The Kill Room (14 page)

A
MELIA SACHS HAD A 3G MOBILE PHONE
, Jacob Swann had discovered.

And this was good news. Cracking the encryption and listening to her conversations were harder than with phones running GPRS—general packet radio service, or 2G—but, at least, it was feasible because 3G featured good old-fashioned A5/1 voice encryption.

Not that his tech department was allowed to do such a thing, of course.

Yet there must have been a screwup somewhere, because just ten minutes after discussing the matter casually—and, of course, purely theoretically—with the director of Technical Services and Support, Swann found himself enraptured by Sachs’s low, and rather sexy, voice, coming to him over the airwaves.

He already had a lot of interesting facts. Some specific to the Moreno investigation. Some more general, though equally helpful: for instance, that this Detective Amelia Sachs had some physical problems. He’d filed that away for future reference.

He’d also learned some troubling information: that the other investigator on the case, Lincoln Rhyme, was in the Bahamas. Now, this was potentially a real problem. Upon learning it, Swann had immediately called contacts down there—a few of the Sands and Kalik drinkers on the dock—and made arrangements.

But he couldn’t concentrate on that at the moment. He was occupied. Crouching in an unpleasantly aromatic alleyway, picking the lock of the service door to a Starbucks wannabe. A place called Java Hut. He was wearing thin latex gloves—flesh-colored so that at fast glance his hands would appear unclad.

The morning was warm and the gloves and concealing windbreaker made him warmer yet. He was sweating. Not as bad as with Annette in the Bahamas. But still…

And that god-awful stench. New York City alleys. Couldn’t somebody blast them with bleach from time to time?

Finally the lock clicked. Swann cracked the door a bit and looked inside. From here he could see an office, which was empty, a kitchen in which a skinny Latino labored away with dishes and, beyond that, part of the restaurant itself. The place wasn’t very crowded and he guessed that since this was a tourist area—what was left of Little Italy—most of the business would be on weekends.

He now slipped inside, eased the door mostly closed and stepped into the office, pulling aside his jacket and making sure his knife was easily accessible.

Ah, there was the computer monitor, showing what the security camera was seeing on the restaurant floor at the moment. The camera scanned slowly back and forth, in hypnotic black and white. He’d have a good image of the leaker, the whistleblower, when he scrolled back to May 11, the date the prick had uploaded the STO kill order to the District Attorney’s Office.

He then noticed a switch on the side of the monitor:
1–2–3–4.

He clicked the last and the screen divided into quadrants.

Oh, hell…

The store had
four
cameras. And one was presently recording Swann himself, crouching down in front of the machine. Only his back was being shot but this in itself was still very troubling.

He quickly studied the computer and was even more troubled to see that dismantling it and stealing the hard drive, as he’d planned, was impossible. The large computer was fixed to the floor with straps of metal and large bolts.

Right, as if somebody would steal a five-year-old piece of crap, with Windows XP as the operating system. He equated a machine like this to a plastic Sears hand mixer, versus what he had: a six-hundred-dollar KitchenAid, with a bread kneading hook and fresh pasta maker.

Then Swann froze. He heard voices, a giddy young woman’s and then a Latino man’s. He reached for the Kai Shun.

Their words faded, though, and the hallway remained empty. He turned back to his task. He tested the bolts and straps. They weren’t giving way. And he didn’t have the right tools to undo them. Of course he could hardly blame himself for that. He had a basic tool set with him but this would require an electric hacksaw.

A sigh.

The next best thing, he decided, was to make sure that the police didn’t get the drive either.

Too bad, it wasn’t his first choice, but he had no other options.

Now voices from the front of the restaurant again. He believed a woman was saying, “I’m looking for Jerry, please?”

Could it be? Yes. The tone was familiar.

Good old-fashioned A5/1 voice encryption…

“I’m Jerry. Are you the detective who called?”

“That’s right. I’m Amelia Sachs.”

She’d gotten here faster than Swann had expected.

Hunching forward to hide what he was doing from the camera, he reached into his backpack and removed an improvised explosive device, an anti-p
ersonnel
model that would not only destroy the computer but send a hundred bits of jagged shrapnel throughout the back half of the coffee shop. He debated a moment. He could have set the timer for a minute. But Swann decided it would be best to set the detonator for a bit longer. That would give Ms. Sachs enough time to come into the office and start scrolling through the tapes before it blew.

Hitting the arm button and then the trigger, Swann slipped the box behind the computer itself.

He then rose slowly and backed out of the office, careful not to display his face to the camera.

T
HE AIR IN JAVA HUT WAS RICH
with a dozen different scents—vanilla, chocolate, cinnamon, berry, chamomile, nutmeg…and even coffee.

Jerry, the manager, was a lanky young man with more extensive tats on his arms than a manager for a national franchise coffee shop probably should have. Even one headquartered in Portland. He shook her hand firmly, snuck a glance toward her hips. Men often did this—not checking out the body; he wanted a glimpse of her gun.

The dozen people here were all busy—typing on or examining some electronic device or another. A few were reading from paper. Only one, an elderly woman, was sitting quietly, looking out the window and doing nothing but leisurely enjoying a cup of coffee.

Jerry asked, “Would you like something? On the house?”

She declined. She wanted to get to the one lead in the case that had the potential to pay off.

“Just like to check out the security videos.”

“Sure,” he said, trying for another look at her weapon. She was glad she’d kept the jacket buttoned. She knew he’d want to ask her if she’d used it recently. And talk calibers.

Men. Sex or guns.

“Now, we’ve got one camera there.” He pointed above the cash register. “Everybody who comes in’ll get photographed at least once, pretty up close. What did this guy upload? Like insider information?”

“Like that, yes.”

“Bankers. Man, don’t you just hate ’em? And two other cameras.” Pointing.

One was mounted on a side wall and it scanned back and forth slowly like a lawn sprinkler. The tables were arranged perpendicularly to the camera, which meant that while patrons might not be visible head-on, it was likely she would get a clear profile shot of the whistleblower.

Good.

The other camera scanned a small alcove to the left of the main door, with only four tables inside. This too would get good side images of the patrons and was closer to those tables than the first camera was to those in the main room.

“Let’s see the video,” she said.

“It’s in the office. After you.” He extended his arm, covered with a multicolored tattoo of some Chinese writing, hundreds of characters long.

Sachs couldn’t help but think, What could it possibly say that was worth the pain?

Not to mention how he’s going to explain it to his grandkids.

M
AN, THE ALLEY ON A WARM AFTERNOON.

Gross.

New York City alleys had a kind of charm, you looked at it one way: They were sort of like history moved into the present day, like in a museum. The fronts of the apartments and—here in Little Italy—the shops changed every generation but the alleys were pretty much what they would’ve been a century ago. Decorated with faded metal and wooden signs giving delivery directions and warnings.
Use Chocks for Your WAGON!
The walls, brick and stone, were unpainted, unwashed, shabby. Uneven, improvised doors, loading docks, pipes that led nowhere and wires that you didn’t dare touch.

And the air stank.

On hot days like this the kitchen helper hated taking the trash down to the Dumpster, shared with a couple of other restaurants, because the sushi place next door had dumped their garbage last night. No need to guess what this afternoon’s atmosphere was like.

Fish.

Still, one thing he liked about the alley: the building above Java Hut. It had apparently been the home of somebody famous. The waiter Sanchez had told him it was some American writer. Mark Twin, he thought. The helper could read English okay and had told Sanchez he was going to find something that this Twin had written but he never got around to it.

He now made the drop, holding his breath, of course, and then turned back toward his deli. He noticed a car parked in the alley here, close to Java Hut, in fact. A reddish Ford Torino Cobra.

Sweet.

But gonna get towed.

The kitchen helper realized he was holding his breath still. He exhaled and then inhaled, wrinkling his nose. The smell actually stung.

Old fish. Warm fish.

He wondered if he was going to puke. But he headed to the car to check it out. He liked cars. His brother-in-law had been arrested for stealing a very nice BMW M3, one of the new ones. That took some doing. Anybody could steal an Accord. But only a man with balls could boost an M3. Not necessarily brains, however. Ramon was arrested exactly two hours and twenty minutes later. But you had to give him credit.

Oh, hey, check it out! This one had an NYPD placard on the dash. What kinda cop’d drive a car like this? Maybe—

At that moment a ball of flame and smoke erupted from the back door of Java Hut and the helper found himself flying backward. He tumbled into a stack of cardboard cartons outside the back of the Hair Cuttery. The helper rolled off the boxes and lay stunned on the oily, wet cobbles.

Jesus…

Smoke and fire flowed from the coffee shop.

The helper unholstered his mobile and forcibly pinched tears away.

He squinted to make out the keypad. But then he realized what would happen if he called, even anonymously.

Sir, what’s your name, address, phone number and by the way do you have a driver’s license or passport?

Or maybe a birth certificate? A green card?

Sir, we have your mobile number here…

He put the phone away.

Didn’t matter anyway, he decided. Other people would have called by now. Besides, the explosion was so strong, there was no doubt there’d be no survivors inside and Mr. Mark Twin’s town house would be a pile of smoldering rubble in a matter of minutes.

T
HE VAN DROVE ALONG BAY STREET
, then through downtown Nassau, past wood-clad stores and residences painted soft pink, yellow and green, the shades of the mint candy disks Lincoln Rhyme remembered from the Christmases of his youth.

The city was mostly flat; what dominated the skyline were the ocean liners, docked or easing through the water to their left. Rhyme had never seen one up close. They were massive, soaring hundreds of feet into the air. Downtown was clean and ordered, much more so than the areas around the airport. Unlike in New York City, trees were everywhere, blossoming heavily, roots buckling sidewalks and streets. This area was a mix of serious business—lawyers and accountants and insurance agents—and stores that sold any object whatsoever that might conceivably separate cruise ship tourists from their money.

Pirate gear was a popular way to do this. Every other child on the sidewalk carried a plastic saber and wore a black skull-and-crossbones hat.

They drove past some houses of government. Parliament Square, Rhyme noted. In front was a statue of seated and sceptered Queen Victoria, gazing off into the distance as if her mind was on more important, or perhaps more troublesome, colonies.

The accessible van fit right in here; much of the transportation was via similar vehicles and mini buses, different only in the absence of a motorized ramp. As earlier, the pace of traffic here was leisurely, irritating. Rhyme decided that this was not lazy driving. There were simply too many wheels on too few streets and roads.

Scooters too. They were everywhere.

“Is this the best route?” he muttered.

“Yes,” his aide replied, turning right onto East Street.

“It’s taking a longer time than I would have thought.”

Thom didn’t reply. The area grew scruffier as they headed south. More hurricane damage, more shacks, more goats and chickens.

They passed a sign:

Rhyme had had to make several calls to find exactly where Mychal Poitier was located—naturally without calling the corporal himself. Nassau had a separate Central Detective Unit, not attached to headquarters. Poitier had implied he was working with the CDU but the receptionist there said that while she believed he was assigned to the unit he wasn’t based there. She wasn’t sure where his office was.

Finally he’d called the main number and learned Poitier was at the RBPF headquarters on East Street.

When they arrived Rhyme looked around the facility through the spattered glass of the van’s windows. Headquarters was a complex of mismatched structures—with the main building modern and light-colored, in the shape of a cross laid flat. Ancillary buildings were scattered randomly around the grounds. One seemed to be a lockup (a nearby side street was named Prison Lane). The grounds were a mix of grass—some patches trim, some shaggy—and parking lots dusted with pebbles and sand.

Functional law enforcement.

They got out of the van. Again, the piquant smell of smoke was in the air. Ah, yes. With a glance at a nearby private residence’s backyard, Rhyme realized the source: trash fires. They must be everywhere.

“Look, Lincoln, we need one of those,” Pulaski said. He was pointing toward the front of the main building.

“What?” Rhyme snapped. “A building, a radio antenna, a doorknob, a jail?”

“A crest.”

The RBPF did have a rather impressive logo, promising the citizens of the islands courage, integrity and loyalty. Where on earth could you find all three of these in one tidy package?

“I’ll buy you a T-shirt for a souvenir, rookie.” Rhyme motored his way up the sidewalk and brashly into the lobby, an unimpressive place, scuffed and dinged. Ants crawled and flies strafed. There seemed to be no plainclothes cops; everyone was in uniform. Most commonly these were white jackets and black trousers with subdued red stripes on the side; the few women officers wore such jackets and striped skirts. Much of the personnel—who were all black—had headgear, traditional police hats or white sun helmets.

Colonial…

A dozen locals and tourists waited on benches or in line to speak to officers, presumably to report a crime. Mostly they seemed put out, rather than traumatized. Rhyme assumed the bulk of cases here would be pickpocketing, missing passports, groping, stolen cameras and cars.

He was aware of the attention he and his small entourage were drawing. A middle-aged couple, American or Canadian, was in line ahead of him. “No, sir, please, you go first.” The wife was speaking as if to a five-year-old. “We insist.”

Rhyme resented their condescension and Thom, sensing this, stiffened, probably expecting a tirade, but the criminalist smiled and thanked them. The waves he intended to make would be reserved for the RBPF itself.

A tall man presently at the head of the queue in front of Rhyme had gleaming black skin and wore jeans and an untucked shirt. He was complaining to an attractive and attentive desk officer about a stolen goat.

“It might have walked off,” the woman said.

“No, no, the rope was cut. I took a picture. Do you want to see? It was cut with a knife. I have pictures! My neighbor. I know my neighbor did this.”

Tool mark evidence could link the cut pattern on the rope to the neighbor’s blade. Hemp fibers are particularly adhesive; there would have been some evidentiary transfer. There’d been a recent rain. Footprints surely still existed.

Easy case, Rhyme reflected, smiling to himself. He wished Sachs were here so he could share the story with her.

Goats…

The man was persuaded to search a bit longer.

Then Rhyme moved forward. The desk officer rose slightly and peered down at him. He asked for Mychal Poitier.

“Yes, I’ll call him. You are, please?”

“Lincoln Rhyme.”

She placed the call. “Corporal, it’s Constable Bethel, at the desk. A Lincoln Rhyme and some other people are here to see you.” She stared down at her beige, old-fashioned phone, growing tenser as she listened. “Well, yes, Corporal. He’s here, as I was saying…Well, he’s right in front of me.”

Had Poitier told her to pretend he was out?

Rhyme said, “If he’s busy, tell him I’m happy to wait. For as long as necessary.”

Her eyes flicked uncertainly to Rhyme’s. She said into the phone, “He said…” But apparently Poitier had heard. “Yes, Corporal.” She set the receiver down. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

They turned away and moved to an unoccupied portion of the waiting room.

“God bless you,” said the woman who had given up her space in line for the pathetic figure.

Rhyme felt Thom’s hand on his shoulder but, once again, he merely smiled.

Thom and Pulaski sat on a bench beside Rhyme, under dozens of painted and photo portraits of senior commissioners and commanders of the Royal Bahamas Police Force, going back many years. He scanned the gallery. This was like walls of service everywhere: faces unrevealing and, like Queen Victoria’s, looking off into the distance, not directly at the painter or camera. Unemotional, yet oh what those eyes would have seen in the collective hundreds of years of duty as law enforcers.

Rhyme was debating how long Poitier was going to stall when a young officer appeared from a hallway and approached the desk. He was in those ubiquitous black slacks, red-striped, and an open-collar, short-sleeved blue shirt. A chain from the top button disappeared into his left breast pocket. A whistle? Rhyme wondered. The dark-skinned man, who was armed with a semiau
tomatic
pistol, was bareheaded and had thick but short-trimmed hair. His round face was not happy.

Constable Bethel pointed Rhyme out to the officer. The young man turned and blinked in stark surprise. Though he tried to stop himself he stared immediately down at the wheelchair and at Rhyme’s legs. He blinked again and seemed to swell with discomfort.

Rhyme knew that it was more than his presence upsetting the officer.

Forget murder, forget geopolitics. I have to deal with a
cripple
?

Poitier delayed a moment more, perhaps wondering if he’d been spotted. Could he still escape? Then, composing himself, he broke away reluctantly from the desk and approached them.

“Captain Rhyme, well.” He said this with a casual, almost cheerful tone. Identical to the woman tourist’s a moment ago. Poitier’s hand was half extended as if he didn’t want to shake but thought it would be a moral lapse not to make the effort. Rhyme lifted his hand and the officer quickly, very quickly, gripped and let go.

Quadriplegia is not contagious, Rhyme thought sourly.

“Corporal, this is Officer Pulaski with the NYPD. And my caregiver, Thom Reston.”

Hands were shaken, this time with less uncertainty. But Poitier looked Thom up and down. Perhaps the concept of “caregiver” was new to him.

The corporal gazed about him and found several fellow officers frozen in different attitudes, like children playing the game of statue, as they stared.

Mychal Poitier’s attention returned at once to the wheelchair and Rhyme’s insensate legs. The slow movements of the right arm seemed to rivet him the most, though. Finally, Poitier, using all his willpower, forced himself to stare into Rhyme’s eyes.

The criminalist found himself at first irritated at this reaction but then he felt a sensation he hadn’t experienced for some time: He was ashamed. Actually ashamed of his condition. He’d hoped the sense would morph into anger but it didn’t. He felt diminished, weakened.

Poitier’s dismayed look had burned him.

Ashamed…

He tried to push aside the prickly feeling and said evenly, “I need to discuss the case with you, Corporal.”

Poitier looked around again. “I’m afraid I’ve told you all I can.”

“I want to see the evidence reports. I want to see the crime scene itself.”

“That’s not practical. The scene is sealed.”

“You seal crime scenes from the public, not from forensics officers.”

“But you’re…” A hesitation; Poitier managed not to look at his legs. “You’re not an officer here, Captain Rhyme. Here you are a civilian. I’m sorry.”

Pulaski said, “Let us help you with the case.”

“My time is very occupied.” He was happy to glance toward Pulaski, someone who was on his feet. Someone who was normal. “Occupied,” Poitier repeated, turning now to a bulletin board on which was pinned a flyer: The headline was
MISSING
. Beneath that stark word was a picture of a smiling blonde, downloaded from Facebook, it seemed.

Rhyme said, “The student you were mentioning.”

“Yes. The one you…”

The corporal had been going to add: the one you don’t care about. Rhyme was sure of this.

But he’d refrained.

Because, of course, Rhyme wasn’t fair game. He was weak. A snide word might shatter him beyond repair.

His face flushed.

Pulaski said, “Corporal, could we just see copies of the evidence report, the autopsies? We could look at them right here. We won’t take them off the premises.”

Good approach, Rhyme thought.

“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Officer Pulaski.” He endured another look at Rhyme.

“Then let us have a fast look at the scene.”

Poitier coughed or cleared his throat. “I have to leave it intact, depending on what we hear from the Venezuelan authorities.”

Rhyme played along. “And I will make sure the scene remains uncontaminated for them.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“Our case for Moreno’s death is different from yours—you pointed that out the other day. But we still need certain forensics from here.”

Otherwise the risk you took in calling me from the casino that night will be wasted. This was the implicit message.

Rhyme was careful not to mention any U.S. security agencies or snipers. If the Bahamians wanted Venezuelan drug runners he wasn’t going to interfere with that. But he needed the goddamn evidence.

He glanced at the poster of the missing student.

She was quite attractive, her smile innocent and wide.

The reward for information was only five hundred dollars.

He whispered to Poitier, “You have a firearms tracing unit. I saw the reference on your website. At the very least, can I see their report on the bullet?”

“The unit has yet to get to the matter.”

“They’re waiting for the Venezuelan authorities.”

“That’s right.”

Rhyme inhaled deeply, trying to remain calm. “Please—”

“Corporal Poitier.” A voice cut through the lobby.

A man in a khaki uniform stood in an open doorway, a dim corridor beyond. His dark face—both in complexion and expression—was staring toward the four men beside the wall of service.

“Corporal Poitier,” he repeated in a stern voice.

The officer turned. He blinked. “Yes, sir.”

A pause. “When you have finished your business there, I need your presence in my office.”

Rhyme deduced: The stern man would be the RBPF’s version of Captain Bill Myers.

“Yes, sir.”

The young officer turned back, shaken. “That’s Assistant Commissioner McPherson. He is in charge of all of New Providence. Come, you must leave now. I will see you to your car.”

As he escorted them out, Poitier paused awkwardly to open the door for Rhyme and, once again, avoided looking at the disturbing sight of a man immobile.

Rhyme motored outside. Thom and Pulaski were in the rear. They headed back to the van.

Poitier whispered, “Captain, I went to a great risk to give you the information I did—about the phone call, about the man at the South Cove Inn. I had hoped you’d follow up on it in the United States. Not here.”

“And I appreciate what you told me. But it wasn’t enough. We need the evidence.”

“That’s not possible. I asked you not to come. I’m sorry. I can’t help.” The slim young officer looked away, back toward the front lobby door, as if his boss was still observing. Poitier was furious, Rhyme could see. He wanted to rage. But the officer’s only reaction was a figurative pat on the head.

God bless you…

“There is nothing for you here, sir. Enjoy a day or two, some restaurants. I don’t imagine you get out…” He braked his words to a halt. Then changed tack. “You are probably so busy at your job you don’t get a chance to enjoy yourself. There are some good restaurants down by the docks. For the tourists.”