Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

A moment later Cooper said, “Could be Zantac, maximum strength. Hard to say.”

“We don’t need definitive answers on everything,” Rhyme said softly. “We need direction. So he’s probably got a bum gut.”

“Stress from leaking classified government documents’ll do that,” Mel Cooper offered.

“Age?” Rhyme wondered.

“Can’t tell,” the young officer replied. “How could you tell?”

“Well, I’m not asking you to play a carnival game, rookie. We see he’s stocky, we see he’s got stomach issues. Hair could be blond but could be gray. Conservative dress. It’s reasonable to speculate he’s middle-aged or older.”

“Sure. I see.”

“And his posture. It’s perfect, even though he’s not young. Suggests a military background. Or could still be in the service, dressing civie.”

They stared at the picture and Sachs found herself wondering, Why did you leak the kill order? What was in it for you?

A person with a conscience…

But are you a patriot or a traitor?

Wondering too: And where the hell are you?

Sellitto took a call. Sachs noticed that his face went from curious to dark. He glanced at the others in the room, then turned away.

Whispering now: “What?…That’s fucked up. You can’t just tell me that. I need details.”

Everyone was staring at him.

“Who? I want to know who. All right, find out and let me know.”

He disconnected and the glance in Sachs’s direction, but not directly at her, explained that she was the subject of the call.

“What, Lon?”

“You want to step outside.” He nodded toward the hallway.

Sachs glanced at Rhyme and said, “No. Here. What is it? Who called?”

He hesitated.

“Lon,” she said firmly. “Tell me.”

“Okay, Amelia, I’m sorry. Look, you’re off the case.”

“What?”

“Actually, gotta say, you’re on mandatory leave altogether. You’ve gotta report down to—”

“What happened?” Rhyme snapped.

“I don’t know for sure. That was my PA. She told me the word came from the chief of detectives’ office. The formal report’s on its way. I don’t know who’s behind this.”

“Oh, I do,” Sachs snapped. She ripped open her purse and looked inside to make sure she had the copy of the document she’d found on Nance Laurel’s desk the other night. At that time, she’d been reluctant to brandish it as a weapon.

Now she no longer was.

CHAPTER 65

SHREVE METZGER RAN A HAND through his trim hair, remembered his first day out of the service.

Somebody, a civilian, on the streets of Buffalo had called him a skinhead. Baby-killer too. The guy was drunk. Anti-military. An asshole. All of the above.

The Smoke had filled Metzger fast, though he didn’t call it Smoke then, didn’t call it anything. He proceeded to break at least four bones in the man’s body before the relief shot through him. More than relief—almost sexual.

Sometimes this memory came back, like now, when he happened to touch his hair. Nothing more than that. He remembered the man, his unfocused, slightly crossed eyes. The blood, the remarkably swollen jaw.

And the coffee vendor. No, just ram the stand, scald him, kill him, forget the consequences. The satisfaction would be sublime.

Help me, Dr. Fischer.

But there was no Smoke now. He was in an ecstatic high. Intelligence and surveillance experts were feeding him information about the Rashid operation.

The terrorist—the next task in the queue—was presently meeting with the Matamoros Cartel bomb supplier. Metzger would have given anything to modify the STO to include him as well but the man was a Mexican citizen and getting permission to vaporize him would have meant elaborate discussions with higher-ups in Mexico City and Washington. And heaven knew he had to be careful with them.

Budgetary meetings proceeding apace. Much back-and-forth. Resolution tomorrow. Can’t tell which way the wind is blowing…

He received another call about the progress of the UAV, under the command of Barry Shales in the GCS, the trailer outside Metzger’s window. The craft had launched not from Homestead, as in the Moreno operation, but from the NIOS facility near Fort Hood, Texas. It had crossed into Mexican airspace, with the Federales’ blessing, unlike with Moreno in the Bahamas, and was heading through clear weather toward the target.

His phone rang again. Seeing the caller ID he stiffened and glanced at his open door. He could see Ruth’s hands through the sliver of view into the ante office. She was typing. She had a small window too and sunlight glinted off her modest engagement and impressive wedding rings.

He rose and slid the door closed, then answered. “Yes.”

“Found her,” the man’s voice reported.

No names or code names…

Her.

Nance Laurel.

“Where?”

“Detention center, interviewing a suspect. Not on this case, something else. I’ve confirmed it’s her. She’s there now, pretty much alone. Should I?”

No ending verb to that sentence.

Metzger debated, added pluses and negatives. “Yes.”

He disconnected.

Maybe, just maybe this would all go away.

And he turned his attention back to Mexico, where an enemy of the country was about to die. Shreve Metzger felt swollen with joy.

CHAPTER 66

WHERE’S NANCE LAUREL?” Sachs asked the rotund African American woman on the fifth floor of the New York detention center.

The Department of Corrections officer stiffened and glanced at Sachs’s badge with disdain. Sachs supposed her voice was a bit strident, the greeting rude. It hadn’t been intentional; Nance Laurel simply did this to her.

“Room Five. Box yo weapon.” Back to a People magazine. A scandal was breaking among some quasi-celebrities. Or maybe they were honest-to-God celebs. Sachs had never heard of them.

She wanted to apologize to the woman for her bluntness but couldn’t figure out how. Then her anger at Laurel returned and she slipped the Glock into a locker and slammed the door, drawing a criticizing breath from the lockup mistress. With a buzz the door opened and she stepped through into the grim corridor. It was deserted at the moment. This was the area where high-level prisoners—accused of serious felonies—discussed their cases with their lawyers and cut deals with the prosecutors.

The perfume here was disinfectant and paint and pee.

Sachs strode past the first several rooms, all of which were empty. At Interview #5, she looked through smeared glass and saw a shackled man in an orange jumpsuit sitting across from Laurel at a table bolted to the floor. In the corner was another D of C guard, a huge man whose nearly white shaved head glistened with sweat. His arms were crossed and he looked at the prisoner like a biologist examining yet another specimen of toxic but dead bug.

The doors were self-locking; you needed a key to open them from either side so Sachs banged on the door with her palm.

This must have been strident too, since everybody in the room jumped and swiveled. The guard had no gun but his hand dipped toward the pepper spray on his belt. He saw Sachs, apparently recognized her as a cop and relaxed. The prisoner gazed narrowly at Sachs and the look morphed from startled to hungry.

Sex crime, Sachs deduced.

Laurel’s lips tightened slightly.

She rose. The guard unlocked the door and let the ADA out, then he locked it again and returned to his watchful state.

The women walked to the end of the corridor, away from the door. Laurel asked, “Have you got something on Metzger or Shales?”

“Why ask me?” Sachs countered. “Since I’m not really in the equation.”