The Kill Room

CHAPTER 46

Captain Rhyme, you are feeling better?”

After a suitable pause: “I am,” he told Royal Bahamas Police Force assistant commissioner McPherson. “Thank you for asking. We’re packed and will be en route to the airport shortly.” Rhyme’s mobile was on speaker.

The time was 8 a.m. and Rhyme was in the living room of the hot and oh-so-humid motel suite. Thom and Pulaski were sitting on the veranda, sipping coffee, in the company of two more chameleons.

A pause. “May I ask a question, Captain Rhyme?”

“I suppose.” He sounded put out. Tired. Prisonerish.

“I am perplexed by one thing you said.”

“What was that?”

“You said you wished us luck in the murder investigation of the American student.”

“Yes?”

“But the young woman died in an accident. Drinking and swimming.”

Rhyme let several seconds of silence build, as if he were confused. “Oh, I’d be very surprised if that were the case.”

“How do you mean, Captain?”

“I don’t really have time to discuss it, Commissioner. We have to be at the airport soon. I’ll leave it to you to—”

“Please…You really think the student was murdered?”

“I’m sure of it, yes.”

The conclusion that the student’s death was a murder had occurred to him while enjoying conch fritters in the Hurricane Café and looking over the gruesome crime scene photos. He had, however, decided to refrain from offering his thoughts to Corporal Poitier just then.

The assistant commissioner said, “Go on, please.”

“Go on?” Rhyme asked, sounding perplexed.

“Yes, tell me about your thoughts. They’re intriguing.”

We let the bread bake…

“Be that as it may, I have to get to the airport. Good luck again, Assistant Commissioner.”

“Wait! Please! Captain Rhyme, perhaps I was somewhat hasty yesterday. It was an unfortunate incident that happened at Clifton Bay. And Corporal Poitier was, after all, acting insubordinately.”

“Frankly, Assistant Commissioner, my experience has been that in our line of work the best results are often achieved by the most insubordinate.”

“Yes, perhaps that’s true. But could you just give me some thoughts about—”

Rhyme said quickly, “I might be able to help…” His voice faded.

“Yes?”

“But in exchange I would like Corporal Poitier reinstated.”

“He hasn’t been precisely de-stated. The paperwork is sitting on my desk as we speak. But I haven’t signed anything yet.”

“Good. And I would need access to the Robert Moreno crime scene at the South Cove Inn, as well as the autopsy reports and the three victims’ clothing. And any relevant evidence collected there — the bullet in particular. I must see that bullet.”

A faint tap from the speakerphone. The assistant commissioner was clearly not used to negotiating.

Rhyme looked over the others, on whom the sun was beginning to fall in its searing glory. Pulaski gave him an encouraging grin.

After a pause — a gravid pause, Rhyme thought wryly — the assistant commissioner said, “Very good, Captain. You perhaps can come to my office now to discuss this matter?”

“Provided my associate is there too?”

“Your associate?”

“Corporal Poitier.”

“Of course. I’ll arrange it now.”

CHAPTER 47

The assistant commissioner’s office at the Royal Bahamas Police Force was opulently shabby, more residential than official.

The chamber exuded colonial ambience, which made Rhyme feel right at home. His own working space, the laboratory née parlor, dated back to the era of Victoria. Here, though the RBPF building was newer, McPherson’s office too was cast in an earlier time — with a chintz sofa, a washbasin and pitcher, a large oak armoire, yellow-shaded lamps and, on the wall, pictures of men who had to be governors-general or similar officials. Several formal uniforms — one spotless white, one navy blue — hung stiffly on racks.

Some touches of modern times were present, of course: battered gray file cabinets, three mobile phones sitting on the functional beige desk and two impressive computers. Dominating one wall was a detailed map of New Providence Island.

The climate in here was warm — the air-conditioning was struggling — and the humidity intense. Rhyme deduced that McPherson kept the windows open most of the time and had artificially cooled the room in honor of his visitors this morning. The deduction was supported by another attendee — a chameleon sitting on the sill inside.

The large man, in a pressed khaki uniform, rose and shook Rhyme’s hand carefully. “You’re well, Captain Rhyme?”

“Yes. Some rest was just what I needed.”

“Excellent.”

He shook the hands of Pulaski and Thom as well. A moment later Mychal Poitier walked uncertainly into the room. Greetings all ’round.

The assistant commissioner sat and suddenly he was all business, regarding Rhyme with narrow, focused eyes. “Now, the student. Please, sir. You said murder.”

Rhyme said, “She was definitely killed intentionally, yes. It was planned out beforehand. And she was beaten before she died, I think.”

“Beaten?” Poitier tilted his head.

The criminalist said, “The clue is her jewelry. In the crime scene photos I noted that her bracelets, watch, finger and toe rings were gold. But her necklace was silver leaves. That seemed out of place, mixing the two.”

“What does—?” the assistant commissioner started. Then fell silent. Rhyme had frowned at the interruption.

“I think her assailant beat her badly and wanted to hide that fact. When he was finished, he drowned her and put the necklace on. He knew that scavenger fish’d be attracted to the shiny metal — I read about that on the flight here. I assume it’s in all the guidebooks: warnings not to wear anything flashy. Silver is particularly attractive because it resembles fish scales, more so than gold. The fish took care of the evidence of the beating by removing most of the facial skin.

“We know her killer planned this all out ahead of time because he brought the silver necklace with him.”

Poitier asked, “Why would he do that? There was no evidence of sexual assault.”

“Revenge maybe. But I have some thoughts that might lead us a bit farther. We’ll need to talk to the medical examiner. I’d like to know about the student’s postmortem blood workup.” When the assistant commissioner remained staring at Rhyme, the criminalist said to him, “It would be helpful to know that now.”

“Yes. Of course.” McPherson lifted the receiver from his desk phone and made a call. He spoke for a moment to a clerk or assistant, it seemed, then he said into the mouthpiece, “I don’t care if he’s in an autopsy. The body will be just as dead when he returns. Fetch him.”

After a brief pause McPherson resumed his conversation. He looked at Rhyme, holding the phone away from his ear. “The results are in. The coroner has the report in front of him.”

The criminalist asked, “Blood alcohol?”

The question was posed. Then: “Point zero seven.”

Pulaski said, “Not legally drunk but close.”

Rhyme asked quickly, “What was she drinking?”

Poitier said, “We found Bacardi rum, eighty proof, and Coca-Cola in the car. Both open.”

“Diet or regular? The soft drink.”

“Regular.”

Rhyme then said to McPherson, “Ask the coroner her postmortem glucose level. And I don’t want the vascular system results. Those aren’t reliable; glycolysis continues after death. I want the vitreous concentration.” He explained, “No glycolytic enzymes there.”

McPherson stared. In fact, everyone in the room did.

Rhyme continued impatiently, “I want the glucose level from the vitreous fluid in her eye. It’s standard procedure. I’m sure they ran it.”

The man posed the question. The answer was 4.2 milligrams per deciliter.

“Low normal.” The criminalist smiled. “I knew it. She wasn’t drinking recreationally. If she’d mixed Coke and rum the level would be higher. Her killer forced her to swallow some rum straight and then just left the soft drink bottle open to make it look like she’d been mixing them.” Rhyme turned back to the assistant commissioner again. “Drug screen?”

Again the question was posed.

“Negative for everything.”

“Good,” Rhyme said enthusiastically. “We’re getting somewhere. Now we need to look into her job.”

Poitier said, “She was a part-time salesclerk in Nassau.”

“No, not that job. Her job as a prostitute, I mean.”

“What? How do you know?”

“The pictures.” He glanced at Poitier. “The pictures that you showed me on your iPad. She had multiple injection marks on her arm. Her blood was negative for narcotics or other drugs, we just learned, so why the tracks? Can’t be insulin; diabetics don’t inject intravenously there. No, it was probably — probably, mind you, not for certain — that she had regular blood tests for sexually transmitted disease.”

“A prostitute.” The assistant commissioner seemed pleased by this. The American who’d died under his watch wasn’t an innocent student after all.

“You can hang up now.” Rhyme’s eyes dipped to the phone, hanging like a motionless pendulum.

McPherson did, after an abrupt goodbye to the medical examiner.

“So, our next step?” Poitier asked.

“To find out where the woman worked,” Pulaski said, “and picked up her johns.”

Rhyme nodded. “Yes. That’s probably where she met her killer. The gold jewelry was expensive and tasteful. She was in very good shape, healthy. Her face pretty. She wouldn’t’ve been a streetwalker. Check her purse for credit card receipts. We’ll see where she bought her cocktails.”

The assistant commissioner nodded to Mychal Poitier, who made a call, apparently to the evidence room or someone in the Detective Unit.

The young officer had an extended conversation and eventually hung up. “Well, this is interesting,” Poitier said. “Two receipts for the bar in the—”

Something in his tone deposited a fast thought in Rhyme’s mind. “The South Cove Inn!”

“Yes, that’s right, Captain. How did you know?”

Rhyme didn’t answer, he gazed out the window for a full minute. The thoughts were coming quickly. “What’s her name?” he asked.

“Annette. Annette Bodel.”

“Well, I have good news for both of us, Commissioner McPherson. For you: Ms. Bodel’s killer was not Bahamian but American — that’s a public relations coup for your country. And for me, I think we’ve found a connection to the Moreno case. I was wrong about one thing — she was tortured, yes. But I think he used a knife, not his fists, cutting her cheek or nose or tongue.”

“How do you know this?” McPherson asked.

“I don’t know it, not yet. But I think it’s likely. My associate in New York told me that a man who’s eliminating witnesses in the case specializes in using knives. He’s not the sniper. My guess is that he’s the sniper’s backup or spotter and was the American who was at the inn on May eighth, learning what he could about suite twelve hundred and Moreno and his guard. He probably picked Annette up in the bar, used her to get information and then left the Bahamas with the sniper after the shooting. But when he heard about the investigation he came back two days ago, Monday, tortured her to find out if she’d told anyone about him and then killed her.”

Pulaski said, “We should take a look at the beach where she was found, search it again — this time as a crime scene.”

The assistant commissioner looked at Poitier but the corporal shook his head. “This man was smart, sir. He killed her at low tide. The site is under three feet of water.”

“Smart indeed.” Rhyme’s eyes held the assistant commissioner’s steadily. He said, “The evidence we’re looking at doesn’t leave a lot of doubt that Robert Moreno was killed by a U.S. government sniper and that his partner or at least somebody in his organization is cleaning up afterward, including murdering Ms. Bodel in Nassau. That information is going to be public pretty soon. You can stick to the story that the Venezuelan cartel is behind the shooting and ignore the American connection. But then it’ll look like you were part of the cover-up. Or you can help us find the shooter and his backup man.”

Pulaski broke in: “You ought to know, Commissioner, that it looks like the man who ordered the killing probably acted outside the scope of his authority. If you help us find the perps, it’s not going to upset Washington as much as you might think.”

Excellent call, Rhyme reflected.

“I’ll order the forensics unit to the spit of land to look for the sniper’s nest.” McPherson turned his broad face to Mychal Poitier. “Corporal, you will escort Captain Rhyme and his associates to the South Cove Inn for a second search of the Moreno crime scene. Assist him in any other way you can. Is that understood?”

“It is, sir.”

Speaking now to Rhyme: “And I’ll arrange to have the full crime scene report and autopsy information released. Oh, and the evidence too. I assume you’ll want that, won’t you, Captain?”

“Evidence, yes. I would very much like that.” And, with some difficulty, refrained from adding that it was about goddamn time.

CHAPTER 48

Back on SW road.

With Thom driving, Poitier, Pulaski and Rhyme were in the accessible van, taking the same route to South Cove Inn they’d been on yesterday for the illicit, and nearly fatal, visit to the outcropping of land in Clifton Bay.

The sun was behind them, high even at this early hour, and the vegetation glowed green and red and rich yellow. A few white flowers, which Rhyme knew Sachs would love to see.

Miss you…

She’d disconnected just as he’d drawn a breath to say the same. He smiled at the timing.

They’d stopped briefly to pick up basic evidence collection equipment at the Royal Bahamas Police Force crime scene facility. The gear was high quality and Rhyme was confident that Pulaski and Poitier could find something in the Kill Room that would help them indisputably link Barry Shales to the shooting and, possibly, find clues to Unsub 516’s identity.

Soon they were at the inn and pulled up to the front of the impressive but subdued place, in an architectural style that Rhyme supposed was nouveau colonial. Thom steered Rhyme, in the manual wheelchair, down the sidewalk at the entryway, surrounded by beautifully tended gardens.

They entered the lobby and Mychal Poitier greeted the pleasant desk clerk. She was more curious at the presence of a man in a wheelchair than the police officer; the hotel had surely had its share of those recently. The inn seemed accessible, being on one level, but Rhyme supposed the resort — primarily a beach club and golf course — didn’t get many disabled guests.

The manager was busy at the moment but the clerk didn’t hesitate to prepare a key card for suite 1200.

Pulaski, who’d met her yesterday, nodded a greeting and displayed the picture of Barry Shales that Sachs had emailed. Neither she nor anyone else had ever seen Shales.

Which just about confirmed what Rhyme believed: that it was Unsub 516 who was at the inn on May 8 as Shales’s backup man.

With Pulaski and Poitier carrying the collection equipment, the entourage headed down the corridor the clerk had indicated.

After a walk of several minutes — the inn was quite large — Thom nodded at a sign.

Suites 1200–1208 →

“Almost there.”

They turned the corner. And stopped abruptly.

“Wait,” Poitier muttered. “What’s this?”

Rhyme was looking at the double doors to suite 1200, the Kill Room — the crime scene that had presumably been marked with police tape and strident warnings not to trespass, duly sealed.

But was no longer.

The doors were wide open and a workman in stained white overalls stood in the middle of the room, with a paint roller, putting what seemed to be the final coat on the wall above the fireplace. The floors of the room were bare wood. The carpet had been removed. And everything else — the bloody sofa, the shards of glass — was gone.

CHAPTER 49

Jacob Swann was eating a very well-crafted omelet at a diner on the Upper West Side, near Central Park West.

He was in jeans, a windbreaker (black, today), running shoes and white T-shirt. His backpack was at his side. This was a neighborhood in which many people worked jobs where suits and ties weren’t required and regular hours weren’t the norm — performing arts, museums, galleries. Food service too, of course. Swann blended right in.

The coffee he was sipping was hot and not bitter. The toast thick and buttered before meeting the heating element — the only way to do it. And the omelet? Better than well crafted, he decided. Damn good.

Eggs are the trickiest of ingredients and can make a dish sublime or turn it into a complete rout if you’re careless or conditions betray: toughening or curdling or collapsing. A bit of yolk in the whites you’re trying to meringue and your baked Alaska is fucked. And there’s always the chance of unpleasant bacteria reproducing eagerly in God’s perfect oval (gestating is what shells are made for, after all).

But these eggs had been whisked just right — casually and without a whisper of liquid — and then cooked over high heat, the fresh-chopped tarragon, chive and dill sprinkled in at just the right moment, not too soon. The completed mezzaluna-shaped dish was yellow, brown and white, crisp outside, gently curded within.

Despite the food, though, Swann was growing a bit impatient with Amelia Sachs.

She had been inside Lincoln Rhyme’s town house now for hours. She’d finessed the phone call issue, switching prepaid mobiles every few hours, it seemed — everybody on the team was using them now — and she had a wiretap alert on the landline into the town house, which there was no way to defeat without physically breaking into the central switch.

But with her being the lead investigator she’d have to emerge sooner or later.

He reflected on her partner, Rhyme. Now, that was a setback. It had cost his organization nearly two thousand dollars to eliminate the man, his male nurse and another cop. But his contacts down there from the dock crowd had blown the attempt. They’d asked if Swann wanted them to try again but he’d told them to get the hell off the island. It would be very difficult to trace them back to Swann and his boss but it could be done.

He was sure there’d be another opportunity to take care of Rhyme. The man certainly couldn’t move very fast to get away from the Kai Shun. Swann had looked up Rhyme’s condition, quadriplegia, and discovered that the criminalist had no feeling whatsoever in most of his body. Swann was intrigued with the idea of the man’s just sitting still and watching someone flay his skin off — and slowly bleed to death — while feeling no pain.

What an interesting idea: butchering a creature while it was alive.

Curious. He’d have to—

Ah, but here is our beautiful Amelia.

She wasn’t coming from the direction he’d expected her — the L-shaped cul-de-sac for deliveries behind the town house, near where her Ford Torino was parked. She’d apparently left via the front door, which faced Central Park West. She was now walking west along the crosstown street’s sidewalk, across from the diner.

He’d hoped to get her in the cul-de-sac; there were too many pedestrians, stragglers on their way to work, here at the moment. But finding her alone would be only a matter of time.

Swann casually wiped the utensils and coffee mug, smearing prints. He paid by slipping a ten and a five under the plate, rather than taking the check to the cashier. He’d gotten these bills in change from a hotel concierge across town; cash from an ATM is frighteningly traceable, so he’d engaged in a little micro money laundering, leaving a generous but not overly so tip.

Now he was out the door, climbing into his Nissan.

He observed Sachs through the windshield. Vigilant, she looked around carefully, though not toward him — only at those places where an attacker might come from. Interesting too: She looked up, scanning.

Don’t worry, Swann thought to her. That’s not where the bullet’s going to come from.

As she fished for car keys her jacket slipped away from her hip and he noted she wore a Glock.

He started his car at the same time she did hers, to cover the sound of his ignition.

As Sachs’s Torino sped away from the curb, Swann followed.

His only regret was that her fate would be that bullet he’d just been thinking of; using the Kai Shun on her silken flesh wasn’t an option in the present recipe.

CHAPTER 50

Mychal Poitier was speaking to the manager of the South Cove.

“But, Officer, I thought you knew,” said the tall, curly-haired man in a very nice beige suit. He was presently frowning creases deep into his rosily tanned forehead. His accent was mildly British.

“Knew what?” Poitier muttered.

“You told us we could reopen the room and clean it, repair the damage.”

“I? I never said any such thing.”

“No, no, not you. But someone from your department. They called me and said to release the scene. I don’t remember his name.”

Rhyme asked, “He called? No one came here in person?”

“No, it was a phone call.”

Rhyme sighed. He asked, “When was this?”

“Monday.”

Poitier turned and looked at Rhyme with a dismayed gaze. “I gave very strict orders that the scene should have remained sealed. I can’t imagine who in the department—”

“It wasn’t anybody in your department,” Rhyme said. “Our unsub made the call.”

And the accomplice, of course, was the manager’s fervent desire to eliminate any sign that a murder had been committed here. Crime scene placards in hallways do not make for good public relations.

“I’m sorry, Corporal,” the manager said defensively.

Rhyme asked, “Where’s the carpet, sofa, the shattered window glass? The other furniture?”

“A rubbish tip somewhere, I should suppose. I have no idea. We used a contractor. Because of the blood, they said they would burn the carpet and couch.”

All the trash fires…

Pulaski said, “Right after he killed Annette, our unsub makes one call and, bang, there goes the crime scene. Pretty smart, you think about it. Simple.”

It was. Rhyme looked into the immaculate room. The only evidence of the crime was the missing window, over which plastic had been taped.

“If there’s anything I can do,” the manager said.

When no one said a word, he retreated.

Thom wheeled Rhyme into the suite and, since the Kill Room wasn’t wheelchair-accessible, he was helped down two low stairs by Poitier and Pulaski.

The room was pale blue and green — the paint still wet on several walls — and measured about twenty by thirty feet, with two doors leading to what appeared to be bedrooms to the right. These too were empty and were primed for painting. To the left upon entering was a full kitchen.

Rhyme looked out one of the remaining windows. There was a trim garden outside the room, dominated by a smooth-trunked tree that rose about forty feet into the air. He noted that the lower branches had all been trimmed back; the leaves didn’t start until about twenty or more feet off the ground. Looking straight over the garden, under the canopy of leaves, he could clearly see the infamous spit of land where Barry Shales had fired from, and where the men in the room now had nearly died.

He squinted up at the tree.

Well, we may just have a crime scene after all.

“Rookie!” Rhyme called.

“Sure, Lincoln.”

Pulaski joined him. Mychal Poitier did too.

“Notice anything odd about this scene?”

“One hell of a shot. That’s an awfully long way away. And look at that pollution he had to fire through.”

“It’s the same shooting scenario we saw yesterday from the other side of the water,” he grumbled. “Nothing’s changed about it. Obviously I’m not talking about that. I’m saying: Don’t you see something strange about the horticulture?”

The young officer examined the scene for a moment. “The shooter had help. The branches.”

“That’s right.” Rhyme explained to Poitier, “Somebody cut those lower branches so the sniper would have a clear shot. We should search the garden.”

But the corporal shook his head. “It is a good theory, Captain. But no. That tree? It’s a poisonwood. Are you familiar with it?”

“No.”

“It’s just like the name suggests, like poison oak or sumac. If you burn it, for instance, the smoke will be like tear gas. If you touch the leaves you can end up in the hospital from the irritation. They are flowering trees and very pretty so the resorts here don’t cut them down but they do trim all but the highest branches so people don’t touch them.”

“Ah, well, nice try,” Rhyme muttered. He absolutely hated it when a solid theory crashed. And, with it, any hope of a proper crime scene to search.

He told Pulaski, “Get some pictures, take samples of the carpet right outside the door, soil samples from the beds around the front sidewalk, dust the knobs here for prints. Probably useless but as long as we’re here…”

Rhyme watched the young man collect the evidence and slip it into plastic bags, documenting where it had been found. Pulaski then took perhaps a hundred pictures of the scene. He lifted three latent prints. He finished and deposited what he’d collected in a large paper bag. “Anything else, Lincoln?”

“No,” the criminalist grumbled.

The search of the Kill Room and the inn was perhaps the fastest in the history of forensic analysis.

Someone appeared in the doorway, another uniformed officer, skin very dark, face circular. He glanced at Rhyme with what seemed like admiration. Perhaps Mychal Poitier’s copy of Rhyme’s crime scene manual had recently made the rounds of the Royal Bahamas Police. Or maybe he was simply impressed to be in the same room as the odd cop from America who had in a series of simple deductions transformed the case of the missing student into a murder investigation.

“Corporal,” said the young officer to Poitier, with a deferential nod. He carried a thick folder and a large shopping bag. “From Assistant Commissioner McPherson: a full copy of the crime scene report and autopsy photos. And the autopsy reports themselves.”

Poitier took the folder from the man and thanked him. He nodded at the bag. “The victims’ clothing?”

“Yes, and shoes. Evidence that was collected here just after the shooting too. But I have to tell you, much has gone missing, the morgue administrator told me. He doesn’t know how.”

“Doesn’t know how,” Poitier scoffed.

Rhyme recalled that the watches and other valuables had vanished between here and the morgue, as had Eduardo de la Rua’s camera and tape recorder.

“I’m sorry, Corporal.”

Poitier added, “Any word on the shell casings?” He cast a glance through the window at the spit of land across the bay. The divers and officers with metal detectors had been at work for the past hour or so.

“I’m afraid not. It seems the sniper took the brass with him and we still can’t find where the nest was.”

A shrug from Poitier. “And any hits on the name Barry Shales?”

As they’d driven here Poitier had had his intelligence operation see if Customs or Passport Control had a record of the sniper entering the country. Credit card information too.

“Nothing, sir. No.”

“All right. Thank you, Constable.”

The man saluted then gave a tentative nod to Rhyme, turned and, with impressive posture, marched from the room.

Rhyme asked Thom to push him closer to Poitier and he peered into the shopping bag, noting three plastic-wrapped bundles, all tightly sealed, attached to which were chain-of-custody cards, properly filled out. He clumsily reached in and extracted a small envelope on top. Inside was the bullet. Rhyme estimated it as a bit bigger than the most common sniper round, the.338 Lapua. This was probably a.416, a caliber growing in popularity. Rhyme studied the bit of deformed copper and lead. Like all rounds, even this large caliber, it seemed astonishingly small to have caused such horrific damage and stolen a human life in a fraction of a second.

He replaced it. “Rookie, you’re in charge of these. Fill out the cards now.”

“Will do.” Pulaski jotted his name on the chain-of-custody cards.

Rhyme said, “We’ll take good care of them, Corporal.”

“Ah, well, I doubt the evidence will be useful to us. If you arrest this Shales and his partner, your unsub, I don’t think your courts will send them back here for trial.”

“Still, it’s evidence. We’ll make sure it’s returned to you uncontaminated.”

Poitier looked around the pristine room. “I’m sorry we don’t have a crime scene for you, Captain.”

Rhyme frowned. “Oh, but we do. And I suggest we get to it as quickly as we can before something happens to that one too. Propel me, Thom. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 51

He resembled a toad.

Henry Cross was squat and dark-complexioned and he had several visible warts that Amelia Sachs thought could be easily removed. His black hair was thick and crowned a large head. Lips, broad. Hands, wide with ragged nails. As he talked he would occasionally lift a fat cigar and stick it in his mouth to chew the unlit stogie enthusiastically. This was gross.

Cross said, with a shake of his head, “It sucks, Roberto dying. Sucks big time.” His voice had a faint accent, Spanish, she supposed; she recalled Lydia Foster said he spoke that language and English perfectly — like Moreno.

He was the director of the Classrooms for the Americas Foundation, which worked with churches to build schools and hire teachers in impoverished areas of Latin America. Sachs recalled that Moreno had been involved in this.

Blowing up the balloons…

“Roberto and his Local Empowerment Movement were one of our biggest supporters,” Cross said. He stabbed a blunt finger at the gallery of pictures on a scuffed wall. They showed the CAF offices in Caracas, Rio and Managua, Nicaragua. Moreno was standing with his arm around a smiling, swarthy man at a construction site. They were both wearing hard hats. A small group of locals seemed to be applauding.

“And he was a friend of mine,” Cross muttered.

“Had you known him long?”

“Five years maybe.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” A phrase that instructors actually teach you at the police academy. When Amelia Sachs uttered these words, though, she meant them.

“Thank you.” He sighed.

The small dark office was in a building on Chambers Street in lower Manhattan. The foundation was the one stop on Moreno’s trip to New York that Sachs had been able to track down — thanks to the receipt from Starbucks she’d found at Lydia Foster’s apartment. Sachs had checked the office sign-in sheet in the building that housed the coffee shop and found that on May 1 Moreno was visiting CAF.

“Roberto liked it that we’re not a charity. We call ourselves a distributor of resources. My organization doesn’t just give money away to the indigent. We fund schools, which teach people skills so they can work their way out of poverty. I don’t have any patience for anyone with their hands out. It really irks me when…”

Cross stopped speaking, raised a hand and laughed. “Like Roberto, I tend to lecture. Sorry. But I’m speaking from experience, speaking from getting my hands dirty on the job, speaking from knowing what it’s like to live in the trenches. I used to work in the shipping industry and one thing I noticed was that most people want to work hard. They want to improve themselves. But they can’t do it without a good education, and schools down there were basically shit, excuse me. I wanted to change it. That’s how I met Roberto. We were setting up an office in Mexico and he was in town speaking at some empowerment group for farmers. We kind of connected.” The big lips formed a wan smile. “Power to the people…It’s not a bad sentiment, I have to say. Roberto did his thing through microbusinesses; I do mine through education.”

Though he still seemed more like the owner of a button factory in the Fashion District or a personal injury lawyer than a foundation director.

“So you’re here about those drug assholes who killed him?” Cross barked. Chewed on his cigar ferociously for a moment then set it down on a glass ashtray in the shape of a maple leaf.

“We’re just getting information at this point,” Sachs said noncommittally. “We’re looking into his whereabouts on the recent trip to New York — when he met with you. Can you tell me where else he went in the city?”

“Some other nonprofits, he said, three or four of them. I know he needed an interpreter for some of them, if that helps.”

“Did he mention which ones?”

“No, he just came by to drop off a check and find out about some new projects we were putting together. He wanted something named after him. A classroom. Not a whole school. See, that was Roberto. He was realistic. He donated X amount of money, not a zillion dollars, so he knew he wouldn’t have a whole school named after him. He was happy with a classroom. Modest guy, you know what I’m saying? But he wanted some recognition.”

“Did he seem worried about his safety?”

“Sure. He always was. He was, you know, real outspoken.” A sad smile. “He hated this politician or that CEO and, man, he wasn’t afraid to say it on the air or in his blogs. He called himself the Messenger, the voice of conscience. He made a lot of enemies. Those fucking drug assholes. Pardon my French. I hope they get the chair or lethal injection or whatever.”

“He mentioned cartels or gangs as a threat?”

Cross leaned back and thought for a moment. “You know, not by name. But he said he was being followed.”

“Tell me.”

Cross ran a finger over a cluster of moles on his neck. “He said there was this guy who was there but not there, you know what I’m saying? Following him on the street.”

“Any description?”

“White, a guy. Looked tough. That’s it.”

She thought immediately of Barry Shales and Unsub 516.

“But there was something else. The airplane. That freaked him out the most.”

“Airplane?”

“Roberto traveled a lot. He said he’d noticed this private jet three or four times in different cities he’d been in — places with small airports, where a private jet was more, you know, noticeable. Bermuda, the Bahamas, Caracas, where he lived. Some towns in Mexico. He said it was strange — because the plane always seemed to be there before he arrived. Like somebody knew his travel schedule.”

By tapping his phone, for instance? A favorite sport of Metzger, Shales and Unsub 516.

The cigar got chomped. “The reason he recognized it: He said most private jets’re white. But this one was blue.”

“Markings, designations, numbers?”

A shrug. “No, he never said. But I was thinking, somebody in a jet’s following you? What’s that all about? Who the hell could it be? Those things cost money.”

“Anything else you can remember?”

“Sorry.”

Sachs rose and shook his hand, reflecting that the convoluted trail here — starting with the limo driver — had paid off with a solid clue. If a cryptic one.

The blue jet …

Cross sighed, looking at another picture of himself and Moreno, this one snapped in a jungle. They were surrounded by cheerful workers. More shovels, more hard hats, more mud.

“You know, Detective, we were good friends but I’ve gotta say I never quite figured him out. He was always down on America, just hated the place. Wouldn’t shut up about it. I told him one time, ‘Come on, Roberto. Why’re you dissing the one country on earth where you can say those things and not get shot in an alley by a truth squad or hauled off to a secret prison in the middle of the night? Ease up.’”

A bitter laugh escaped the fat, damp mouth. “But he just wouldn’t listen.”

CHAPTER 52

Jacob Swann braked his car to a stop a half block from Amelia Sachs’s, near Lincoln Rhyme’s town house.

He’d followed her downtown, where she’d had a meeting on Chambers Street, and he’d looked for a chance to shoot. But there had been too many people down there. Always a problem in Manhattan. Now she was back, aggressively parallel parking in an illegal spot near the cul-de-sac once again.

He looked up and down the shadowy avenue. Deserted at last. Yes, this would be the place and the time. In his latex-gloved hand Swann gripped the SIG Sauer, adjusted it to be able to draw quickly.

He wasn’t going to kill her. He’d decided that would create too much of a stir — too many police, too intense a manhunt, too much press. Instead he’d shoot into her back or legs.

Once she stepped out, he’d double-park, climb out, shoot her and then drive off, pausing a few blocks away to swap plates again.

Sachs got out of the Torino, looking around carefully again, hand near her hip. This keen gaze kept Swann in the front seat of his Nissan, head down. When she started up the street he opened the door of the car but paused. Sachs didn’t head for the cul-de-sac leading to Rhyme’s town house or toward Central Park West but rather walked across the street — to a Chinese restaurant.

He saw her step inside, laughing as she spoke with the woman at the register. Sachs examined the menu. She was getting an order to go. A glance up and then she was waving at one of the busboys. He smiled back.

Swann pulled the Nissan forward, noted a space a few car lengths away. He parked and shut the engine off. His hand slipped inside his jacket and made sure once again he knew just where the pistol was. The receiver was more cumbersome than a Glock’s, with safeties and slide catches, but the gun itself was heavy, which guaranteed the subsequent shots after the first would be particularly accurate; light weapons need more recentering on target than heavy ones do.

He studied Sachs through the streaked glass.

Such an attractive woman.

Long, red hair.

Tall.

Slim too. So slim. Did she not like to eat? She didn’t seem the cooking type. This made Swann dislike her. And takeout from a place like this, salt and overused grease? Shame on you, Amelia. You’ll be right at home for the next few months, eating Jell-O and pudding while you recuperate.

In ten minutes she was out the door, take-out food in one hand, and playing the cooperative target: walking straight into the cul-de-sac.

She paused at the entrance, looking into the bag, apparently making sure the restaurant had included the extra rice or fortune cookies or chopsticks. Still fiddling with the bag, she continued toward Rhyme’s town house.

Swann eased his car back into the street but had to brake fast, as a bicyclist sped in front of him and stopped, debating for some reason whether to turn around or continue on to Central Park. Swann was angry but didn’t want to draw attention by honking. He waited, face flushed.

The biker headed on — opting for the beautiful green of a spring park — and Swann punched the accelerator to get to the cul-de-sac fast. But the delay had cost him. Walking quickly, Sachs had reached the end of the L-shaped passage and disappeared to the left, toward the back of the town house.

Not a problem. Better actually. He’d park, follow her in and shoot her as she approached the door. The geometry of the cul-de-sac there would mute the gunshots and send the sounds in a hundred different directions. Whoever heard would have no idea where they came from.

He looked around. No cops. Little traffic. A few oblivious passersby, lost in their own worlds.

Swann pulled the car into the mouth of the cul-de-sac, put the transmission in park and stepped out. With the gun drawn, but hidden under his windbreaker, he started over the cobblestones.

He recited to himself: two shots, low in her back, one toward the knee. Although he vastly preferred his knife he was a good marksman. He’d have to—

A voice behind him, a woman’s: “Excuse me. Could you help me?” British accent.

It belonged to a slim, attractive jogger in her early thirties. She stood about eight feet away, between him and the open driver’s door of his car.

“I’m from out of town. I’m trying to find the reservoir. There’s a running path…”

And then she saw it.

His windbreaker had eased away from his body. She saw the gun.

“Oh, God. Look, don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything! I swear.”

She started to turn but Swann moved fast; he was in front of her in an instant. She took a breath to scream but he struck her in the throat, his open-handed blow. She dropped hard to the concrete, out of sight of a couple across the street, arguing about something.

Swann glanced back up the dim canyon between the nearby buildings. Would Sachs be inside by now?

Maybe not. He didn’t know how far the L of the cul-de-sac extended behind Rhyme’s.

But he had only a matter of seconds to decide. He glanced down at the woman, gasping for breath, just the way Annette had in the Bahamas and Lydia Foster had here.

Uhn, uhn, uhn. Hands to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open.

Yes or no? He debated.

Choose now.

He decided: Yes.

CHAPTER 53

Amelia Sachs stood in the cul-de-sac behind the town house, Glock drawn, aimed toward where the dim canyon made a right turn and eventually joined the crosstown street.

The Chinese takeout she’d ordered was sitting on the cobblestones and she was in a combat shooting stance: feet planted parallel, toes pointed at your enemy, leaning forward slightly with gun hand gripping hard, other hand cradling the trigger guard for stability. Your dominant arm stiff; if the muscles aren’t taut the recoil might not eject the spent shell and chamber another. A jam can mean death. You and your gun have to be partners.

Come on, Sachs thought to her adversary. Come on, present! This was, of course, Unsub 516. She knew it wasn’t Barry Shales, the sniper; he was still under surveillance by Lon Sellitto’s team.

Several times today she’d noticed a light-colored sedan — first, near Henry Cross’s office building on Chambers Street. Then on the drive here and again fifteen minutes ago. She hadn’t seen the car clearly but it was likely the same one that had been following her from Tash Farada’s house in Queens.

Noting the car pull into a space at the end of the block, she’d debated how to handle it. To call Central Dispatch or to approach him by herself on the street might have precipitated a firefight, a bad idea in this densely populated area.

So she’d decided to take him in the cul-de-sac. She’d bought the Chinese takeout to give him a chance to spot her. Before leaving, she’d slipped her weapon into the bag. Then she’d started across the street, careful not to present a target, and into the cul-de-sac, apparently focusing on her order but actually sensing from her periphery when the man would make his move.

She’d hurried to the bend in the cul-de-sac, aware that the car was approaching then stopping. At that point she’d turned, dropped the food and gripped her weapon.

Now she was waiting for the target to present.

Would he drive farther in? Probably not. Too easy to get blocked in, if a delivery or moving truck showed up.

Was he out of the car and moving fast toward her?

Palms dry, both eyes open — you never squint when you shoot. And you focus on two things only: your target and the front sight of your weapon. Forget the blade sight at the back of the receiver. You can’t bring everything into definition.

Come on!

Breathing steadily.

Where was he? Prowling forward, about to leap around the corner and drop into his own shooting stance?

Or what if he’d anticipated she was on to him? He might have grabbed a passerby to shove into the cul-de-sac as a distraction. Or use him or her as a shield, hoping that Sachs would react and shoot the innocent.

Inhale, exhale, inhale…

Did she hear a voice? A soft cry?

What was that? Easing forward, Sachs crept toward the other leg of the L. Paused, flattened against the brick.

Where the hell was he? Was his weapon up too, pointed at exactly the spot where she’d appear if she stepped forward?

Okay, go. Just go low and get ready to shoot. Watch your backdrop.

One…two…

Now!

Sachs leapt into the main part of the cul-de-sac, gun up, and dropped into a crouch.

Which is when her left knee gave out completely.

Before she got a clear look at where the unsub might be waiting for her, she tumbled sideways onto the cobblestones, managing to lift her finger off the trigger before she pulled off a random round or two. Amelia Sachs rolled once and lay stunned, a perfect target.

Even her vision had deserted her. Tears from the pain.

But she forced herself to ignore the agony and scrabbled into a prone position, gun muzzle aimed down the cul-de-sac, where Unsub 516 would be coming for her. Aiming at her. Sending hollow-point bullets into her.

Except that he wasn’t.

She blinked the moisture from her eyes, then wiped them fiercely with her sleeve.

Empty. The cul-de-sac was empty. Five sixteen was gone.

Struggling to her feet, she holstered her weapon and massaged her knee. She limped to the street and conducted a canvass of those on the sidewalk. But no one had paid any attention to light-colored cars, no one had seen a compact man with brown hair and military bearing acting strangely, no one had seen any weapons.

Standing with hands on hips, looking west then east. All was peaceful, all was normal. A typical day on the Upper West Side.

Sachs returned to the cul-de-sac, fighting the limp. Man, that hurt. She collected the Chinese and tossed it into a Dumpster.

In New York City alleyways the five-second rule about dropped food does not apply.

CHAPTER 54

“You were right, Captain,” Mychal Poitier called from the second-story porch outside Annette Bodel’s apartment in Nassau. “The side window has been jimmied. Barry Shales or your unsub broke in here, either before or after he killed her.”

Rhyme gazed up, squinting into the brilliant sky. He couldn’t see the corporal, just the silhouette of a palm waving lethargically near the roof of the building in which prostitute-student Annette had lived.

This was the other crime scene he’d referred to. He’d known that Annette’s killer had to come here to find any information she might have had about him and his visit to South Cove last week. Poitier and his men had been here before — after she was reported missing — but merely to see if she, or her body, was present. The door locks had not been disturbed and the officers hadn’t investigated further.

“Probably afterward,” Rhyme called. Part of the questions during Annette’s torture would have been about address books and computer files that might have referenced him. Diaries too, of course. All of that would be gone but, he hoped, some trace of the unsub remained.

A small cluster of locals, faces tanned and faces black, were nearby, checking out the entourage. Rhyme supposed their words ought to be delivered more discreetly but twenty-five vertical feet separated him from Poitier and so there was no choice but to shout.

“Don’t go inside, Corporal. Ron will handle it.” He turned. “Rookie, how we doing?”

“Almost ready, Lincoln.” He was suiting up in RBPF crime scene coveralls and assembling the basic collection equipment.

Rhyme didn’t even consider running this scene himself, though he’d earlier been tempted. There was no elevator in the building and it would be nearly impossible to carry the heavy wheelchair up the narrow rickety stairs. Besides, Pulaski was good. Nearly as good as Amelia Sachs.

The officer now paused in front of Rhyme as if expecting a briefing. But the criminalist offered simply, “It’s your scene. You know what to do.”

A nod from the young man and up the stairs he trotted.

It took about an hour for him to walk the grid.

When Pulaski emerged, with a half dozen collection bags, he asked Rhyme and Poitier if they wanted to review the evidence now. Rhyme debated but in the end he decided to take everything back to New York and do the analysis there.

Part of this was the familiarity of working with Mel Cooper.

Part was that he missed Sachs, a fact he wouldn’t share with another human being…except her.

“What are our travel options?” he asked Thom.

He checked his phone. “If we can get to the airport in a half hour, we can make the next flight.”

Rhyme glanced at the corporal.

“We’re twenty minutes at the most,” Poitier said.

“Even in the infamous Bahamian traffic?” Rhyme asked wryly.

“I have red lights.”

Pulaski headed toward the van, still in coveralls, booties and shower cap.

“Get into street clothes, rookie. I think you’d upset the passengers, dressed like that.”

“Oh, right.”

The flashing lights did help and soon they were at the terminal. They exited the van and, while Pulaski saw to the luggage and Thom arranged for the vehicle to be collected, Rhyme remained next to Poitier. The area was bustling with tourists and locals, and the air filled with dust and the endless bangs and catcalls of construction. And that constant perfume, trash fire smoke.

Rhyme began to speak, then found words had abandoned him. He forced them into line. “I’m sorry about what happened at the sniper nest, Corporal. The assistant commissioner was right. I nearly got you killed.”

Poitier laughed. “We aren’t in a business like librarians or dental workers, Captain. Not all of us go home every night.”

“Still, I wasn’t as competent as I should have been.” These words seared him. “I should have anticipated the attack.”

“I have not been a real police officer for very long, Captain, but I think it’s safe to say that it would be impossible to anticipate everything that could happen in this profession. It’s really quite mad, what we do. Little pay, danger, politics at the top, chaos on the streets.”

“You’ll do well as a detective, Corporal.”

“I hope so. I certainly feel more at home here than in Business Inspections and Licensing.”

A flashing light caught Rhyme’s eye and he could hear a siren as well. A police car was speeding into the airport, weaving through traffic.

“Ah, the last of the evidence,” Poitier said. “I was worried it wouldn’t arrive in time.”

What evidence could it be? Rhyme wondered. They had everything that existed from the Moreno sniper shooting, as well as from Annette Bodel’s apartment. The divers had given up searching for Barry Shales’s spent cartridges.

The corporal waved the car over.

The young constable who’d met them at the South Cove Inn was behind the wheel. Holding an evidence bag, he got out and saluted, the gesture aimed halfway between the two men he faced.

Rhyme resisted a ridiculous urge to salute back.

Poitier took the bag and thanked the officer. Another tap of stiff fingers to his forehead and the constable returned to the car, speeding away and clicking on the siren and lights once more, though his mission had been accomplished.

“What’s that?”

“Can’t you tell?” Poitier asked. “I remember in your book you instruct officers to always smell the air when they’re running the crime scene.”

Frowning, Rhyme leaned down and inhaled.

The fragrant aroma of fried conch rose from the bag.

CHAPTER 55

Susss, susss…

In his kitchen Jacob Swann sipped a Vermentino, a light pleasant Italian wine, in this case from Liguria. He returned to honing his knife, a Kai Shun, though not the slicer. This was an eight-and-a-half-inch Deba model for chopping and for removing large pieces of meat intact.

Susss, susss, susss…

He stroked from side to side, on the Arkansas whetstone, his personal style for sharpening. Never in a circle.

The hour was around 8 p.m. Jazz played on his turntable. Larry Coryell, the guitarist. He excelled at standards, his own compositions and even classical. “Pavane for a Dead Princess” was an unmatched interpretation.

Aproned, Swann stood at the butcher-block island. Not long ago he’d received a text from headquarters complimenting him on his work today, confirming that he’d made the right decision to delay the attack on Sachs. Shreve Metzger had provided yet more info but there was nothing more to do at the moment. He could stand down for the evening. And he was taking advantage of that.

The lights were low, the shades and curtains drawn.

There was, in a way, a sense of romance in the air. Swann looked at the woman sitting nearby. Her hair was down, she wore one of his T-shirts, black, and plaid boxers, also his. He believed he could smell a floral scent, laced with spice. Smell and flavor are inextricably linked. Swann never cooked anything of importance when he had a cold or a sinus infection. Why waste the effort? Eating at a time like that meant the food was simply fuel.

A sin.

The woman, whose name was Carol Fiori — odd moniker for a Brit — looked back. She was crying softly.

Occasionally she’d make the uhn uhn uhn sound, like earlier. Carol was the jogger who had approached him in the alleyway earlier and ruined his chance to disable Amelia Sachs. A throat-punch and into the trunk she’d gone. He’d driven off quickly, returning home. He’d get the detective later.

Once back in Brooklyn, he’d dragged Carol into the house. While she initially said she was traveling with “friends,” she was actually single and touring the United States on her own for a month, thinking of writing an article about her adventures.

Alone…

He’d been debating what to do with his trophy.

Now he knew.

Yes, no?

Yes.

She’d given up staring at him pleadingly and whispering pleadingly and now turned her damp eyes to the Deba as he sharpened susss, susss. She shook her head occasionally. Swann had bound her wrists and legs to a very nice and comfortable Mission-style chair, à la Lydia Foster.

“Please,” she mouthed, her eyes on the blade. So the pleading wasn’t quite abandoned.

He examined the knife himself, tested the edge carefully with his thumb. It gave just the right resistance; perfect sharpness. He sipped more wine and then began to remove ingredients from the refrigerator.

When Jacob Swann was a boy, long before college, long before the military, long before his career after the military, he came to appreciate the value of meals. The only moments when he could count on spending time with his mother and father involved preparing and eating supper.

Bulky Andrew Swann was not stern or abusive, simply distant and forever lost in his schemes, obligations and distractions, which derived mostly from his job in the gambling world of Atlantic City. Young Jacob never knew exactly what his father did — given his own present career, Andrew might have been on the enforcement side of things. That genetic stuff. But the one thing that Jacob and his mother knew about the man was that he liked to eat and that you could get his attention and hold it through food.

Marianne was not a natural cook, probably had hated it. She’d begun to work on her skills only after she and Andrew started dating. Jacob had overheard her tell a woman friend about one of the first meals she’d served.

“Whatsis?” Andrew had demanded.

“Hamburger Helper and lima beans and—”

“You told me you could cook.”

“But I did.” She’d waved at the frying pan.

Andrew had tossed down his napkin and left the table, casino bound.

So she’d bought a Betty Crocker cookbook the next day and started to work.

In the afternoons in their tract house, young Jacob would watch her feverishly fricasseeing a chicken or pan-sautéing cod. She fought the food, she wrestled. She didn’t learn first principles and rules (it’s all about chemistry and physics, after all). Instead she attacked each recipe as if she’d never seen a steak or a piece of flounder or pile of cool flour. Her sauces were lumpy and bizarrely seasoned and always oversalted — though not to Andrew, so perhaps they weren’t over, at all.

Unlike her son, Marianne stressed mightily before and during the preparation of each meal and invariably had more than one glass of wine. A bit of whiskey too. Or whatever was in the cabinet.

But she worked hard and managed to produce meals functional enough to hold Andrew’s presence for an hour or so. Inevitably, though, with a clink of dessert fork on china, a last gulp of coffee — Andrew didn’t sip — he would rise and vanish. To the basement to work on his secret business projects, to a local bar, back to the casino. To fuck a neighbor, Jacob speculated, when he learned about fucking.

After school or weekends, if he wasn’t slamming his wrestling match opponents into the mat or competing on the rifle team at school, Jacob would hang out in the kitchen, flipping through cookbooks, sitting near his mother as she laid waste the kitchen, with dribbles of milk and tomato sauce everywhere, shrapnel of poppy seeds, the detritus of herbs, flour, cornstarch, viscera. The spatter of blood too.

Sometimes she’d get overwhelmed and ask him to help by removing gristle and boning meat and slicing scaloppine. Marianne seemed to think that a boy would be more inclined to use a knife than an egg beater.

“Look at that, honey. Good job. You’re my little butcher man!”

He found himself taking over more and more and instinctively repairing the stew, chopping more finely, offing the heat at the right moment before a disastrous boil. His mother patted his cheek and poured more wine.

Now Swann looked at the woman strapped to his chair.

He continued to be angry that she’d ruined his plans that afternoon.

She continued to cry.

He returned to preparing his three-course dinner for tonight. The starter would be asparagus steamed in a water-vermouth mixture, infused with a fresh bay leaf and a pinch of sage. The spears would rest on a bed of mâche and be dotted with homemade hollandaise sauce — that verb being key, “dotted,” since anytime yolk meets butter, you can easily overdo. The trick about asparagus, of course, is timing. The Romans had a cliché—doing something in the duration it took to cook asparagus meant doing it quickly.

Swann sipped the wine and prepared the steamer liquid. He then trimmed the herbs from his window box.

When his mother left them — wine plus eighty-two mph without a seat belt — sixteen-year-old Jacob took over the cooking.

Just the two of them, dad and son.

The teenager did the same as his mother, corralling Andrew with meals, the only differences being that the boy enjoyed the act of cooking and was far better than his mother. He took to serving serial courses — like a chef’s tasting menu — to stretch out the time the men could be together. One other difference emerged eventually: He found he liked the cooking better than the hour or so spent consuming the meal; he realized he didn’t really like his father very much. The man didn’t want to talk about the things that Jacob did: video games, kickboxing, wrestling, hunting, guns in general and bare-knuckle boxing. Andrew didn’t want to talk about much at all except Andrew.

Once, when Jacob was eighteen, his father returned home with a beautiful, a really beautiful blonde. He had told the woman what a good cook “my kid is.” Like he was showing off a tacky pinkie ring. He’d said to Jacob, “Make Cindi here something nice, okay? Make something nice for the pretty lady.”

Jacob was well aware of E. coli by then. Yet as much as he wanted to see twenty-four-year-old Cindi retch to death, or at least retch, he couldn’t bring himself to intentionally ruin a dish. He received raves from the woman for his chicken Cordon Bleu, which he made not by pounding the poultry breast flat but by slicing the meat into thin sheets to enwrap the Gruyère cheese and — in his recipe — prosciutto ham from Parma.

Butcher man…

Not long after that, terrorism struck the nation. When Jacob enlisted in the army, the question of aptitude and interests came up but he didn’t let on he could cook, for fear he’d be assigned to mess hall kitchens for the next four years. He knew there’d be no pleasure in cooking steam-table food for a thousand soldiers at a time. Mostly he wanted to kill people. Or make them scream. Or both. He didn’t see a big distinction between humans and animals for slaughter. In fact, think about it, beef cattle and lambs were innocent and we sliced them up without a second thought; people, on the other hand, were all guilty of some transgression or another, yet we’re oh so reluctant to apply the bullet or knife.

Some of us.

He regarded Carol once more. She was very muscular but pale. Maybe she worked out in gyms mostly or wore sunscreen when she ran. He offered her some wine. She shook her head. He gave her water and she drank half the bottle as he held it.

His second course for this evening would be a variation on potatoes Anna. Sliced and peeled russets, layered in a spiral and then cooked in butter and olive oil, with plenty of sea salt and pepper. In the middle would be a dollop of crème fraîche, which he whipped up with, of all things, a little — very little — fresh maple syrup. To finish, black truffle slivers. This dish he made in a small cast-iron skillet. He would start the potatoes on the stove then crisp the top under the Miele’s broiler.

Potatoes and maple and truffles. Who would have thought?

Okay, he was getting hungry.

When Jacob was in his early twenties, his father died of what could be called gastric problems, though not ulcers or tumors. Four 9mm rounds to the belly.

The young soldier had vowed revenge but nothing ever came of that. A lot of people might have killed the man — Andrew, it turned out, had been up to all kinds of double crosses he should have known were not a good idea in Atlantic City. Finding the killers would have taken ages. Besides, truth be told, Jacob wasn’t all that upset. In fact, when he hosted a reception after the funeral, the murderer might very well have been among the business associates who’d attended. There was, however, some subtle vengeance played out at the event. The main course was penne alla puttanesca, the spicy tomato-based dish whose name in Italian means “in the style of a whore.” He’d made it in honor of his father’s present girlfriend, who wasn’t Cindi but could easily have been.

Tonight, Jacob Swann’s third course, the main course, would be special. The Moreno assignment had been difficult and he wanted to pamper himself.

The entrée would be Veronique-style, which he prepared with grapes sliced into disks and shallots, equally thin, in a beurre blanc sauce — made with slightly less wine (he never used vinegar) because of the presence of the grapes.

He would slice the very special meat into nearly translucent ovals, dredge them in type 45 French pastry flour then quickly sauté them in a blend of olive oil and butter (always the two, of course; butter alone burns faster than an overturned tanker).

He offered Carol more water. She wasn’t interested. She’d given up.

“Relax,” he whispered.

The liquid was boiling in the asparagus steamer, the potatoes browning nicely under the broiler, the oil and butter slowly heating, off-gassing their lovely perfume.

Swann wiped down the cutting board he’d use to slice the meat for the main course.

But before getting to work, the wine. He opened and poured a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, a Cloudy Bay, one of the best on the planet. He’d debated about the vineyard’s fine sparkling wine, the Pelorus, but he didn’t think he could finish a whole bottle alone, and bubbles, of course, don’t keep.