Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

New York City alleys had a kind of charm, you looked at it one way: They were sort of like history moved into the present day, like in a museum. The fronts of the apartments and—here in Little Italy—the shops changed every generation but the alleys were pretty much what they would’ve been a century ago. Decorated with faded metal and wooden signs giving delivery directions and warnings. Use Chocks for Your WAGON! The walls, brick and stone, were unpainted, unwashed, shabby. Uneven, improvised doors, loading docks, pipes that led nowhere and wires that you didn’t dare touch.

And the air stank.

On hot days like this the kitchen helper hated taking the trash down to the Dumpster, shared with a couple of other restaurants, because the sushi place next door had dumped their garbage last night. No need to guess what this afternoon’s atmosphere was like.

Fish.

Still, one thing he liked about the alley: the building above Java Hut. It had apparently been the home of somebody famous. The waiter Sanchez had told him it was some American writer. Mark Twin, he thought. The helper could read English okay and had told Sanchez he was going to find something that this Twin had written but he never got around to it.

He now made the drop, holding his breath, of course, and then turned back toward his deli. He noticed a car parked in the alley here, close to Java Hut, in fact. A reddish Ford Torino Cobra.

Sweet.

But gonna get towed.

The kitchen helper realized he was holding his breath still. He exhaled and then inhaled, wrinkling his nose. The smell actually stung.

Old fish. Warm fish.

He wondered if he was going to puke. But he headed to the car to check it out. He liked cars. His brother-in-law had been arrested for stealing a very nice BMW M3, one of the new ones. That took some doing. Anybody could steal an Accord. But only a man with balls could boost an M3. Not necessarily brains, however. Ramon was arrested exactly two hours and twenty minutes later. But you had to give him credit.

Oh, hey, check it out! This one had an NYPD placard on the dash. What kinda cop’d drive a car like this? Maybe—

At that moment a ball of flame and smoke erupted from the back door of Java Hut and the helper found himself flying backward. He tumbled into a stack of cardboard cartons outside the back of the Hair Cuttery. The helper rolled off the boxes and lay stunned on the oily, wet cobbles.

Jesus…

Smoke and fire flowed from the coffee shop.

The helper unholstered his mobile and forcibly pinched tears away.

He squinted to make out the keypad. But then he realized what would happen if he called, even anonymously.

Sir, what’s your name, address, phone number and by the way do you have a driver’s license or passport?

Or maybe a birth certificate? A green card?

Sir, we have your mobile number here…

He put the phone away.

Didn’t matter anyway, he decided. Other people would have called by now. Besides, the explosion was so strong, there was no doubt there’d be no survivors inside and Mr. Mark Twin’s town house would be a pile of smoldering rubble in a matter of minutes.

CHAPTER 31

THE VAN DROVE ALONG BAY STREET, then through downtown Nassau, past wood-clad stores and residences painted soft pink, yellow and green, the shades of the mint candy disks Lincoln Rhyme remembered from the Christmases of his youth.

The city was mostly flat; what dominated the skyline were the ocean liners, docked or easing through the water to their left. Rhyme had never seen one up close. They were massive, soaring hundreds of feet into the air. Downtown was clean and ordered, much more so than the areas around the airport. Unlike in New York City, trees were everywhere, blossoming heavily, roots buckling sidewalks and streets. This area was a mix of serious business—lawyers and accountants and insurance agents—and stores that sold any object whatsoever that might conceivably separate cruise ship tourists from their money.

Pirate gear was a popular way to do this. Every other child on the sidewalk carried a plastic saber and wore a black skull-and-crossbones hat.

They drove past some houses of government. Parliament Square, Rhyme noted. In front was a statue of seated and sceptered Queen Victoria, gazing off into the distance as if her mind was on more important, or perhaps more troublesome, colonies.

The accessible van fit right in here; much of the transportation was via similar vehicles and mini buses, different only in the absence of a motorized ramp. As earlier, the pace of traffic here was leisurely, irritating. Rhyme decided that this was not lazy driving. There were simply too many wheels on too few streets and roads.

Scooters too. They were everywhere.

“Is this the best route?” he muttered.

“Yes,” his aide replied, turning right onto East Street.

“It’s taking a longer time than I would have thought.”

Thom didn’t reply. The area grew scruffier as they headed south. More hurricane damage, more shacks, more goats and chickens.

They passed a sign:

Protect Ya Things!

Use a Rubber EVERYTIME

Rhyme had had to make several calls to find exactly where Mychal Poitier was located—naturally without calling the corporal himself. Nassau had a separate Central Detective Unit, not attached to headquarters. Poitier had implied he was working with the CDU but the receptionist there said that while she believed he was assigned to the unit he wasn’t based there. She wasn’t sure where his office was.

Finally he’d called the main number and learned Poitier was at the RBPF headquarters on East Street.

When they arrived Rhyme looked around the facility through the spattered glass of the van’s windows. Headquarters was a complex of mismatched structures—with the main building modern and light-colored, in the shape of a cross laid flat. Ancillary buildings were scattered randomly around the grounds. One seemed to be a lockup (a nearby side street was named Prison Lane). The grounds were a mix of grass—some patches trim, some shaggy—and parking lots dusted with pebbles and sand.

Functional law enforcement.

They got out of the van. Again, the piquant smell of smoke was in the air. Ah, yes. With a glance at a nearby private residence’s backyard, Rhyme realized the source: trash fires. They must be everywhere.

“Look, Lincoln, we need one of those,” Pulaski said. He was pointing toward the front of the main building.

“What?” Rhyme snapped. “A building, a radio antenna, a doorknob, a jail?”

“A crest.”

The RBPF did have a rather impressive logo, promising the citizens of the islands courage, integrity and loyalty. Where on earth could you find all three of these in one tidy package?

“I’ll buy you a T-shirt for a souvenir, rookie.” Rhyme motored his way up the sidewalk and brashly into the lobby, an unimpressive place, scuffed and dinged. Ants crawled and flies strafed. There seemed to be no plainclothes cops; everyone was in uniform. Most commonly these were white jackets and black trousers with subdued red stripes on the side; the few women officers wore such jackets and striped skirts. Much of the personnel—who were all black—had headgear, traditional police hats or white sun helmets.

Colonial…

A dozen locals and tourists waited on benches or in line to speak to officers, presumably to report a crime. Mostly they seemed put out, rather than traumatized. Rhyme assumed the bulk of cases here would be pickpocketing, missing passports, groping, stolen cameras and cars.

He was aware of the attention he and his small entourage were drawing. A middle-aged couple, American or Canadian, was in line ahead of him. “No, sir, please, you go first.” The wife was speaking as if to a five-year-old. “We insist.”