The Kill Room (36 page)

T
HE DISABLED-ACCESSIBLE VAN
wove through the emergency vehicles and parked at the curb near Spencer Boston’s house. Lincoln Rhyme had been at the staging area a few blocks away. Given his inability to wield a weapon, as he’d learned in the Bahamas, Rhyme thought it best to remain clear of the potential battlefield.

Which, of course, Thom would have insisted on anyway.

Old mother hen.

In a few minutes he was freed from the vehicle and he wheeled his new chair, which he quite liked, up to Amelia Sachs.

Rhyme regarded her with some scrutiny. She was in pain, though trying to cover. But her discomfort was obvious to him.

“Where’s Ron?”

“Walking the grid in the house.”

Rhyme grimaced as he looked at the smoldering trees and boxwood and the smoke trickling out of the expensive Colonial. Fire department fans had largely exhausted the worst of the fumes. “Didn’t anticipate a diversionary charge, Sachs. Sorry.”

He was furious with himself for not considering it. He should have known Unsub 516 would try something like that.

Sachs said only, “Still, you came up with a good plan, Rhyme.”

“Well, had the desired result,” he conceded with some, but not too much, modesty.

The criminalist had never suspected Spencer Boston of anything more than leaking the STO order. True, as Sachs had pointed out, both Boston and Moreno had a Panama connection. But even if Boston
had
been involved in the invasion, Moreno was just a boy then. They couldn’t have known each other. No, Panama was just a coincidence.

But Rhyme had decided that Metzger’s administrations director would make excellent bait, because whoever
was
behind the plot—the unsub’s boss—would want to kill the whistleblower too.

This was the help he’d enlisted Shreve Metzger for. Ever since he’d learned of the investigation last weekend, Metzger had been contacting everyone involved in the STO drone project and telling them to stonewall and dump evidence. These encrypted texts, emails and phone calls were sent to people within NIOS but also to private contractors, military personnel and Washington officials. This was how Unsub 516’s boss had known so much about the case. Metzger had been feeding everyone virtually real-time intelligence about what was going on, so passionate was he about keeping the STO program going. The boss, in turn, briefed the unsub.

But who exactly was that person?

At Rhyme’s insistence, Metzger had called these same people an hour ago and told them the whistleblower had been identified as Spencer Boston and they should destroy any evidence linking them to the man.

Rhyme suspected that the mastermind behind the plot to kill Moreno’s guard would order Unsub 516 to show up in Glen Cove to eliminate Boston.

So the administrations director, along with Sachs and Pulaski, waited inside. NYPD and Nassau County tactical forces took up hidden positions nearby, a helicopter from Emergency Service included. The noisy wood chipper, to cover up the sound of the aircraft, had been Ron Pulaski’s idea.

The kid was on a roll.

Rhyme now looked over Unsub 516, sitting shackled and cuffed on the front lawn of Boston’s house, about thirty feet away. His hand was bandaged but the wound didn’t seem to be too serious. The compact man gazed back at the authorities placidly, then turned his full attention to what seemed to be an herb garden nearby.

Rhyme said to Sachs, “Wonder how much work it’ll be to find out who he’s working for. I don’t suppose he’ll be very cooperative in naming the mastermind.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” Sachs said. “I
know
who he works for.”

“You do?” Rhyme asked.

“Harry Walker. At Walker Defense Systems.”

The criminalist laughed. “How do you know that?”

She nodded at the unsub. “When I went out to the company to look for the airstrip? He’s the one who came to get me in the waiting room and took me to see Walker. By the way, he was really a flirt.”

H
IS NAME WAS JACOB SWANN
, the security director for Walker Defense Systems.

Swann was former military but had been drummed out—if that was what they still called it—for excessive interrogation of suspects in Iraq. Not waterboarding but removing skin from several insurgents. Some other body parts had been removed too. “Expertly and slowly,” the report said.

Further datamining revealed that he lived alone in Brooklyn, bought expensive kitchen items and took himself to fine restaurants frequently. He’d had two emergency room visits in the last year. One was for a gunshot wound, which he claimed was inflicted by an unseen hunter when he was out after some venison. The second was for a bad cut on his finger, which he attributed to a knife slipping off a Vidalia onion when he was preparing a dish.

The first would have been a lie, the second probably true, Rhyme guessed, considering what they now knew was Swann’s hobby.

Combine those ingredients with caviar and vanilla and you have a real expensive dish that’s served at the Patchwork Goose…

A car pulled up near the police tape, an older-model Honda in need of some bodywork.

Nance Laurel, in her white blouse and navy suit, cut the same as her gray one, climbed out. She was rubbing her cheek and Rhyme wondered if she’d just applied more makeup. The assistant district attorney approached and asked if Sachs was all right.

“Fine. Little tussle. But he got the worst of it.” A nod at Swann. “He’s been read his rights. He hasn’t asked for a lawyer but he’s not being cooperative.”

“We’ll see about that,” Laurel said. “Let’s talk to him. I may need your help, Lincoln. We’ll bring him over here.”

“Not necessary.” He glanced down at the Merits wheelchair. “They tell me it’s particularly good on rough terrain. Let’s find out.”

Without a hesitation the chair sped over the lawn straight to the perp.

Nance Laurel and Sachs joined him. The ADA looked down at Swann. “My name is—”

“I know who you are.”

One of her trademarked pauses. “Now, Jacob, we know Harry Walker’s behind this. He had you plant fake intelligence to trick NIOS into assassinating Robert Moreno as a cover so you could kill his guard, Simon Flores, who was blackmailing Walker. You were at the South Cove Inn when it happened, waiting for the drone strike. Just afterward, before the rescue workers got there, you broke into suite twelve hundred and stabbed Flores and Eduardo de la Rua to death. Then you went to Flores’s lawyer’s office in Nassau and tortured and killed him, stole the documents Flores had left for safekeeping—the documents Walker was worried would be made public.

“After my investigation started, Metzger gave Walker updates and names—to destroy evidence and be on guard against the police running the case. But Walker told you to do more than that—to eliminate witnesses and the investigators. You killed Annette Bodel, Lydia Foster and Moreno’s driver, Vlad Nikolov—” Laurel glanced toward Sachs and Rhyme. “Officers in Queens found his body in the basement of his house.”

Swann merely looked down at his bandaged hand and said nothing.

The prosecutor continued, “You also arranged with some associates in Nassau to kill Captain Rhyme and others working with him down there… And then there was this.” She offered a nod around the marred suburban landscape, resembling a combat zone.

The depth of this information, laid out so unemotionally by Nance Laurel, must have taken Swann by surprise but he hesitated only a moment then said in a calm voice, “First of all, as for this incident…” He nodded at Boston’s house. “Regarding the weapons, all three of us have Class Three federal firearms licenses and concealed-carry permits valid in the state of New York. Now, in my job at Walker Defense, I’m involved in national security. We came here on a tip that Spencer Boston represented a dangerous security leak. My associates and I were simply going to check that out and discuss the matter with him. Next thing I know, tactical troops were threatening us. They claimed they were NYPD but how was I supposed to know? Not a single person offered me their identification.”

Amelia Sachs actually laughed at this.

Laurel asked, “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Ah, the important question, Ms. Laurel, is will a
jury
believe it? And I suspect they might. And as for those other crimes you mentioned? All speculation. I guarantee you don’t have anything on me.”

The prosecutor looked at Rhyme, who wheeled up closer. He realized that Swann was intensely studying his insensate legs and left arm. He was truly curious but Rhyme had no idea what he was thinking or what the purpose for the examination was.

The criminalist, in turn, looked the suspect up and down and smiled as he often did at the arrogance of perps. “Don’t have anything, don’t have anything.” Musing thoughtfully. “Oh, I think maybe we do, Jacob. Now, I don’t care much for motives, but we have a couple of good ones here, I have to admit. You killed Lydia Foster—and wanted to kill Moreno’s driver—because you thought the subject would come up of why Simon Flores wasn’t accompanying Moreno on the trip. And that would make
us
wonder why he wasn’t here too. And your motive for killing Annette Bodel was that she could place you at the scene in the Bahamas when the shooting happened.”

Swann gave a blink but recovered quickly and simply cocked his head in curiosity.

Rhyme paid him no mind and addressed the sky. “Now, for more
objective
evidence: We have a short brown hair from the Lydia Foster crime scene.” He glanced at Swann’s scalp. “We can do a mandatory DNA swab and I’m sure it will match. Oh, and we’re still working on tracing that silver necklace you bought Annette Bodel—to attract the barracuda to hide the fact you’d tortured and killed her. I’m sure somebody will have seen you buy it.”

This opened Swann’s mouth slightly. A tongue touched the corner of his lips.

“And we found some allspice and hot sauce on the clothing of Eduardo de la Rua. I thought that was from his breakfast the morning of May ninth. But knowing your affinity for the culinary arts, I wonder if you’d been cooking the night before you killed him. Maybe you made dinner for Annette. It’ll be interesting to examine your suitcase and clothing and see if there’s associated trace.

“And speaking of food: We found some trace in two locations in New York: combine them and apparently you end up with a very interesting dish involving artichoke, licorice, fish roe and vanilla. Did you happen to see the recent recipe in the
New York Times
? I understand the Patchwork Goose is quite the restaurant. And you should know that I have an expert witness to testify about the food.”

Rhyme knew Thom would love being thus described.

Swann was completely silent now. In fact, he seemed numb.

“Now, we’re looking into whether you had access to a particular type of military IED, which was used at the Java Hut. And saltwater-laced sand was found both there and at Annette Bodel’s apartment in Nassau. We’ll subpoena your clothes and shoes and see if you happen to have any grains left on them. Your washing machine too. Hm, do we
have
anything else?”

Sachs said, “The two-stroke oil trace.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Sachs. You left some two-stroke oil trace at one of the scenes and I’m sure we’ll find the same fuel mixture in your office at Walker Defense or at Homestead Air Reserve Base, if you were there before or after the attack on May 9. Thanks particularly for
that
find, by the way—the oil; that’s how we figured out that NIOS was using drones, not flesh-and-blood snipers. Excuse me, UAVs.

“But, I digress. Now, that interesting blade of yours…” Rhyme had seen the evidence bag containing the Japanese chef’s knife. “We’ll match its tool mark profile with wounds on the bodies of Lydia Foster, de la Rua, Flores and the lawyer in the Bahamas. Oh, and the limo driver too.

“More? Okay. We’re datamining your credit card, ATM withdrawals and mobile phone usage.” He took a breath. “And we’re subpoenaing the Walker Defense Technical Services and Support operation to see whom they’ve been datamining and spying on. Now, that pretty much wraps up
my
formal presentation. Prosecutor Laurel?”

A trademark pause, which by now Rhyme found rather charming. She then said in an at-attention tone, “Do you see where we’re going with this, Jacob? We need you to testify against Harry Walker. If you do that we’ll work something out.”

“What does that mean, ‘work something out’? How many years?”

“Obviously I can’t say for certain but probably we’re looking at thirty.”

“Not much in it for me, then, is there?” he asked, gazing back at her coolly.

She replied, “The alternative is I don’t fight extradition to the Bahamas. And you spend the rest of your life in one of their prisons.”

That seemed to bring Swann up short. Still he remained silent.

This wasn’t, technically, Rhyme’s concern. But he felt he should contribute. “And who knows, Jacob?” Rhyme said, an amused tone in his voice. “Maybe ADA Laurel here might see if you could get a spot in the kitchen in whatever facility you’re sent to.” He shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Laurel nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

Swann looked over the smoke-damaged house of Spencer Boston. Then turned back. “When do you want to talk?”

Nance’s response was to dig into her pocketbook and extract a battered tape recorder.

B
USINESS ISN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE,
the arms business, I mean,” Swann was telling them. “Walker Defense was having problems, bad problems, with the wars winding down.”

Sachs said to Rhyme, “That’s right. A lot of the factory facilities were shuttered when I was there.”

“Yes, ma’am. Lost sixty percent of our revenue and the company was in the red. Mr. Walker was used to a nice lifestyle. A couple of his ex-wives were too. Along with his present one and she was thirty years younger than him. Without a good income she might not’ve been too inclined to hang around.”

“Was it his Aston Martin in the lot?” Sachs asked.

“Yes. One of his. He’s got three.”

“Oh. Well. Three.”

“But it was more than that. He believed—I believed too—that the company was doing good work, good for the country. The rifle system for the drone, for instance. And that was just one of them. It was important work. We needed to keep the company afloat.”

Swann continued, “Orders weren’t coming from the U.S. like they used to so Mr. Walker ramped up business in other countries. But there’s a huge surplus of arms out there. Not much demand. So he created some.”

Nance Laurel asked, “By bribing officers and defense ministers in the armed services in Latin America, right?”

“Exactly. Africa and the Balkans too. Middle East some but you’ve got to be careful there. Don’t want to be found out selling weapons to any insurgents who take out U.S. soldiers. Okay, Simon Flores, Moreno’s guard, was with the Brazilian army. Mr. Walker’s Latin American operation is based in São Paulo and so Flores was real aware of the bribes. When he left the army he took plenty of proof with him—enough to put Mr. Walker away for the rest of his life. Flores started blackmailing him.

“Flores had met Moreno and liked the work he was doing. Moreno hired him to be his guard. I guess Flores figured it’d be a good cover. He could travel around with Moreno throughout the Caribbean, buy property, invest the cash, hit the offshore banks—and still get to play soldier as a bodyguard.” A glance toward Rhyme. “And, yeah, you got it right. Flores didn’t think it was smart to come to our home turf on May first. And Mr. Walker was worried that the subject would come up.”

Sachs asked, “And you faked the intel about Moreno?”

“No, it wasn’t faked. But
selective
, I guess you could say. I emphasized the fertilizer bomb materials. Then NIOS issued the STO, effective May ninth, and I took a trip down to Nassau to wait for the fireworks. Afterward, we were sure the whole thing would go away but then we heard about your case against Metzger and Barry Shales. Mr. Walker had me do what I could to stop it from going forward. Oh, Metzger didn’t know what I was up to, by the way. Yeah, he wanted Walker and all his other suppliers to lose evidence and erase emails but that was it.”

“Okay, that’s enough to get us started,” Laurel said. She nodded to Amelia Sachs. “He can go to detention now.”

Sachs had a question first, though. “At Walker, why did you come to get me in the lobby? It was a risk. I might’ve caught a glimpse of you when you were tailing me.”

“A risk, sure.” Swann gave a shrug. “But you were good. You derailed me a couple of times. I wanted to see you up close. See if you had any liabilities.” He nodded at her knee. “Which I found out. If you hadn’t been one step ahead of me in Boston’s house, it might’ve turned out different.”

Sachs rounded up a couple of uniforms from the NYPD and they helped Swann to his feet and started to direct him to a blue-and-white transport. He paused and turned back. “Oh, one thing. In my house? The basement?”

Sachs nodded.

“You’ll find somebody there. A woman. Her name’s Carol Fiori. A British tourist.”

“What?” Sachs blinked. Laurel took a moment to process this.

“It’s a long story but, anyway, she’s in the basement.”

“You…she’s in your basement. Dead? Injured?”

“No, no, no. She’s fine. Probably bored. She’s handcuffed down there.”

“What did you do, rape her?” Laurel asked.

Swann seemed insulted. “Of
course
not. I made dinner for her is what I did. Asparagus, potatoes Anna and my own version of Veronique—grass-fed veal with grapes and beurre blanc. I have the meat flown in from a special farm in Montana. Best in the world. She didn’t eat any. I didn’t think she would. But I gave it a shot.” He shrugged.

“What were you going to do with her?” Sachs asked.

“I didn’t really know,” Swann said. “I didn’t know.”