Lincoln Rhyme. Captain Rhyme. Well.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“We have one of your forensics books in our library. I’ve read it.”

Maybe this would earn him a modicum of cooperation. On the other hand, the corporal had not said whether he’d liked the book or found it helpful. The latest edition’s bio page reported that Rhyme was retired, a fact that Poitier, fortunately, didn’t seem to know.

Rhyme now made his pitch. Without naming Metzger or NIOS, he explained that the NYPD believed there was an American connection in the Moreno killing. “I have some questions about the shooting, about the evidence. Do you have some time now? Can we talk?”

A pause worthy of Nance Laurel. “I’m afraid not, sir. The Moreno case has been put on hold for the time being and there are—”

“I’m sorry, on hold?” An open case of a homicide that occurred a week ago? This was the time when the investigation should be at its most intense.

“That’s correct, Captain.”

“But why? You have a suspect in custody?”

“No, sir. First, I don’t know what American connection you’re speaking of; the killing was committed by members of a drug cartel from Venezuela, most likely. We’re waiting to hear from authorities there before we proceed further. And I personally have had to focus on a more urgent case. A part-time student who’s just gone missing, an American girl. Ah, these crimes happen some in our nation.” Poitier added defensively, “But rarely. Very rarely. You know how it is, sir. A pretty student disappears and the press descends. Like vultures.”

The press. Maybe that was why Rhyme finally got put through. His bluff had touched a nerve.

The corporal continued, “We have less rape than Newark, New Jersey, much less. But a missing student in the Islands is magnified like a telephoto lens. And I have to say, with all respect, your news programs are most unfair. The British press too. But now we have lost an American student and not a British one, so it will be CNN and the rest. Vultures. With all respect.”

He was rambling now — to deflect, Rhyme sensed. “Corporal—”

“It’s most unfair,” Poitier repeated. “A student comes here from America. She comes here on holiday or — this girl — to study for a semester. And it’s always our fault. They say terrible things about us.”

Rhyme had lost all patience but he struggled to remain calm. “Again, Corporal, about the Moreno murder? Now, we’re sure the cartels had nothing to do with his death.”

Silence now, in stark contrast with the officer’s earlier rambling. Then: “Well, my efforts are on finding the student.”

“I don’t care about the student,” Rhyme blurted, bad taste maybe but, in fact, at the moment he didn’t. “Robert Moreno. Please. There is an American connection and I’m looking into it now. There’s some urgency.”

Task: Al-Barani Rashid (NIOS ID: abr942pd5t)

Born: 2/73, Michigan

Rhyme couldn’t begin to guess who this Rashid was, the next name in the STO queue, and doubted he was an innocent soccer dad in Connecticut. But he agreed with Nance Laurel that the man shouldn’t die on the basis of faulty, or faked, information.

Complete by: 5/19…

Rhyme continued, “I’d like a copy of the crime scene report, photos of the scene and the nest the sniper was shooting from, autopsy reports, lab analysis. All the documentation. And any datamined information about someone named Don Bruns on the island around the time of the shooting. It’s a cover. An AKA for the sniper.”

“Well, we don’t actually have the final report yet. Some notes but it’s not complete.”

“Not complete?” Rhyme muttered. “The killing was on May ninth.”

“I believe that’s right.”

He believes?

Rhyme suddenly felt a stab of concern. “Of course the scene’s been searched?”

“Yes, yes, naturally.”

Well, this was a relief.

Poitier said, “The day after Mr. Moreno was shot we got right to it.”

“Next day?”

“Yes.” Poitier hesitated as if he knew this was a misstep. “We had another situation, another case that same day. A prominent lawyer was killed and robbed downtown, in his office. That took priority. Mr. Moreno was not a national. The lawyer was.”

Two conditions made crime scenes infinitely less valuable to investigators. The first was contamination from people trudging through the site — including careless police officers themselves. The second was the passage of time between the crime and the search. Evidence key to establishing a suspect’s identity and conviction could, literally, evaporate in a matter of hours.

Waiting a day to search a scene could cut the amount of vital evidence in half.

“So the scene is still sealed?”

“Yes, sir.”

That was something. In a voice he hoped was suitably grave Rhyme said, “Corporal, the reason we’re involved here is that we think whoever killed Moreno will kill again.”

“Is that true, do you think?” He sounded genuinely concerned. “Here?”

“We don’t know.”

Then someone else was speaking to the corporal. A hand went over the mouthpiece of the phone, and Rhyme could hear only mumbles. Poitier came back on the line. “I will take your number, Captain, and if I am able to find anything helpful I will give you a call.”

Rhyme’s jaw clenched. He gave the number then quickly asked, “Could you search the scene again, please?”

“With all respect, Captain, you have far greater resources in New York than we do here. And, to be honest, this has all been a little overwhelming for me. It’s my first homicide case. A foreign activist, a sniper, a luxury resort, and—”

“First homicide case?”

“Well, yes.”

“Corporal, with all respect—” Echoing the man’s own line. “—could I speak to a supervisor?”

Poitier didn’t sound insulted when he said, “One moment, please.” Again the hand went over the receiver. Rhyme could hear muted words. He thought he could make out “Moreno” and “New York.”

Poitier came back on a moment later. “I’m sorry, Captain. It seems my supervisor is unavailable. But I have your number. I will be glad to call you when we know something more.”

Rhyme believed this might be his only chance. He thought quickly. “Just tell me one thing: Did you recover bullets intact?”

“One, yes, and—” His conversation braked to a halt. “I’m not sure. Excuse me, please. I must go.”

Rhyme said, “The bullet? That’s key to the case. Just tell me—”

“I believe I may have been mistaken about that. I must hang up now.”

“Corporal, what was the department with the police force you transferred from?”

Another pause. “Business Inspections and Licensing Division, sir. And before that, Traffic. I must go.”

The line died.

CHAPTER 15

Jacob Swann pulled his gray Nissan Altima past the house of Robert Moreno’s limo driver.

His tech people had come through. They’d learned that Moreno had used an outfit called Elite Limousine when he was in the city on May 1. He discovered too that Moreno had a particular driver he always used. His name was Vlad Nikolov. And, being the activist’s regular chauffeur, he probably had information that the investigators would want. Swann had to make sure they didn’t get those facts.

He’d made a fast call via his prepaid—“Sorry, wrong number”—and learned the driver was home at the moment. His thickly Russian- or Georgian-accented voice sounded a bit groggy, which meant he’d probably worked the late-night shift. Good. He wasn’t going anywhere soon. But Swann knew he’d have to move fast; the police couldn’t datamine with the same impunity as his technical services department but traditional canvassing could reveal the driver’s identity too.

Swann climbed out of his car and stretched, looking around.

Many livery workers lived in Queens. This was because the parking situation in Manhattan was so horrific and the real estate prices so high. And because limo work often involved shuttles to and from LaGuardia and JFK airports, both of which were located in the borough.

Vlad Nikolov’s house was modest but well tended, Swann noted. A spray of flowering plants, thick and brilliant courtesy of the delicate spring temperature and a recent rain, bordered the front of the beige brick bungalow. The grass was trim, the slate slabs leading to the front door had been swept, possibly even scrubbed, in the past day or two. The centerpiece of the yard was two boxwood bushes, diligently shaped.

The utility bill information, including smart electric meter patterns, and food and other purchasing profiles that the tech department had datamined, suggested that the forty-two-year-old Nikolov lived alone. This was unusual for Russian or Georgian immigrants, who tended to be very family-minded. Swann supposed that perhaps he had family back in his native country.

In any event, the man’s solitary life worked to Swann’s advantage.

He continued past the house, glancing briefly at a window, covered with a gauzy curtain. Lace. Maybe Nikolov had a girlfriend who came to visit sporadically. A Russian man would be unlikely to buy lace. Another person inside would be a problem — not because Jacob Swann minded killing her but because two deaths increased the number of people who might miss a victim and bring the police here all the more quickly. It made a bigger news splash too. He hoped to keep the driver’s death quiet for as long as possible.

Swann came to the end of the block, turned and slipped a plain black baseball cap over his head, pulled his jacket off, turned it inside out and slipped it back on. Witnesses see upper garments and headgear mostly. Now, if anyone was looking, it would seem that two different people had walked past the house, rather than one man doing so twice.

Every grain of suspicion counts.

On this second trip he looked the other way — at all the cars on the street in front of and near the house. Obviously no NYPD cruisers but no unmarkeds either that he could sense.

He walked up to the door, reaching into his backpack and withdrawing a six-inch length of capped pipe, filled with lead shot. He wrapped his right hand around this, making a fist. The point of the pipe was to give support to the inside of the fingers so that if he happened to connect with bone or some other solid portion of his victim when he swung, the metacarpals wouldn’t snap. He’d learned this the hard way — by missing a blow to the throat and striking a man on the cheek, which had cracked his little finger. He’d regained control of the situation but the pain in his right hand was excruciating. He’d found it was very difficult to flay skin with the knife in one’s non-dominant hand.

Swann took a blank, sealed envelope from his bag too.

A glance around. Nobody on the street. He rang the bell with his knuckle, put a cheerful smile on his face.

No response. Was he asleep?

He lifted a paper napkin from his pocket and tried the knob. Locked. This was always the case in New York. Not so in the suburbs of Cleveland or Denver — where he’d killed an information broker last month. All the doors in Highlands Ranch were unlocked, windows too. The man hadn’t even locked his BMW.

Swann was about to walk around behind the house and look for a window he might break through.

But then he heard a thud, a click.

He rang the bell again, just to let Mr. Nikolov know that his presence was still requested. This is what any normal visitor would have done.

A grain of suspicion…

A voice, muffled by the thickness of the door. Not impatient. Just tired.

The door opened and Swann was surprised — and pleased — to see that Robert Moreno’s preferred driver was only about five feet, six inches and couldn’t have weighed more than 160 pounds, 25 fewer than Swann himself.

“Yes?” he asked in a thick Slavic accent, looking at Swann’s left hand, the white envelope. The right was not visible.

“Mr. Nikolov?”

“That’s right.” He was wearing brown pajamas and was in house slippers.

“I’ve got a TLC refund for you. You gotta sign for it.”

“What?”

“Taxi Limousine Commission, the refund.”

“Yeah, yeah, TLC. What refund?”

“They overcharged fees.”

“You with them?”

“No, I’m the contracting agent. I just deliver the checks.”

“Well, they pricks. I don’t know about refund but they pricks, what they charge. Wait, how do I know they not ripping me off? I sign, I sign away my rights? Maybe I should get a lawyer.”

Swann lifted the envelope. “You can read this. Everybody’s taking the checks but it says you don’t have to, you can talk to an arbitrator. I don’t care. I deliver checks. You don’t want it, don’t take it.”

Nikolov unlatched the screen door. “Lemme have it.”

Swann appreciated that he had no sense of humor but he couldn’t help but be struck by the man’s unfortunate choice of words.

When the door opened, Swann stepped forward fast and drove his right fist, holding the pipe, into the man’s solar plexus, aiming not for the ugly brown cloth of the PJs but for a spot about two inches beyond — inside the man’s gut. Which is where blows should always be aimed, never the surface, to deliver the greatest impact.

Nikolov gasped, retched and went down fast.

In an instant Swann stepped past him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him well inside before the vomiting started. Swann kicked him once, also in the belly, hard, and then looked out a lacy window.

A quiet street, a pleasant street. Not a dog walker, not a passerby. Not a single car.

He pulled on latex gloves, flicked the lock, slipped the pipe away.

“Hellooooo? Helloooo?” Swann called.

Nothing. They were alone.

Gripping the driver by the collar again, he pulled the man along the recently waxed floor, then deposited him in a den, out of view of the windows.

Swann looked down at the gasping man, wincing from the pain.

The beef tenderloin, the psoas major muscle tucked against the short loin and sirloin, lives up to its name — you need only a fork to cut it when prepared right. But the elongated trapezoid of meat, known for Wellington and tournedos, starts in a much less agreeable state and takes some prep time. Most of this is knife work. You have to remove any tougher side muscle, of course, but most challenging is the silverskin, a thin layer of connective tissue that encases much of the cut.

The trick is to remove the membrane completely but leave as much flesh intact as you can. Doing this involves moving the knife in a sawing motion, while keeping the blade at a precise angle. You need to practice a great deal to get this right.

Jacob Swann was thinking of the technique now as he withdrew the Kai Shun from its waxed wooden sheath and crouched down.

CHAPTER 16

En route to the house of Robert Moreno’s limo driver, Amelia Sachs enjoyed being out from under the Overseer’s thumb.

Okay, she thought, not fair.

Nance Laurel was seemingly a good prosecutor. From what Dellray said, from the woman’s preparation for the case.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like her.

Find out what church Moreno went to, Amelia, and how much he donated to good causes and how many old ladies he helped across the street.

If you would…

I don’t think so.

Sachs was at least moving. And moving fast. She was driving her maroon 1970 Ford Torino Cobra, heir to the Fairlane. The car delivered 405 sleek horsepower and boasted 447 foot-pounds of torque. Sachs had the optional four-speed transmission, of course. The Hurst shifter was hard and temperamental but for Sachs this was the only way to run through the gears — for her a more sensuous part of the car than the engine. The only incongruous aspect of the vehicle — aside from its anachronistic appearance on the streets of modern-day New York — was the Chevrolet Camaro SS horn button, a memorial from her first and favorite muscle car, which had been the victim of a run-in with a perp a few years ago.

She now piloted the Cobra over the 59th Street Bridge — the Queensboro. Her father had told her that Paul Simon had written a song about the bridge. She’d meant to look it up on iTunes after he’d told her that. Meant to look it up after he died. Meant to look it up every year or so since.

She never had.

A pop song about a bridge. Interesting. Sachs reminded herself to look it up.

Eastbound traffic was good. The speed nudged a bit higher and she slammed down the clutch and popped the Cobra’s gearbox into third.

Pain. And she winced.

Goddamn it. Her knee again. If it wasn’t the knee it was the hip.

Goddamn.

The arthritis had plagued her all her adult life. Not rheumatoid — that insidious immune system disorder that works its evil in all your joints. Hers was the more common osteo, whose genesis might have been genes or the consequences of a motorcycle race at age twenty-two — or, more precisely, a spectacular landing after the Benelli decided to launch itself off the dirt track only a quarter mile from the finish line. But whatever the cause, oh, how the condition tortured her. She’d learned that aspirin and ibuprofen worked some. She’d learned that chondroitin and glucosamine didn’t — at least not for her. Sorry, shark bone lovers. She’d had hyaluronan injections, but they’d sidelined her for several days from inflammation and pain. And, of course, rooster combs could only be a temporary fix. She learned to swallow pills dry and never touch anything that had a Refill Only 3 Times label on it.

But the most important thing she’d learned was to smile and pretend the pain wasn’t there and that her joints were those of a healthy twenty-year-old.

When you move they can’t getcha…

And yet this pain, the joints breaking down, meant she couldn’t move nearly as fast as she had. Her metaphor: an emergency brake cable, slack from rusting, that wouldn’t quite disengage the shoe.

Dragging, dragging…

And the worst of all: the specter that she’d be sidelined because of the condition. She wondered again: Had Captain Bill Myers’s eyes been aimed her way that morning in the lab when a jolt nearly made her stumble? Every time she was around brass she struggled to hide the condition. Had she this morning? She believed so.

She cleared the bridge and downshifted hard into second, matched revs to protect the boisterous engine. She’d done this to prove to herself that the pain wasn’t so bad. She was blowing it out of proportion. She could shift whenever she wanted.

Except that lifting her left knee to stomp on the clutch had sent a fierce burst through her.

A reactive tear eased into one eye. She wiped it away furiously.

She drove more moderately toward her destination.

In ten minutes she was easing through a pleasant neighborhood in Queens. Tidy, tiny lawns, shrubs well trimmed, trees rising from perfect circles of mulch.

She checked house numbers. Halfway up the block she found Robert Moreno’s driver’s house. A single-story bungalow, very well maintained. In the driveway, half in the garage, half out, was a Lincoln Town Car, black and polished like a recruit’s gun for parade.

Sachs double-parked and tossed the NYPD card onto the dash. Glancing at the house, she saw the flimsy curtain in the living room open slightly then fall back.

So the driver was home. Good. Sometimes when police come a-calling, residents suddenly remember errands they have to run far across town. Or they simply hide in the basement and don’t answer the door.

She stepped out, testing her left leg.

Acceptable, though it still hurt. She was between pill times and resisted the urge to take another ibuprofen. That little liver failure thing.

Then she grew impatient with herself for fussing. For God’s sake, Rhyme has the use of 5 percent of his body and he never complains. Shut up and get to work. Standing on the front stoop of the driver’s house, she pressed the doorbell, heard a Westminster chime inside, an elaborate trilling that seemed ironic, given the minuscule house.

What could the driver tell them? Had Moreno commented that he’d been followed, that he’d received death threats, that someone had broken into his hotel room? Had the driver gotten a description of someone conducting surveillance?

Then footsteps.

She felt, more than saw, someone peering through the gauzy curtain covering the window in the door.

Perfunctorily, she held her badge and shield up.

The lock clicked.

The door swung open.

CHAPTER 17

Hello, Officer. No, Detective. You are a detective? That’s what you said when you called.”

“Detective, yes.”

“And I am Tash. You can call me Tash.” He was cautious, as he’d been on the phone when she called earlier, but perhaps because she was a woman and a not unattractive one, he relaxed his guard. His Mideast accent was just as thick as earlier but he was easier to understand face-to-face.

Beaming, he ushered her into the house, decorated largely with Islamic art. He was a slight man, with a dark complexion, thick black hair, and Semitic features. Iranian, she guessed. He was wearing a white shirt and chino slacks. His full name was Atash Farada and he’d been a driver with Elite Limousines for the past ten years, he explained. Somewhat proudly.

A woman about the same age — Sachs made it mid-forties — greeted her pleasantly and asked if she wanted tea or anything else.

“No, thank you.”

“My wife, Faye.”

They shook hands.

Sachs said to Farada, “Your company, Elite, said Robert Moreno generally used another driver, right?”

“Yes, Vlad Nikolov.”

She asked for the spelling, which he gave. Sachs jotted.

“But he was sick on May first and so they called me instead to drive. Could you tell me what this is about, please?”

“I have to tell you that Mr. Moreno was killed.”

“No!” Farada’s expression darkened. He was clearly upset. “Please, what happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“This is such bad news. He was quite the gentleman. Was it robbery?”

Demurring further, she said, “I’d like to know where you drove Mr. Moreno.”

“Dead?” He turned to his wife. “Dead, you heard. How terrible.”

“Mr. Farada?” Sachs repeated with patient insistence. “Could you tell me where you drove him?”

“Where we drove, where we drove.” He looked troubled. But he looked too troubled. Studiously troubled.

Sachs wasn’t surprised when he said, “Sadly I am not sure I can remember.”

Ah. She got it. “Here’s an idea. I could hire you to re-create the route. To start where you picked him up. That might refresh your memory.”

His eyes pendulumed away. “Oh. Yes, it might. But I could have a regular assignment for Elite. I—”

“I’ll double your fee,” Sachs said, thinking about the ethics of paying a potential witness in a homicide investigation. But this case was fat with moral ambiguity from the top down.

Farada said, “I think that might work. I’m so very sad that he died. Let me make a call or two.”

He vanished toward a den or study, pulling his mobile from its holster.

Farada’s wife asked again, “There is nothing you’d like?”

“No, thank you. Really.”

“You are very pretty,” the woman said with admiration and envy.

Faye was attractive too, though short and round. Sachs reflected that one always envies whatever one is not. The first thing that she’d noticed about Faye, for instance, was that when she walked forward to shake the detective’s hand she did so without any hitch in her gait.

Farada returned, wearing a black jacket over the same slacks and shirt. “I am free. I will drive you. I hope I can recall everywhere we went.”

She gave him a focused look and he added quickly, “But once we start I think the places will return to me. That’s how the memory is, isn’t it? Almost a living creature unto itself.”

He kissed his wife and said he’d be back before dinner — with a glance toward Sachs so that she could confirm this would be the case.

She said, “A couple of hours, I’d guess.”

He and Sachs walked outside and they got into the black Lincoln Town Car.

“You don’t want to sit in the back?” he asked, perplexed by her choice of the front passenger seat.

“No.”

Amelia Sachs was not a limo girl. She’d been in one only once — at her father’s funeral. She had no bad associations with long black sedans based on that experience; she simply didn’t do well being driven by others, and sitting in the rear seat exponentially increased her discomfort.

They got under way. The man drove expertly through traffic, unwavering but polite and never using the horn, though they encountered several idiots whom Sachs would have blared onto the sidewalk. The first stop was the Helmsley on Central Park South.

“Okay, so I pick him up here about ten thirty a.m.”

She climbed out and walked inside to the hotel’s check-in desk. The mission, though, was a bust. The clerks were helpful but didn’t have any information that bore on the investigation. Moreno had had several room service charges — food for one — but no outgoing or incoming calls. No one remembered if he had had any visitors.

Back into the limo.

“Where next?” she asked.

“A bank. I don’t remember the name but I remember where.”

“Let’s go.”

Farada drove her to a branch of American Independent Bank and Trust on 55th Street. She went inside. It was near closing time and some of the staff had left. The receptionist rounded up a manager. Without a warrant, Sachs couldn’t get much information. But the woman, one of those template vice presidents, did tell her that Robert Moreno’s visit on May first was to close his accounts and move his assets to a bank in the Caribbean. She wouldn’t say which one.

“How much? Can you tell me?”

Only: “Mid six figures.”

Not like he was laundering huge sums for the cartels. Still, this was suspicious.

“Did he leave any money here?”

“No. And he mentioned he was doing the same for all of his accounts in other banks.”

Returning to Tash Farada, Sachs dropped into the passenger seat. “And after this?”

“A beautiful woman,” the driver said.

She thought for a moment that Farada was talking about her. She then laughed to herself when he explained that he’d driven Moreno to the East Side and collected a woman who’d accompanied him for the rest of the day. Moreno had given the address — an intersection, Lexington and 52nd — and told the driver to pause in front of the building.

They drove there now and Sachs regarded the structure. A tall, boxy glass office building.

“Who was she?”

He answered, “Dark hair. I am thinking she was about five-eight, in her thirties but youthful, attractive as I was saying. Voluptuous. And her skirt was short.”

“Actually I was more interested in her name and business affiliation.”

“I caught her first name only. Lydia. And as for business…Well.” Farada offered a coy smile.

“Well what?”

“Let me put it this way, I’m sure they hadn’t known each other before he picked her up.”

“That’s not telling me much,” Sachs said.

“You see, Detective, we learn things in this job. We learn human nature. Some things our clients do not want us to know, some things we do not want to know. We are to be invisible. But we are observant. We drive and we ask no questions except, ‘Where do you want to go, sir?’ And yet we see.”

The esoterica on the Mystic Order of Limo Drivers was wearing and Sachs lifted an impatient eyebrow.

He said in a soft voice, as if someone else were listening, “It was clear to me she was a…You understand?”

“An escort?”

“Voluptuous, you know.”

“One does not necessarily mean the other.”

“But then there was the money.”

“Money.”

“Much of our job is learning not to see things.”

Brother. She sighed. “What money?”

“I saw Mr. Moreno give her an envelope. The way they both handled it, I knew it contained money. And he said, ‘As we agreed.’”

“And she said?”

“‘Thank you.’”

Sachs wondered what prim ADA Nance Laurel would think of her noble victim picking up a hooker in the middle of the day. “Did there seem to be any connection between this woman and the building? A particular office she worked in?”

“She was in the lobby when we pulled up out front.”

Sachs doubted the escort service would have a cover operation here. Maybe this Lydia worked as a temp or had another part-time job. She called Lon Sellitto and explained about the woman, describing her.

“And voluptuous,” Tash Farada interjected.

Sachs ignored him and gave the detective the address.

Sellitto said, “I got that canvass team together — from Myers’s division. I’ll get ’em started on the building. See if anybody’s heard of a Lydia.”

After they disconnected she asked Farada, “Where did they go from here?”

“Downtown. Wall Street.”

“Let’s go.”

The man eased the Town Car into traffic. Speeding up, the big, spongy Lincoln wove through the congested traffic. If she had to be a prisoner in the passenger seat, at least she could take comfort that the driver wasn’t a plodder. She’d rather have a fender-bender than a hesitant ride. And in her opinion faster was safer.

When you move…

As they made their way downtown she asked, “Did you hear what they talked about, Mr. Moreno and Lydia?”

“Yes, yes. But it wasn’t what I thought it would be, about her job, so to speak.”

Voluptuous…

“He talked much about politics. Lecturing in a way. Lydia, she was polite and asked questions but they were the questions you ask at a wedding or funeral when you’re a stranger. Questions you don’t care about the answers to. Small talk.”

Sachs persisted. “Tell me what he said.”

“Well, I remember he was angry with America. This I found troubling, offensive really. Perhaps he thought he could say these things in front of me because of my accent and I am of Middle Eastern descent. As if we had something in common. Now, I cried when the Trade Towers came down. I lost clients that day, who were my friends too. I love this country as a brother. Sometimes you are angry at your brother. Do you have?”

He sped around a bus and two taxis.

“No, I’m an only child.” Trying to be patient.

“Well, at times you are angry with your brother but then you make up and all is well. That makes your love real. Because after all you’re joined by blood, forever. But Mr. Moreno wasn’t willing to forgive the country for what it had done to him.”

“Done to him?”

“Yes, do you know that story?”

“No,” Sachs said, turning toward him. “Please tell me.”

CHAPTER 18

In all endeavors mistakes happen.

You can’t let them affect you emotionally.

You try to whip cream without chilling the bowl and beaters and you’re going to end up with butter.

You and the tech department datamine the name of a client’s regular driver at a limo company and it turns out he was sick the one day you need to ask him about. And even removing a few careful strips of flesh couldn’t get the man lying in front of you to give up the substitute’s name. Which meant that he didn’t know.

Silverskin…

Jacob Swann reflected that he should have known this, should have prepared, and that gave him a dose of humble. You can’t make assumptions. The first rule to any good meal is prep. Get all the work done ahead of time, all the chopping, all the measuring, all the stock reduction.

Everything.

Only then do you assemble, cook and finish.

He now cleaned up quickly in Vlad Nikolov’s house, reflecting that the hour wasn’t a complete waste of time — refining your skills never is. Besides, Nikolov might have known something helpful to the police (though as it turned out, he hadn’t). Since he had people like that ADA Nance Laurel and the whistleblower to take care of, he wanted to keep Vlad Nikolov’s corpse a secret for as long as possible. He wrapped the oozing body in a dozen towels and then in garbage bags, taping them shut. He dragged the corpse to the basement, thud thud thud on the stairs, and eased it into a supply room. The odor wouldn’t begin to escape for a week or so.

He then used the man’s mobile and called Elite Limousines, reporting in hesitant English with a functional Slavic accent that he was Vlad Nikolov’s cousin. The driver had learned of a death in the family, back in the old country (he didn’t mention Moscow or Kiev or Tbilisi, since he didn’t know). Vlad was taking several weeks off. The receptionist protested — only about scheduling, not that the story seemed incredible — but he’d hung up.

Swann surveyed the scene of the interrogation and noted he’d left very little evidence. He’d used trash bags and towels to catch the blood. He now scrubbed the rest, using bleach, and put the towels and phone in a trash bag, which he’d take with him for disposal in a Dumpster on his way home.

As he was about to leave, he received an encrypted email. Well, it seemed that NIOS had learned some very interesting information. The whistleblower was still unknown, though Metzger had people looking into that. However, the tech department had discovered some names of other people involved in the case, in addition to Ms. Nance Laurel, the prosecutor. The lead investigators were two individuals — an NYPD detective named Amelia Sachs and a consultant, someone with the curious name Lincoln Rhyme.

It was time for some more digging and datamining, Swann reflected, pulling out his phone. After all, the strength of the best cookbook in the world, The Joy of Cooking, derived from the patient assembly and organization of facts, from knowledge, in short — not showy recipes.

CHAPTER 19

“Do you know about panama?” Tash Farada asked Sachs, in the passenger seat of the Town Car. He was animated and seemed to enjoy speeding through traffic as they headed toward Wall Street.

She said, “The canal. Some invasion or something down there. A while ago.”

The driver laughed and accelerated hard to avoid a slow-moving lane of traffic on the FDR. “Some ‘invasion or something.’ Yes, yes. I read history a great deal. I enjoy it. In the eighties Panama had a regime change. A revolution. Just like our country.”

“Yes, Iran. In ’seventy-nine, wasn’t it?”

He glanced at her with a frown.

“Persia, I mean,” she corrected.

“No, I’m speaking of seventeen seventy-six. I’m American.”

Oh. Our country.

“Sorry.”

A wrinkle of brow but a forgiving one. “Now, Panama. Noriega used to be an ally of America. Fighting the Communist evil. Helping the CIA and the DEA wage war on the scourge of drugs…Of course, he was also helping the cartel heads wage war on the scourge of the CIA and the DEA. That game caught up with him and in nineteen eighty-nine the U.S. had had enough. We invaded. The problem was that Panama was a dirty little war. You’ve read George Orwell?”

“No.” Sachs might have, long ago, but she never bluffed or tried to impress with knowledge she didn’t have command of.

“In Animal Farm, Orwell wrote, ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.’ Well, all wars are bad. But some wars are more bad than others. The head of Panama was corrupt, his underlings were corrupt. They were dangerous men and oppressed the people. But the invasion was very hard too. Very violent. Roberto Moreno was living there, in the capital, with his mother and father.”

Sachs recalled her conversation with Fred Dellray, who’d told them that Robert Moreno also went by Roberto. She wondered if he’d legally changed it or just used the Latino version as a pseudonym.

“Now, he was a young teenager. That day in the car he told Lydia, his voluptuous friend, that he didn’t have the happiest home life, his father traveling, his mother had sadness problems. She was not much there for him.”

Sachs remembered too the father’s oil company job, the demanding hours, and the woman’s eventual suicide.

“The boy, it seemed, made friends with a family living in Panama City. Roberto and the two brothers became close. Enrico and José, I think were their names. About his age, to hear him tell it.”

Tash Farada’s voice faded.

Sachs could see where the narrative was headed.

“The brothers were killed in the invasion?”

“One was — Roberto’s best friend. He doesn’t know who actually fired the shots but he blames the Americans. He said the government changed the rules. They didn’t care about people or freedom, like they said. They were happy to support Noriega and tolerate the drugs until he grew unstable and they were worried the canal would close and the oil tankers could not get through. That’s when they invaded.” A whisper now. “Mr. Moreno found his friend’s body. He still had nightmares about it, he told the woman Lydia.”

Although the evidence might point to Moreno’s being less than a saint, contrary to what Nance Laurel would have liked, Sachs couldn’t help but be moved by the sad story. She wondered if Laurel would have been. Doubted it.

The driver added, “And when he was telling this story, telling it to Lydia, his voice grew broken. But then all of a sudden he laughed and gestured around him. He said he was saying goodbye to America and was happy about that. This would be his last trip here. He knew he couldn’t return.”

“Couldn’t return?”

“That’s right. Couldn’t. ‘Good riddance,’ he said.” Tash Farada added darkly, “I thought good riddance to him. I love this country.” A pause then he added, “I’m not happy he’s dead, you understand. But he said many bad things about my home. Which I think is the best nation on earth and always has been.”

As they approached Wall Street, Sachs nodded toward the site of the September 11 attacks. “Did he want to see ground zero?”

“No,” the driver said. “I thought he might. I thought possibly he wanted to gloat, after all he had said. I would have asked him out of the car at that point. But he didn’t. He’d grown quiet.”

“Where did you take him down here?”

“I just dropped them at this place.” He’d pulled over on Fulton Street, near Broadway. “Which I thought was odd. Just on this street corner. They got out and he said they would be several hours. If I couldn’t wait here they would call me. I gave him my card.”

“What did you think was odd about that?”

“In this area of the city we limo drivers can get almost anywhere if there’s no construction. But it was as if he didn’t want me to see where they were going. I assumed to one of the hotels, the Millenium or one of the others. That’s the direction they walked in.”

For a tryst with his voluptuous friend? But then why not just stay at the hotel uptown?

“Did he call you?” Sachs was hoping to get Moreno’s phone number, which might still be in the driver’s log.

But the man said, “No. I just waited here. And they returned.”

She climbed out of the Lincoln, then walked in the direction that the driver had indicated. She canvassed the three hotels within walking distance but none had a record of a guest under Moreno’s name on May 1. If they had checked in, Lydia might have used her name though that lead wasn’t going anywhere without more information about her. Sachs also displayed a picture of Moreno but no one recognized him.

Had the activist paid her to have sex with somebody else? she wondered. Had they met with someone in one of the hotels or an office here? As a bribe or to blackmail him? Sachs walked back outside into the congested street from the last hotel, looking around her at the hundreds of buildings — offices, stores, apartments. A team of NYPD canvassers could have spent a month inquiring about Robert Moreno and his companion and still not scratched the surface.

She wondered too if Lydia might have received her cash for another reason. Was she part of a cell, a terrorist organization that Moreno was working with? Did they meet with a group that wanted to send another violent message in this financial hub of the city?

This conjecture too, while reasonable to Sachs, was surely something that Nance Laurel would not want to hear.

You mean, you can’t keep an open mind…

Sachs turned around and walked back to the limo. Dropping into the front seat again, she stretched, winced at a burst of arthritic pain and dug one nail into another. Stop it, she told herself. Dug a bit harder and wiped the blood on her black jeans.

“And after this?”

Farada told her, “I drove them back to the hotel. The woman got out with him but they went different ways. He went inside and she walked east.”

“Did they hug?”

“Not really. They brushed cheeks. That was all. He tipped me and he tipped well, even though it’s included.”

“All right, let’s head back to Queens.”

He put the car in gear and made his way east through the dense rush-hour traffic. The time was around 7 p.m. As they plodded along she asked Farada, “Did you get any sense that he was being followed or watched? Did he feel uneasy? Did he act suspicious or paranoid?”

“Hm. Ah. I can say he was cautious. He looked around frequently. But there were never any specific concerns. Not like he said, ‘That red car is following me.’ He seemed like somebody who tried to be aware of his surroundings. I see that much. Businesspeople are that way. I think they must be nowadays.”

Sachs was frustrated. She’d learned nothing conclusive about the man’s sojourn in New York. Even more questions than answers now floated. And yet she couldn’t shake the sense of urgency, thinking of the STO naming Rashid as the next target.

We do know that NIOS’s going to kill him before Friday. And who’ll be the collateral damage then? His wife and children? Some passerby?…

They were on the Williamsburg Bridge when her phone rang.

“Fred, hi.”

“Hey, Amelia. Listen, gotta coupla things. Had our people look through SIGINT down in Venezuela. Snagged one of Moreno’s voice from ’bout a month ago. Might be relevant. He was saying, ‘Yes, May twenty-fourth, that’s right…disappearing into thin air. After that, it’ll be heaven.’”

The 24th was less than two weeks away. Did he mean he was planning some attack and he’d have to vanish, like Bin Laden?

“Any ideas about that?” Sachs asked.

“No, but we’re still checkin’.”

She told the agent what Farada had explained about this being Moreno’s last trip to New York and his mysterious meeting in the vicinity of ground zero.

“That’d fit,” Dellray said. “Yeah, yeah, could be he’s got something nasty in mind and is going to ground. Makes sense—’specially when you hear the other thing I’m about to tell you.”

“Go on.” Her notebook was on her lap, pen poised.

The agent said, “ ’Nother voice-call trap. Ten days before he died. Moreno was saying, ‘Can we find somebody to blow them up?’”

Sachs’s gut clenched.

Dellray continued, “The tech geeks think he mentioned the date May thirteen, along with Mexico.”

This was two days ago. She didn’t remember any incident but Mexico was largely a war zone, with so many drug-related attacks and killings that they often didn’t rate a mention on U.S. TV news. “I’m checking t’see if something happened then. Now, lastly — I said coupla things; I meant three. We got Moreno’s travel records. Ready?”

“Go ahead.”

The agent explained. “On May second Moreno flew from New York to Mexico City, maybe to plan for the bombing. Then the next day on to Nicaragua. The day after that to San José, Costa Rica. He stayed there for a few days and then flew to the Bahamas on the seventh, where — coupla days later — he had his run-in with the fine marksmanship of Mr. Don Bruns.”

Dellray added, “Some casual surveillance was conducted on him in Mexico City and Costa Rica, where he was spotted outside the U.S. embassies. But there was no evidence that he was lookin’ like any kinda threat, so your boy was never detained.”

“Thanks, Fred. That’s helpful.”

“I’ll keep at it, Amelia. But gotta tell you, I ain’t got oodles of time.”

“Why, you have something big going down?”

“Yup. I’m changing my name and moving to Canada. Joining the Mounted Police.”

Click.

She didn’t laugh. His comment had struck too close to home; this case was like unstable explosives.

A half hour later Tash Farada parked in his driveway and they got out. He struck a certain pose, unmistakable.

“How much do I owe you?” Sachs asked.

“Well, normally we charge from garage to garage, which isn’t fair for you. Since the car was here. So it will be from the time we left to the time we arrived.” A look at his watch. “We left at four twelve and we’ve now returned now at seven thirty-eight.”

Well, that’s some precision.

“For you, I will round downward. Four fifteen to seven thirty. That’s three hours and fifteen minutes.”

And that’s some speedy calculation.

“What’s the hourly rate?”

“That would be ninety dollars.”

“An hour?” she asked before remembering she’d added the qualifier with her prior question.

A smile. “That’s three hundred and eighty-two dollars and fifty cents.”

Shit, Sachs thought, she’d assumed it would be about a quarter of that. So, one more reason not to be a limo girl.

He added, “And of course…”

“I agreed to double it.”

“That is a grand total of seven hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

A sigh. “Will you give me one more ride?” Sachs asked.

“Well, if it won’t take too much time.” A nod toward the house. “Supper, you know.”

“Just to the nearest ATM.”

“Ah, yes, yes…And I won’t charge you for that trip at all!”

CHAPTER 20

Imagination or not?

No.

Cruising back into Manhattan, in the Torino Cobra, Sachs was sure she was being followed.

Glances into the rearview mirror as she exited the Midtown Tunnel suggested that a car — a light-colored vehicle whose make and model she couldn’t nail down — was following. Nondescript. Gray, white, silver. Here and on the streets leaving Farada’s house.

But how was this possible? The Overseer had assured them that NIOS, Metzger and the sniper didn’t know about the investigation.

And even if they did find out, how could they identify her personal car and locate it?

Yet Sachs had learned from a case she and Rhyme had run a few years ago that anyone with a rudimentary datamining system could track someone’s location pretty easily. Video images of tag numbers, facial recognition, phone calls and credit cards, GPS, E-ZPass transponders, RFID chips — and NIOS was sure to have much more than a basic setup. She’d been careful but perhaps not careful enough.

That was easily remedied.

Smiling, she executed a series of complicated, fast and extremely fun turns, most of which involved smoking tires and cracking sixty mph in second gear.

By the time she performed the last one and stabilized the marvelous Cobra, offering a sweet smile of apology to the Sikh driver she’d skidded around, she was convinced that she’d lost whatever tail might have been after her.

At least until datamining caught up with her again.

And even if this was surveillance did the tailer represent a true threat?

NIOS might want information about her and might try to derail or slow down the case but she could hardly see the government physically hurting an NYPD officer.

Unless the threat wasn’t from the government itself but an anger-driven psychotic who happened to be working for the government, using his position to play out some delusional dream of eliminating those who weren’t as patriotic as he liked.

Then too this threat might have nothing to do with Moreno. Amelia Sachs had helped put a lot of people in jail and none of them, presumably, was very pleased about that.

Sachs actually felt a shiver down her spine.

She parked just off Central Park West, on a cross street, and tossed the NYPD placard on the dash. Climbing out, Sachs tapped her Glock grip to orient herself as to its exact position. Every nearby car, it seemed, was light-colored and nondescript and contained a shadowy driver looking her way. Every antenna, water tower and pipe atop every building in this stretch of the Upper West Side was a sniper, training the crosshairs of his telescopic sight on her back.

Sachs walked quickly to the town house and let herself in. Bypassing the parlor, where Nance Laurel was still typing away, exactly as the detective had left her hours ago, she walked into Rhyme’s rehab room — one of the bedrooms on the first floor — where he was working out.

With Thom nearby as a spotter, Rhyme was in a sitting position, strapped into an elaborate stationary bicycle, a functional electrical stimulation model. The unit sent electrical impulses into his muscles via wires to mimic brain signals and made his legs operate the pedals. He was presently pumping away like a Tour de France competitor.

She smiled and kissed him.

“I’m sweaty,” he announced.

He was.

She kissed him again, longer this time.

Although the FES workout would not cure his quadriplegia it kept the muscles and vascular system in shape and improved the condition of his skin, which was important to avoid sores that were common among those with severe disabilities. As Rhyme often announced, sometimes for pure shock value, “Gimps spend a lot of time on their asses.”

The exercise had also enhanced nerve functioning.

This was the aerobic portion of his exercise. The other part involved building up the muscles in his neck and shoulders; it was these elements of his body that would largely control the movement of his left hand and arm, as they now did his right, after his surgery in several weeks, if all went well.

Sachs wished she hadn’t thought that last clause.

“Anything?” he called, breathing heavily.

She gave him a rundown of the chauffeur trip, explaining about Moreno’s close childhood friend dying at the hands of the American invaders in Panama.

“Grudges can run deep.” But he wasn’t interested in what he would consider the mumbo-jumbo of the man’s psyche; Rhyme never was. More interesting was what she’d learned about Lydia, the closed bank accounts, the mysterious meeting, Moreno’s planned self-imposed exile from the United States — his vanishing into “thin air”—and some possible connection with explosions in Mexico City on May 13.

“Fred’s going to keep digging. Any luck in the Bahamas?”

“Crap all,” he snapped, panting. “I don’t know whether it’s incompetence or politics — probably both — but I’ve called back three times and ended up on hold again until I hang up. That’s seven times today. I truly resent hold. I was going to call our embassy there or consulate or whatever they have to intervene. But Nance didn’t think that was a good idea.”

“Why? Word would get back to NIOS?”

“Yeah. I can’t disagree, I suppose. She’s sure evidence is going to start disappearing the minute they find out. The problem is…” He drew a deep breath and with his functioning right hand turned the speed of the bike up a bit higher. “…there is no goddamn evidence.”

Thom said, “Slow down a bit there.”

“What, my diatribe, or my exercise? That’s rather poetic, don’t you think?”

“Lincoln.”

The criminalist gave it a defiant thirty seconds more and lowered the speed. “Three miles,” he announced. “Somewhat uphill.”

Sachs took a cloth and wiped a bit of sweat that ran down his temple. “I think somebody might’ve already found out about the investigation.”

He turned those dark, radar eyes her way.

She told him about the car she thought might have been tailing her.

“So our sniper has found out about us already? Any ID?”

“No. Either he was real good, or my imagination was working overtime.”

“I don’t think we can be too paranoid in this case, Sachs. You should tell our friend in the parlor. And have you told her that Saint Moreno might not be so saintly?”

“Not yet.”

She found Rhyme looking at her with a particular expression.

“And that means what?” she asked.

“Why don’t you like her?”

“Oil and water.”

Rhyme chuckled. “The hydrophobia myth! They do mix, Sachs. Simply remove gases from the water and it will blend perfectly well with the oil.”

“I should know not to offer a cliché to a scientist.”

“Especially when it doesn’t answer his question.”

It was a thick five seconds before she answered. “I don’t know why I don’t like her. I’m no good with being micromanaged, for one thing. She leaves you alone. Maybe it’s a woman thing.”

“I have no opinion on the subject.”

Digging into her scalp, she sighed. “I’ll go tell her now.”

She walked to the door and paused, looking back at Rhyme hard at work on the bicycle.

Sachs had mixed feelings about his plans for the forthcoming surgery. The operation was risky. Quads start with a hampered physiological system to begin with; an operation could lead to severe complications that wouldn’t be an issue with the non-disabled.

Yes, she certainly wanted her partner to feel good about himself. But didn’t he know the truth — that he, like everyone else, was mind and heart first, before he was body? That our physical incarnations always disappoint in one way or another? So he got stared at on the street. He wasn’t the only one; when she was perused, it was usually by an observer who was a lot creepier than in his case.

She thought now of those days as a fashion model, marginalized because of her good looks and height and flowing red hair. She’d grown angry — even hurt — at being treated like nothing more than a pricey collectible. She’d risked the wrath of her mother to leave the profession and join the NYPD, following in her father’s footsteps.

What you believed, what you knew, how you made choices, when you stood your ground…those were the qualities that defined you as a cop. Not what you looked like.

Of course, Lincoln Rhyme was severely disabled. Who in his condition wouldn’t want to be better, to grasp with both hands, to walk? But she sometimes wondered if he was undergoing the risky surgery not for himself but for her. This was a topic that had rarely come up and when it did, their words glanced off the subject like bullets on flat rock. But the understood meaning was clear: What the hell are you hanging around with a crip for, Sachs? You can do better than me.

For one thing, “doing better” suggested she was in the market for Mr. Perfect, which was simply not the case and never had been. She’d been in only one other serious relationship — with another cop — and it had ended disastrously (though Nick was finally out of prison). She’d dated some, usually to fill time, until she realized that the boredom of being with someone is exponentially worse than the boredom of solitude.

She was content with her independence and, if Rhyme weren’t in the picture, she’d be comfortable on her own — forever, if no one else came along.

Do what you want, she thought. Have the surgery or not. But do it for yourself. Whatever the decision, I’ll be there.

She watched him for a few moments more, a faint smile on her face. Then the smile faded and she walked to the parlor to meet the Overseer and deliver the news.

Saint Moreno might not be so saintly…

CHAPTER 21

As Sachs jotted on the whiteboards the information she’d learned on the drive with Tash Farada, Nance Laurel turned her chair toward the detective.

She’d been digesting what Sachs had told her. “An escort?” the prosecutor asked. “You’re sure?”

“No. It’s a possibility, though. I’ve called Lon. He’s got some of Myers’s portables canvassing to see if they can find her.”

“A call girl.” Laurel sounded perplexed.

Sachs would have thought she’d be more dismayed. Learning that a hooker had accompanied your married victim around New York wasn’t going to win the jury’s sympathy.

She was even more surprised when the ADA said offhandedly, “Well, men stray. It can be finessed.”

Maybe by “finesse” she meant she’d try for a largely male jury, who would presumably be less critical of Moreno’s infidelity.

If you’re asking if I pick cases I think I can win, Detective Sachs, then the answer’s yes…

Sachs continued, “In any case, it’s good for us: They might not have spent the entire time in bed. Maybe he took her to meet a friend, maybe she saw somebody from NIOS tailing them. And if she is a pro we’ll have leverage to get her to talk. She won’t want her life looked into too closely.” She added, “And it might be that she’s not an escort but is involved in something else, maybe something criminal.”

“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 circumstances, 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 Señor 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 Señor 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? Señor 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. “Señor 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 Señor 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 Señor 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.

Immobile, yet predatory.

Another feather floated away as the avian couple bent to their main course. The entrée was what had until recently been a fat, and careless, pigeon. Falcons are generally diurnal and hunt until dusk but in the city they are often nocturnal.

“Yum,” said Sachs.

Rhyme laughed.

She moved closer to him and he smelled her hair, the rich scent. A bit of shampoo, floral. Amelia Sachs was not a perfume girl. His right arm rose and he cradled her head closer.

“Are you going to follow up?” she asked. “With Poitier?”

“I’ll try. He seemed pretty adamant that he wouldn’t help us anymore. But I know he’s frustrated he hasn’t been allowed to go further.”

“What a case this is,” she said.

He whispered, “So how does it feel to be repurposed into a granular-level player, Sachs? Are you pivoting to it or not?”

She laughed hard. “And what exactly is that outfit he’s working for, Captain Myers: Special Services?”

“You’re the cop. I thought you’d know.”

“Never heard of it.”

They fell silent and then, in his shoulder, normal as anyone’s, he could feel her stiffen.

“Tell me,” he said.

“You know, Rhyme, I’m not feeling any better about this case.”

“You’re talking about what you said before, to Nance? That you’re not sure if Metzger and our sniper are the kinds of perps we want to go after?”

“Exactly.”

Rhyme nodded. “I can’t disagree, Sachs. I’ve never questioned an investigation before, in all these years. They haven’t been gray. This one’s real gray.

“There’s one thing, though, to keep in mind, Sachs. About us.”

“We’re volunteers.”

“Yep. We can walk away if we want. Let Myers and Laurel find somebody else.”

She was silent and she was motionless, at least according to those places where Rhyme could sense motion.

He continued, “You weren’t happy with the case in the first place.”

“No, I wasn’t. And part of me does want to bail, yeah. There’s too much we don’t know about the players and what they have in mind, what their motives are.”

“My motive queen.”

“And when I say players, I mean Nance Laurel and Bill Myers, as much as Metzger and Bruns — or whatever the hell his name is.” After a moment: “I have a bad feeling about this one, Rhyme. I know, you don’t believe in that. But you were crime scene most of your career. I was street. There are hunches.”

This sat between them for a minute or two as they both watched the male falcon rise and lift his wings in a minor flourish. They’re not large animals but, seen from so close, the preening was regally impressive, as was the bird’s momentary but intense gaze into the room. Their eyesight is astonishing; they can spot prey miles away.

Emblems…

“You want to keep at it, don’t you?” she asked.

He said, “I get what you’re saying, Sachs. But for me it’s a knot that needs unraveling. I can’t let it go. You don’t need to, though.”

There was no delay as she whispered, “No, I’m with you, Rhyme. You and me. It’s you and me.”

“Good, now I was—”

And his words stopped abruptly because Sachs’s mouth covered his and she was kissing him hungrily, almost desperately, flinging blankets back. She rolled on top of him, gripping his head. He felt her fingers on the back of his head, his ears, his cheek, fingers firm one moment, soft the next. Strong again. Stroking his neck, stroking his temple. Rhyme’s lips moved from hers to her hair and then a spot behind her ear, then down to her chin and seated on her mouth again. Lingering.

Rhyme had used his newly working arm on the controls of a Bausch + Lomb comparison microscope, with phones, with the computer and with a density gradient device. He had not used it yet for this: drawing Sachs closer, closer, gripping the top of her silk pajama top and smoothly drawing it over her head.

He supposed he could have finessed the buttons, if he’d tried, but urgency dictated otherwise.