The Kill Room (15 page)

Where the facilities are disabled-accessible because of the elderly passengers from the cruise ships.

Rhyme persisted, “I offered to meet you elsewhere. But you declined.”

“I didn’t think you would actually come.”

Rhyme stopped. He said to Thom and Pulaski. “I’d like a word with the corporal in private.”

The two men wandered back toward the van.

Poitier’s eyes swept the criminalist’s legs and body once more. He began, “I wish—”

“Corporal,” Rhyme spat out, “don’t play these fucking games with me.” The shame had finally solidified into the ice of anger.

The officer blinked in shock.

“You gave me a couple of leads that don’t mean shit without the forensics to back them up. They’re useless. You might as well’ve saved your goddamn phone card money.”

“I was trying to help you,” he said evenly.

“You were trying to purge your guilt.”

“My—?”

“You didn’t call me up to help the case. You called me so you could feel better about doing a lousy job as a cop. Hand off some useless tidbits to me and you go back to quote waiting for the Venezuelan authorities like you’d been told.”

“You don’t understand,” Poitier fired back, his own anger freed as well. Sweat covered his face and his eyes were focused and fierce. “You make your salary in America—ten times what we make here—and if that doesn’t work you go take another job and make just as much money or more. We don’t have those options, Captain. I’ve already risked too much. I tell you in confidence certain things and then…” He was sputtering. “And then here you are. And now my commissioner knows! I have a wife and two children I am supporting. I love them very much. What right do you have to put my job at stake?”

Rhyme spat out, “Your job? Your job is to find out what happened on May ninth at the South Cove Inn, who fired that bullet, who took a human life in your jurisdiction.
That’s
your job, not hiding behind your superior’s fairy tales.”

“You do not understand! I—”

“I understand that if you claim you want to be a cop, then be one. If not, go back to Inspections and Licensing, Corporal.”

Rhyme spun around and aimed toward the van, where Pulaski and Thom were staring his way with troubled, confused faces. He noticed too a man in one of the nearby windows, peering their way. Rhyme was sure it was the assistant commissioner.

A
FTER LEAVING THE RBPF HEADQUARTERS
, Thom steered the van north and west through the narrow, poorly paved streets of Nassau.

“Okay, rookie, you’ve got a job. I need you to do some canvassing at the South Cove Inn.”

“We’re not leaving?”

“Of course we’re not leaving. Do you want your assignment or do you want to keep interrupting?” Without waiting for an answer, Rhyme reminded the young officer about the information that Corporal Poitier had provided via phone the other night in New York: the call from an American inquiring about Moreno’s reservation, and the man at the hotel the day before the shooting asking a maid about Moreno—Don Bruns, their talented sniper.

“Thirties, American, athletic, small build, short brown hair.” Pulaski had remembered this from the chart.

“Good. Now, I can’t go myself,” the criminalist said. “I’d make too much of a stir. We’ll park in the lot and wait for you. Walk up to the main desk, flash your badge and find out what the number was of the person who called from America and anything else about the guy asking about Moreno.
Don’t
explain too much. Just say you’re a police officer looking into the incident.”

“I’ll say I just came from RBPF headquarters.”

“Hm. I like that. Suitably authoritarian and yet vague at the same time. If you get the number—
when
you get the number—we’ll call Rodney Szarnek and have him talk to the cell or landline provider. You clear on all of that?”

“You bet, Lincoln.”

“What does that mean, ‘You bet’?”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“Mouth filler, expressions like that.” He was still hurt and angry about what he considered Poitier’s betrayal—which was only partly his refusal to help.

As they bobbed along the streets of Nassau an idea occurred to Rhyme. “And when you’re at the inn, see if Eduardo de la Rua, the reporter who died, left anything there. Luggage, notebook, computer. And do what you can to get your hands on it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I want any notes or recordings that de la Rua made. The police haven’t been very diligent about collecting evidence. Maybe there’s still something at the inn.”

“Maybe he recorded Moreno talking about somebody surveilling him.”

“That,” Rhyme said acerbically, “or somebody
conducting
surveillance, since what you said may be correct but is a shamless example of verbing a perfectly fine noun.” And he couldn’t resist a smile at his own irony.

Pulaski sighed. Thom smiled.

The young officer thought for a moment. “De la Rua was a reporter. What about his camera? Maybe he took some pictures in the room or on the grounds before the shooting.”

“Didn’t think of that. Good. Yes. Maybe he got some pictures of a surveiller.” Then he grew angry again. “The Venezuelan authorities. Bullshit.”

Rhyme’s mobile buzzed. He looked at the caller ID.

Well, what’s this?

He hit answer. “Corporal?”

Had Poitier been fired? Had he called to apologize for losing his temper, while reiterating that there was nothing he could do to help?

The officer’s voice was a low, angry whisper: “I eat a late lunch every day.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because of my shift,” Poitier continued harshly. “I eat lunch at three p.m. And do you wish to know
where
I eat lunch?”

“Do I…?”

“It’s a simple question, Captain Rhyme!” the corporal snapped. “Do you wish to know where I eat my lunch every day?”

“I do, yes,” was all that Rhyme could muster, thoroughly confused.

“I have lunch at Hurricane’s on Baillou Hill Road. Near West Street.
That
is where I have lunch!”

The line went silent. There was no sound other than a soft click but Rhyme imagined the corporal had angrily slammed his thumb onto the disconnect button.

“Well.” He told the others about the exchange. “Sounds like he might be willing to help us out after all.”

Pulaski said, “Or he’s going to arrest us.”

Rhyme started to protest but decided the young officer had a point. He said, “In case you’re right, rookie, change of plans. Thom and I are going to have lunch and/or get arrested. Possibly both.
You’re
going to canvass at the South Cove Inn. We’ll rent you a car. Thom, didn’t we pass a rental place somewhere?”

“Avis. Do you want me to go there?”

“Obviously. I wasn’t asking for curiosity’s sake.”

“Don’t you get tired of being in a good mood all the time, Lincoln?”

“Rental car. Please. Now.”

Rhyme noticed that he’d had a call from Lon Sellitto. He’d missed it in the “discussion” he’d had with Poitier. There was no message. Rhyme called him back but voice mail replied. He left a phone-tag message and slipped the mobile away.

Thom found the Avis office via GPS and steered in that direction. Just a few minutes later, though, he said uncertainly, “Lincoln.”

“What?”

“Somebody’s following us. I’m sure of it.”

“Don’t look back, rookie!” Rhyme didn’t spend much time in the field any longer, for obvious reasons, but when he’d been active he had frequently worked “hot” crime scenes—those where the perp might still be lingering, for the purposes of learning which cops were on the case and what leads they were finding, or sometimes even trying to kill the officers right then. The instincts he’d honed over the years of working scenes like that were still active. And rule one was don’t let anybody know you’re on to them.

Thom continued, “A car was oncoming but as soon as we passed, it made a U. I didn’t think much of it at first but we’ve been taking a pretty winding path and it’s still there.”

“Describe it.”

“Gold Mercury, black vinyl top. Ten years or older, I’d guess.”

The age of many cars here.

The aide glanced in the mirror. “Two, no, three people inside. Black males. Late twenties or thirties. T-shirts, one gray, one green, short-sleeved. One sleeveless yellow. Can’t make out their faces.”

“You sound just like a patrol officer, Thom.” Rhyme shrugged. “Just police keeping an eye on us. That commissioner—McPherson—isn’t very happy we strangers’ve come to town.”

Thom squinted into the rearview mirror. “I don’t think they’re cops, Lincoln.”

“Why not?”

“The driver’s got earrings and the guy next to him’s in dreads.”

“Undercover.”

“And they’re passing a joint back and forth.”

“Okay. Probably not.”

F
EW THINGS ARE MORE REPULSIVE
than the chemical smoke aftermath of an IED plastic explosive detonation.

Amelia Sachs could smell it, taste it. She shivered from the cloying assault.

And then there was the ringing in her ears.

Sachs was standing in front of what remained of Java Hut, waiting—impatiently—for the Bomb Squad officers to make their rounds. She would run the crime scene search herself but the explosives experts from the Sixth Precinct in Greenwich Village always did the first post-blast sweep to check for secondary, delayed devices, intended to take out rescue workers. This was a common technique, at least in countries where bombs were just another means of making a political statement. Maybe Don Bruns had learned his skills abroad.

Sachs snapped her fingers next to each ear and was pleased to find that over the tinnitus ring she could hear pretty well.

What had saved her life and those of the coffee drinkers had at first made her laugh.

She and Jerry, the inked manager of Java Hut, had gone into the small, dimly lit office, where the store’s computer was located. They’d pulled up chairs and he’d bent forward, entering a passcode on the old Windows system.

“Here’s the program for the security video.” Jerry had loaded it and then showed her the commands for reviewing the .mpg files, how to rewind and fast-forward, how to capture stills and write clips to separate files for uploading or copying to a flash drive.

“Got it, thanks.”

She’d scooted forward and looked closely at the screen, which was divided into quadrants, one scene for each camera: two were of the floor of the shop, one of the cash register, one of the office.

She had just started scrolling back in time from today to May 11—the date the whistleblower had leaked the STO from here—when she noticed a scene of a man in the office where they now sat, walking forward.

Wait. Something was odd. She’d paused the video.

What was off about this?

Oh, sure, that was it. She’d laughed. In all the other scenes, because she was scrolling in reverse, people were moving backward. But on the office video, the man was moving forward, which meant that in real time he had been
backing
out of the office.

Why would anyone do that?

She’d pointed it out to the manager, who hadn’t, however, shared her smile. “Look at the time stamp. That was just ten minutes ago. And I don’t know who he is. He doesn’t work here.”

The man was trim, with short hair, it seemed, under a baseball cap. He wore a windbreaker-style jacket and carried a small backpack.

Jerry had risen and walked to the back door. He’d tried it. “It’s open. Hell, we’ve been broken into!”

Sachs scrolled back farther, then played the video forward. They saw the man come into the office, try to log on to the computer several times and then struggle to pick it up, only to be stymied by the steel bars securing it to the floor. Then he’d glanced at the monitor and must have noticed that he was being filmed. Rather than turn and face the security camera, he’d backed out of the office.

She knew it had to be the sniper.

Somehow he too had learned about the whistleblower and had come here to see if he could find the man’s identity. He must’ve heard her and Jerry approach. Sachs had run the tape again, noting this time that before he left he seemed to place a small object behind the computer. What—?

Oh, hell, no!

He’d left an IED—
that’s
what he’d planted behind the computer. He couldn’t steal it; so he’d destroy the Dell. Try to disarm or not? No, he’d have set it to detonate at any minute. “Out, everybody out!” she’d cried. “Bomb. There’s a bomb! Clear the place. Everybody out!”

“But that’s—”

Sachs had grabbed Jerry by his ideogramed arm and dragged him into the restaurant, calling for the baristas, dishwasher and customers to flee. She’d held up her badge. “NYPD, evacuate now! There’s a gas leak!”

Too complicated to explain about bombs.

The device had blown just as she’d shoved the last customer out the door, a contrary young student whining that he hadn’t gotten his refill yet.

Sachs had still been inside when she’d felt the detonation in her chest and ears and, through the floor, her feet. Two plate-glass windows had shattered and much of the interior flew into pieces. Instantly the place had been enveloped by that vile, greasy smoke. She’d leapt through the door but stayed upright, sure that if she’d dived to the concrete—à la that clichéd scene in thriller movies—her knee would never forgive her.

Now the Bomb Squad officers made their way through the front door. “It’s clear,” she heard, though it sounded like the lieutenant was speaking through cotton. The bomb had really been quite loud. Plastic explosives detonate at around twenty-five thousand feet per second.

“What was it?” she said and when he smiled she knew she’d been shouting.

“Can’t tell for sure until we send off details to the bureau and ATF. But my guess? Military—we found some camouflaged shrapnel. It’s primarily anti-personnel. But it works real good for blowing up anything nearby.”

“Like computers.”

“What?” the officer asked.

Thanks to her haywire hearing, she’d spoken too softly this time. “And computers.”

“Works
real
good against computers,” the Bomb Squad officer said. “Hard drive’s in a million pieces and most of them’re melted. Humpty Dumpty’s fucked.”

She thanked him. A crime scene team from Queens arrived in the RRV, a van filled with evidence collection equipment. She knew the two officers, an Asian American woman and a round young man from
Geo
rgia. He waved a greeting. They’d back her up but she’d walk the grid alone, per Lincoln Rhyme’s rule.

Sachs surveyed the smoky remains of Java Hut, hands on her hips.

Brother…

Not only is there nothing so distinctive as the smell of an IED but nothing contaminates a scene like one.

She donned the Tyvek coveralls—the deluxe version from Evident, which protect the wearer from dangerous materials as much as they protect the crime scene itself from the searchers. And because of the fumes she wore sealed goggles and a filtering mask.

Her first thought was: How is Lincoln going to hear me through the mask?

But then she remembered that she wasn’t going to be online with him, as she usually was, via radio or video hookup. She was alone.

That same chill, hollow sense from earlier wafted through her.

Forget it, she told herself angrily. Get to work.

And with evidence collection bags and equipment in one hand, she began to walk the grid.

Moving through the shambles of the place, Sachs concentrated on collecting what she could of the bomb itself, which, as the officer had warned, wasn’t very much. She was particularly dismayed that the suspect hadn’t used simply a demolition charge but one meant to kill.

Sachs concentrated on the entrance/exit route, the back doorway, where Bruns would have paused before he broke in and where the blast damage was minimal. She took dozens of samplars: trace from the alleyway and doorjamb, enough to draw a profile of substances common to this area of the city. Anything that was unique might represent evidence the perp had left and lead to his home or office.

How helpful this would be, she wasn’t sure. Here, as in any New York City alleyway, there were so many instances of trace evidence that it would be hard to isolate the relevant ones. Too much evidence is often as much of a problem as too little.

After she finished walking the grid she stripped off the overalls quickly—not because she was worried about contamination but because she was by nature claustrophobic and the confining plastic made her edgy.

Breathing deeply, closing her eyes momentarily, she let the feeling settle, then fade.

The whistleblower…How the hell to find him now that the security video was gone?

It seemed hopeless. Anybody who used a complicated email proxy system to hide his tracks would have been smart about the mechanics of finding a place to upload the documents. He wouldn’t be a regular here and wouldn’t have used a credit card. But an idea occurred: what about other customers? She could track down at least some of those who’d been here around 1 p.m. on May 11. They might have noticed the whistleblower’s unusual computer, the iBook. Or maybe tourists had taken some cell phone shots of each other and possibly captured an image of the whistleblower accidentally.

She walked up to Jerry, the now very shaken manager of the late store, and asked him about credit card records. When he tore himself away from his mournful gaze at his shop he called Java Hut central operations. In ten minutes she had the names of a dozen customers who were here at the time in question. She thanked him and had the file uploaded to Lon Sellitto. Then she followed up with a call to the detective.

She asked if he could get some of Bill Myers’s Special Services officers to contact them and see if anyone had taken pictures in Java Hut on the day in question or remembered anybody with an odd-looking, older computer.

Sellitto replied, “Yeah, sure, Amelia. I’ll order it.” He grunted. “This takes the case to a whole new level. An IED? You think it was Bruns, or whatever his real name is?”

“Had to be him, I’d think. It was hard to see in the video but he roughly fit the description from the maid at the South Cove Inn. So he’s cleaning up after the assignment—probably on Metzger’s orders.” She gave a sour laugh. “And Java Hut’s about as clean as it can be.”

“Jesus—Metzger and Bruns’ve gone off the deep end. It’s that important to them, to keep this kill order program going that they’re taking out innocents.”

“Listen, Lon. I want to keep this quiet.”

He gave a gruff laugh. “Oh, sure. A fucking IED in Manhattan?”

“Can we play up the story it was a gas leak, still being investigated. Just keep the lid on for a few days?”

“I’ll do what I can. But you know the fucking media.”

“That’s all I’m asking, a day or two.”

He muttered, “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyway, listen, I’m glad you called. Myers’s canvassing boys tracked down the woman that Moreno drove around the city with on May 1, Lydia. They’ll have her address and phone number in a few minutes.”

“The hooker.”

He chuckled. “When you speak to her? I don’t think I’d say that.”