Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

“Did you get a description?”

“Male, Caucasian, mid-thirty years of age, short-cut hair, light brown. American accent too. Thin but athletic, the maid said. She said too he seemed military.”

“That’s our man. First, he called to make sure Moreno was still arriving. Then he showed up the day before the shooting to check out the target zone. Any car? Other details?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Beep.

Rhyme heard the sound over the line and he thought: Shit, NIOS’s tapping us.

But Poitier said, “I only have a few minutes left. That’s the tone warning me the time on my card is expiring.”

“I’ll call you back—”

“I must go anyway. I hope this—”

Rhyme said urgently, “Please, wait. Tell me about the crime scene. I asked you earlier about the bullet.”

That’s key to the case…

A pause. “The sniper fired three times from a very far distance, more than a mile. Two shots missed and those bullets disintegrated on the concrete wall outside the room. The one that killed Moreno was recovered largely intact.”

“One bullet?” Rhyme was confused. “But the other victims?”

“Oh, they were not shot. The round was very powerful. It hit the windows and showered everyone with glass. The guard and the reporter interviewing Moreno were badly cut and bled to death before they got to the hospital.”

The million-dollar bullet.

“And the brass? The cartridges?”

“I asked a crime scene team to go search where the sniper had to shoot from. But…” His voice dimmed. “I was, of course, very junior and they told me they didn’t want to bother.”

“They didn’t want to bother?”

“The area was rugged, they said, a rocky shoreline that would be hard to search. I protested but by then the decision had been made not to pursue the case.”

“You yourself can search it, Corporal. I can tell you how to find the place he shot from,” Rhyme said.

“Well, the case is suspended, as I said.”

Beep.

“There are simple things to look for. Snipers leave a great deal of trace, however careful they are. It won’t take much time.”

Beep, beep…

“I’m not able to, Captain. The missing student still hasn’t been found—”

Rhyme blurted: “All right, Corporal, but please—at least send me the report, photos, the autopsy results. And if I could get the victims’ clothing. Shoes particularly. And…the bullet. I really want that bullet. We’ll be very diligent about the chain of custody.”

A pause. “Ah, Captain, no, I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Beep, beep, beep…

The last that Rhyme heard before the line went silent was the urgent hoot of a slot machine and a very drunken tourist saying, “Great, great. You realize it just cost you two hundred bucks to win thirty-nine fucking dollars.”

CHAPTER 23

THAT NIGHT RHYME AND SACHS lay in his SunTec bed, fully reclined.

She had assured him that the bed was indescribably comfortable, an assessment for which he would have to take her word, since his only sensation was the smooth pillowcase. Which in fact was quite luxurious.

“Look,” she whispered.

Immediately outside the window of Rhyme’s second-story bedroom, on the ledge, was a flurry of movement, hard to discern in the dusk.

Then a feather rose and drifted out of sight. Another.

Dinnertime.

Peregrine falcons had lived on this sill, or one of the others outside the town house, ever since Rhyme had been a resident. He was particularly pleased they’d chosen his abode for nesting. As a scientist, he emphatically did not believe in signs or omens or the supernatural, but he saw nothing wrong with the idea of emblems. He viewed the birds metaphorically, thinking in particular of a fact that most people didn’t know about them: that when they attack they are essentially immobile. Falling bundles of muscle with legs fixed outward and wings tucked, streamlined. They dive at over two hundred miles per hour and kill prey by impact, not rending or biting.

Immobile, yet predatory.

Another feather floated away as the avian couple bent to their main course. The entrée was what had until recently been a fat, and careless, pigeon. Falcons are generally diurnal and hunt until dusk but in the city they are often nocturnal.

“Yum,” said Sachs.

Rhyme laughed.

She moved closer to him and he smelled her hair, the rich scent. A bit of shampoo, floral. Amelia Sachs was not a perfume girl. His right arm rose and he cradled her head closer.

“Are you going to follow up?” she asked. “With Poitier?”

“I’ll try. He seemed pretty adamant that he wouldn’t help us anymore. But I know he’s frustrated he hasn’t been allowed to go further.”

“What a case this is,” she said.

He whispered, “So how does it feel to be repurposed into a granular-level player, Sachs? Are you pivoting to it or not?”

She laughed hard. “And what exactly is that outfit he’s working for, Captain Myers: Special Services?”

“ You’re the cop. I thought you’d know.”

“Never heard of it.”

They fell silent and then, in his shoulder, normal as anyone’s, he could feel her stiffen.

“Tell me,” he said.

“You know, Rhyme, I’m not feeling any better about this case.”

“You’re talking about what you said before, to Nance? That you’re not sure if Metzger and our sniper are the kinds of perps we want to go after?”

“Exactly.”

Rhyme nodded. “I can’t disagree, Sachs. I’ve never questioned an investigation before, in all these years. They haven’t been gray. This one’s real gray.

“There’s one thing, though, to keep in mind, Sachs. About us.”

“We’re volunteers.”

“Yep. We can walk away if we want. Let Myers and Laurel find somebody else.”

She was silent and she was motionless, at least according to those places where Rhyme could sense motion.

He continued, “You weren’t happy with the case in the first place.”

“No, I wasn’t. And part of me does want to bail, yeah. There’s too much we don’t know about the players and what they have in mind, what their motives are.”

“My motive queen.”

“And when I say players, I mean Nance Laurel and Bill Myers, as much as Metzger and Bruns—or whatever the hell his name is.” After a moment: “I have a bad feeling about this one, Rhyme. I know, you don’t believe in that. But you were crime scene most of your career. I was street. There are hunches.”

This sat between them for a minute or two as they both watched the male falcon rise and lift his wings in a minor flourish. They’re not large animals but, seen from so close, the preening was regally impressive, as was the bird’s momentary but intense gaze into the room. Their eyesight is astonishing; they can spot prey miles away.

Emblems…

“You want to keep at it, don’t you?” she asked.

He said, “I get what you’re saying, Sachs. But for me it’s a knot that needs unraveling. I can’t let it go. You don’t need to, though.”

There was no delay as she whispered, “No, I’m with you, Rhyme. You and me. It’s you and me.”

“Good, now I was—”

And his words stopped abruptly because Sachs’s mouth covered his and she was kissing him hungrily, almost desperately, flinging blankets back. She rolled on top of him, gripping his head. He felt her fingers on the back of his head, his ears, his cheek, fingers firm one moment, soft the next. Strong again. Stroking his neck, stroking his temple. Rhyme’s lips moved from hers to her hair and then a spot behind her ear, then down to her chin and seated on her mouth again. Lingering.