Jeffery Deaver: The Deliveryman

When they’d arrived at the church — probably the site of the weapons, or some lead to send them to the stash, Sachs joined the team for the takedown, ready to move in the minute the boy appeared in danger, even if they didn’t find the weapons. But, as it turned out, Javier didn’t need as much protection as they’d thought. (Sachs grimaced at the thought that she had missed the LCP .380 pocket gun he’d carried in his pencil box — though, true, he’d been in the company of police at his father’s murder scene and then with Child Protective Services personnel; she assumed he’d been properly searched.)

The ATF now had possession of the weapons — five hundred of some of the most sophisticated submachine guns on earth. Street value of three-quarters of a million. And the Mexican police had seized a large factory in Chihuahua, “Juarez-Trenton Exhaust Systems,” which produced not a single emissions control device but had quite the sophisticated operation, from computer design to stringent quality control. Several trucking company officials were also in custody. More arrests were expected.

As Rhyme put the finishing touches on his report, he was interrupted. A figure appeared in the doorway. “Damn, you were gonna come watch but you missed it.”

Rhyme grumbled, “I missed it.”

“You didn’t see it?”

“No, like I said. I missed it. What exactly?”

“A goal! ’Nother one. A header...” He pointed to Rhyme. “Yo, Mr. Rhyme, you could hit headers! Don’t need your legs for that!”

Indisputable, Rhyme reflected, looking over at the boy.

Javier and Thom had been in the music room across the hall, presently playing the soccer game — on, no less, Rhyme’s biggest and most expensive high-def monitor, wheeled from lab to den for the purpose of lowly amusement.

“It was unfair,” called Thom Reston, representing Brazil. “We’re down three-nil.” Javier was Mexico.

“What’s unfair?” Rhyme called to his unseen aide.

“Well, he’s younger. He’s more agile.”

“It’s a video game,” Rhyme reminded.

“Thumbs require agility too.”

Javier returned to the match. “You gotta come watch!”

“All right.” He saved his document and wheeled into the den, where, in concession for being a spectator, he was given a slug of single-malt by Thom, before returning to the game.

Rhyme sipped, Rhyme watched.

The boy would be staying here tonight. Child and Family Services had finally tracked down the aunt, in Chicago. She would be arriving to take him to her suburban home tomorrow. She was married, Sachs had reported, and had two children of her own.

Rhyme actually cheered the boy on, drawing a scowl from Thom.

Twenty minutes later Sachs arrived and he wheeled from the digital stadium and joined her in the parlor lab.

She’d been interviewing the suspects in the case — Morales and his wife kept mum but Ortiz and Stan Coelho were happy to talk, though some of the latter’s willingness to spill may have been due to happy drugs.

“None of them can think of who might’ve killed him.” She nodded at the evidence table, meaning Rinaldo. Morales, his wife and the other two minders, of course, weren’t prime suspects; the success of their arms importing scheme depended on a living deliveryman.

“Somebody within the 128s? A rival crew? A contractor who just happened to hear about the guns and wanted to steal the shipment?”

She shrugged. And even as he’d asked the question he’d decided such perps were unlikely. No, his and Sachs’s first conclusion somehow smelled right: that Rinaldo’s was a random death, unrelated to the arms scheme.

Wrong time, wrong place.

These were, he knew, the hardest homicides to close.

“Well, we’ve still got the evidence. A mountain’s worth of it.” He glanced at the tables. “The answer’s there someplace.”

“I’ll call Mel in and we’ll get to it.”

At that moment Rhyme’s computer sounded with an incoming email. He glanced up and read the message. It was from the assistant district attorney he’d worked with from time to time — the one, in fact, who’d run the Baxter case, which had concluded in a guilty verdict against the scam artist, just a few days ago, Rhyme’s first foray into white collar crime.

A second email arrive a moment later. From the office of the chief of detectives.

Curious.

He was aware of Sachs looking his way, her head cocking.

“Is something wrong?”

“The ADA and some NYPD brass. They want to meet with me. Today. Something about the Baxter case.”

“What do you think it’s about, Lincoln?” she asked.

Then her voice braked to a stop. He looked her way. She’d just broken their unspoken but immutable rule. That it was the worst kind of bad luck to use first names when addressing each other. Rhyme had no more use for superstition than he had for sentiment and reverence, but it was a jarring moment.

Still, he smiled. “No clue what’s up. Maybe I’m getting a good citizen award.” He turned to summon Thom to bring the disabled-accessible van around but he heard young Javier Rinaldo’s laugh and Thom mournful cry of “No way, not again!”

Rhyme wheeled toward the den.

City hall could wait.