Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

But he had only a matter of seconds to decide. He glanced down at the woman, gasping for breath, just the way Annette had in the Bahamas and Lydia Foster had here.

Uhn, uhn, uhn . Hands to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open.

Yes or no? He debated.

Choose now.

He decided: Yes.

CHAPTER 53

AMELIA SACHS STOOD IN THE CUL-DE-SAC behind the town house, Glock drawn, aimed toward where the dim canyon made a right turn and eventually joined the crosstown street.

The Chinese takeout she’d ordered was sitting on the cobblestones and she was in a combat shooting stance: feet planted parallel, toes pointed at your enemy, leaning forward slightly with gun hand gripping hard, other hand cradling the trigger guard for stability. Your dominant arm stiff; if the muscles aren’t taut the recoil might not eject the spent shell and chamber another. A jam can mean death. You and your gun have to be partners.

Come on, Sachs thought to her adversary. Come on, present! This was, of course, Unsub 516. She knew it wasn’t Barry Shales, the sniper; he was still under surveillance by Lon Sellitto’s team.

Several times today she’d noticed a light-colored sedan—first, near Henry Cross’s office building on Chambers Street. Then on the drive here and again fifteen minutes ago. She hadn’t seen the car clearly but it was likely the same one that had been following her from Tash Farada’s house in Queens.

Noting the car pull into a space at the end of the block, she’d debated how to handle it. To call Central Dispatch or to approach him by herself on the street might have precipitated a firefight, a bad idea in this densely populated area.

So she’d decided to take him in the cul-de-sac. She’d bought the Chinese takeout to give him a chance to spot her. Before leaving, she’d slipped her weapon into the bag. Then she’d started across the street, careful not to present a target, and into the cul-de-sac, apparently focusing on her order but actually sensing from her periphery when the man would make his move.

She’d hurried to the bend in the cul-de-sac, aware that the car was approaching then stopping. At that point she’d turned, dropped the food and gripped her weapon.

Now she was waiting for the target to present.

Would he drive farther in? Probably not. Too easy to get blocked in, if a delivery or moving truck showed up.

Was he out of the car and moving fast toward her?

Palms dry, both eyes open—you never squint when you shoot. And you focus on two things only: your target and the front sight of your weapon. Forget the blade sight at the back of the receiver. You can’t bring everything into definition.

Come on!

Breathing steadily.

Where was he? Prowling forward, about to leap around the corner and drop into his own shooting stance?

Or what if he’d anticipated she was on to him? He might have grabbed a passerby to shove into the cul-de-sac as a distraction. Or use him or her as a shield, hoping that Sachs would react and shoot the innocent.

Inhale, exhale, inhale…

Did she hear a voice? A soft cry?

What was that? Easing forward, Sachs crept toward the other leg of the L. Paused, flattened against the brick.

Where the hell was he? Was his weapon up too, pointed at exactly the spot where she’d appear if she stepped forward?

Okay, go. Just go low and get ready to shoot. Watch your backdrop.

One…two…

Now!

Sachs leapt into the main part of the cul-de-sac, gun up, and dropped into a crouch.

Which is when her left knee gave out completely.

Before she got a clear look at where the unsub might be waiting for her, she tumbled sideways onto the cobblestones, managing to lift her finger off the trigger before she pulled off a random round or two. Amelia Sachs rolled once and lay stunned, a perfect target.

Even her vision had deserted her. Tears from the pain.

But she forced herself to ignore the agony and scrabbled into a prone position, gun muzzle aimed down the cul-de-sac, where Unsub 516 would be coming for her. Aiming at her. Sending hollow-point bullets into her.

Except that he wasn’t.

She blinked the moisture from her eyes, then wiped them fiercely with her sleeve.

Empty. The cul-de-sac was empty. Five sixteen was gone.

Struggling to her feet, she holstered her weapon and massaged her knee. She limped to the street and conducted a canvass of those on the sidewalk. But no one had paid any attention to light-colored cars, no one had seen a compact man with brown hair and military bearing acting strangely, no one had seen any weapons.

Standing with hands on hips, looking west then east. All was peaceful, all was normal. A typical day on the Upper West Side.

Sachs returned to the cul-de-sac, fighting the limp. Man, that hurt. She collected the Chinese and tossed it into a Dumpster.

In New York City alleyways the five-second rule about dropped food does not apply.

CHAPTER 54

YOU WERE RIGHT, CAPTAIN,” Mychal Poitier called from the second-story porch outside Annette Bodel’s apartment in Nassau. “The side window has been jimmied. Barry Shales or your unsub broke in here, either before or after he killed her.”

Rhyme gazed up, squinting into the brilliant sky. He couldn’t see the corporal, just the silhouette of a palm waving lethargically near the roof of the building in which prostitute-student Annette had lived.

This was the other crime scene he’d referred to. He’d known that Annette’s killer had to come here to find any information she might have had about him and his visit to South Cove last week. Poitier and his men had been here before—after she was reported missing—but merely to see if she, or her body, was present. The door locks had not been disturbed and the officers hadn’t investigated further.

“Probably afterward,” Rhyme called. Part of the questions during Annette’s torture would have been about address books and computer files that might have referenced him. Diaries too, of course. All of that would be gone but, he hoped, some trace of the unsub remained.

A small cluster of locals, faces tanned and faces black, were nearby, checking out the entourage. Rhyme supposed their words ought to be delivered more discreetly but twenty-five vertical feet separated him from Poitier and so there was no choice but to shout.

“Don’t go inside, Corporal. Ron will handle it.” He turned. “Rookie, how we doing?”

“Almost ready, Lincoln.” He was suiting up in RBPF crime scene coveralls and assembling the basic collection equipment.

Rhyme didn’t even consider running this scene himself, though he’d earlier been tempted. There was no elevator in the building and it would be nearly impossible to carry the heavy wheelchair up the narrow rickety stairs. Besides, Pulaski was good. Nearly as good as Amelia Sachs.

The officer now paused in front of Rhyme as if expecting a briefing. But the criminalist offered simply, “It’s your scene. You know what to do.”

A nod from the young man and up the stairs he trotted.

* * *

IT TOOK ABOUT AN HOUR for him to walk the grid.

When Pulaski emerged, with a half dozen collection bags, he asked Rhyme and Poitier if they wanted to review the evidence now. Rhyme debated but in the end he decided to take everything back to New York and do the analysis there.

Part of this was the familiarity of working with Mel Cooper.

Part was that he missed Sachs, a fact he wouldn’t share with another human being…except her.

“What are our travel options?” he asked Thom.

He checked his phone. “If we can get to the airport in a half hour, we can make the next flight.”

Rhyme glanced at the corporal.

“We’re twenty minutes at the most,” Poitier said.