Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

As he was about to leave, he received an encrypted email. Well, it seemed that NIOS had learned some very interesting information. The whistleblower was still unknown, though Metzger had people looking into that. However, the tech department had discovered some names of other people involved in the case, in addition to Ms. Nance Laurel, the prosecutor. The lead investigators were two individuals—an NYPD detective named Amelia Sachs and a consultant, someone with the curious name Lincoln Rhyme.

It was time for some more digging and datamining, Swann reflected, pulling out his phone. After all, the strength of the best cookbook in the world, The Joy of Cooking , derived from the patient assembly and organization of facts, from knowledge , in short—not showy recipes.

CHAPTER 19

DO YOU KNOW ABOUT PANAMA?” Tash Farada asked Sachs, in the passenger seat of the Town Car. He was animated and seemed to enjoy speeding through traffic as they headed toward Wall Street.

She said, “The canal. Some invasion or something down there. A while ago.”

The driver laughed and accelerated hard to avoid a slow-moving lane of traffic on the FDR. “Some ‘invasion or something.’ Yes, yes. I read history a great deal. I enjoy it. In the eighties Panama had a regime change. A revolution. Just like our country.”

“Yes, Iran. In ’seventy-nine, wasn’t it?”

He glanced at her with a frown.

“Persia, I mean,” she corrected.

“No, I’m speaking of seventeen seventy-six. I’m American.”

Oh. Our country.

“Sorry.”

A wrinkle of brow but a forgiving one. “Now, Panama. Noriega used to be an ally of America. Fighting the Communist evil. Helping the CIA and the DEA wage war on the scourge of drugs…Of course, he was also helping the cartel heads wage war on the scourge of the CIA and the DEA. That game caught up with him and in nineteen eighty-nine the U.S. had had enough. We invaded. The problem was that Panama was a dirty little war. You’ve read George Orwell?”

“No.” Sachs might have, long ago, but she never bluffed or tried to impress with knowledge she didn’t have command of.

“In Animal Farm , Orwell wrote, ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.’ Well, all wars are bad. But some wars are more bad than others. The head of Panama was corrupt, his underlings were corrupt. They were dangerous men and oppressed the people. But the invasion was very hard too. Very violent. Roberto Moreno was living there, in the capital, with his mother and father.”

Sachs recalled her conversation with Fred Dellray, who’d told them that Robert Moreno also went by Roberto. She wondered if he’d legally changed it or just used the Latino version as a pseudonym.

“Now, he was a young teenager. That day in the car he told Lydia, his voluptuous friend, that he didn’t have the happiest home life, his father traveling, his mother had sadness problems. She was not much there for him.”

Sachs remembered too the father’s oil company job, the demanding hours, and the woman’s eventual suicide.

“The boy, it seemed, made friends with a family living in Panama City. Roberto and the two brothers became close. Enrico and José, I think were their names. About his age, to hear him tell it.”

Tash Farada’s voice faded.

Sachs could see where the narrative was headed.

“The brothers were killed in the invasion?”

“One was—Roberto’s best friend. He doesn’t know who actually fired the shots but he blames the Americans. He said the government changed the rules. They didn’t care about people or freedom, like they said. They were happy to support Noriega and tolerate the drugs until he grew unstable and they were worried the canal would close and the oil tankers could not get through. That’s when they invaded.” A whisper now. “Mr. Moreno found his friend’s body. He still had nightmares about it, he told the woman Lydia.”

Although the evidence might point to Moreno’s being less than a saint, contrary to what Nance Laurel would have liked, Sachs couldn’t help but be moved by the sad story. She wondered if Laurel would have been. Doubted it.

The driver added, “And when he was telling this story, telling it to Lydia, his voice grew broken. But then all of a sudden he laughed and gestured around him. He said he was saying goodbye to America and was happy about that. This would be his last trip here. He knew he couldn’t return.”

“ Couldn’t return?”

“That’s right. Couldn’t. ‘Good riddance,’ he said.” Tash Farada added darkly, “ I thought good riddance to him . I love this country.” A pause then he added, “I’m not happy he’s dead, you understand. But he said many bad things about my home. Which I think is the best nation on earth and always has been.”

As they approached Wall Street, Sachs nodded toward the site of the September 11 attacks. “Did he want to see ground zero?”

“No,” the driver said. “I thought he might. I thought possibly he wanted to gloat, after all he had said. I would have asked him out of the car at that point. But he didn’t. He’d grown quiet.”

“Where did you take him down here?”

“I just dropped them at this place.” He’d pulled over on Fulton Street, near Broadway. “Which I thought was odd. Just on this street corner. They got out and he said they would be several hours. If I couldn’t wait here they would call me. I gave him my card.”

“What did you think was odd about that?”

“In this area of the city we limo drivers can get almost anywhere if there’s no construction. But it was as if he didn’t want me to see where they were going. I assumed to one of the hotels, the Millenium or one of the others. That’s the direction they walked in.”

For a tryst with his voluptuous friend? But then why not just stay at the hotel uptown?

“Did he call you?” Sachs was hoping to get Moreno’s phone number, which might still be in the driver’s log.

But the man said, “No. I just waited here. And they returned.”

She climbed out of the Lincoln, then walked in the direction that the driver had indicated. She canvassed the three hotels within walking distance but none had a record of a guest under Moreno’s name on May 1. If they had checked in, Lydia might have used her name though that lead wasn’t going anywhere without more information about her. Sachs also displayed a picture of Moreno but no one recognized him.

Had the activist paid her to have sex with somebody else? she wondered. Had they met with someone in one of the hotels or an office here? As a bribe or to blackmail him? Sachs walked back outside into the congested street from the last hotel, looking around her at the hundreds of buildings—offices, stores, apartments. A team of NYPD canvassers could have spent a month inquiring about Robert Moreno and his companion and still not scratched the surface.

She wondered too if Lydia might have received her cash for another reason. Was she part of a cell, a terrorist organization that Moreno was working with? Did they meet with a group that wanted to send another violent message in this financial hub of the city?

This conjecture too, while reasonable to Sachs, was surely something that Nance Laurel would not want to hear.

You mean, you can’t keep an open mind…

Sachs turned around and walked back to the limo. Dropping into the front seat again, she stretched, winced at a burst of arthritic pain and dug one nail into another. Stop it, she told herself. Dug a bit harder and wiped the blood on her black jeans.

“And after this?”

Farada told her, “I drove them back to the hotel. The woman got out with him but they went different ways. He went inside and she walked east.”