Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

What now? she thought.

What now…

The teakettle’s whistle was blowing. Had been blowing. Shrill. She was suddenly aware of it. She went into the small space and put a rose hip bag in the mug—navy blue on the outside, white in, matching her outfit, she realized. She should change.

Later.

Laurel stared at the kettle for a full minute. Shut off the heat but did not pour the boiling liquid. She returned to the couch.

What now?

This was the worst of all possible outcomes. If she’d won the convictions of Metzger and Barry Shales, well, that would have made her world. It would have made her life . There was no way to describe the importance that this case had taken on for her. She remembered in law school being mesmerized by the stories of the greats of the legal system in America—the lawyers, prosecutors and judges. Clarence Darrow, William O. Douglas, Felix Frankfurter, Benjamin Cardozo, Earl Warren…so many, many others. Louis D. Brandeis she thought of often.

The federal Constitution is perhaps the greatest of human experiments…

There was nothing as marvelous as the machine of justice and she wanted so badly to be a part of it, to make her own imprint on American law.

Her proudest day was law school graduation. She remembered looking out over the audience. Her father had been alone. This was because her mother was arguing a case before the Court of Appeals in Albany—the highest state appellate court—trying to get a homeless man’s murder conviction reversed.

Laurel couldn’t describe how honored she was that the woman wasn’t present that day.

The Moreno case was to be her way of validating sacrifices like those. Okay, and of making a name for herself too. Amelia had nailed it right when she’d sussed out the political career track. The ambition remained even if her name ultimately decorated no ballot.

Yet even a loss at the Metzger trial would have succeeded in a way. NIOS’s Kill Room would have been exposed. That might have been enough to sink the assassination program forever. The hungry media and more-starved congressmen would have been all over NIOS like flies.

She’d have been sacrificed—her career would have ended—but at least she would have made sure the truth of Metzger’s crimes came out.

But now, this? Her boss pulling the case? No, there was nothing good to come of that.

She supposed the whistleblower had vanished and there would be no more identification of other victims in the queue. Sorry, Mr. Rashid.

What was in her future? Laurel laughed at the question. Returned to the kitchen and this time actually brewed a cup of tea. Adding two sugars on the grounds that rose hips were tart. The future, right: an unemployment period she’d spend with Seinfeld reruns and dining on one then what the hell a second Lean Cuisine. One glass of Kendall-Jackson too many. Computer chess. Then interviews. Then a job at a big Wall Street firm.

Her heart sank.

She now thought of David, as she often did. Always did. “The thing is, look, you’re pushing me for an answer, Nance. Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s you’re kind of a schoolmarm. You know what I mean? I can’t live up to that. You want everything perfect, everything right. You correct, you find fault. There, sorry. I didn’t want to say it. You made me.”

Forget him.

You’ve got your career.

Except you don’t.

On her bookshelf—half law books, half novels, one cookbook—was a picture of her and David. Both smiling.

Below that was a boxed chess set, wood, not plastic.

Throw it out, she told herself.

I will.

Not yet.

All right. Enough of that. Self-pity was what she saw in the most depraved of sex perverts and murderers and she wasn’t going to allow it to seep into her soul. You’ve still got your caseload. Get to work. She—

A noise in the hallway.

A tap, a click, a faint thud.

Then nothing.

Mrs. Parsons dropping her shopping bag. Mr. Lefkowitz juggling toy poodle and cane.

She stared at the TV, then at the microwave, then at the bedroom.

Get out the fucking brief in State v. Gonzalez and start editing.

Laurel jumped when the doorbell rang.

She walked to the door. “Who is it?”

“Detective Flaherty, NYPD.”

Never heard of him but Manhattan boasted a cop population in the thousands. Laurel peered through the peephole. A white guy, thirties, slim, a suit. He was holding his ID open, though all she could see was a glint of badge.

“How’d you get inside?” she called.

“Somebody was leaving. I rang your buzzer but nobody answered. I was going to leave a note but thought I’d try anyway.”

So the bell was out again.

“Okay, just a minute.” She opened the chain and the dead-bolt latch, pulling open the door.

And only then did Nance Laurel think, as the man stepped forward, that she probably should have had him slip his ID under the door so she could read it.

But why worry? The case is over with. I’m no threat to anyone.

CHAPTER 75

BARRY SHALES WASN’T A LARGE MAN.

“Compact” was how he was often described.

And his job was sedentary, sitting before flat-screen panels, hands on the joysticks of UAVs, the computer keyboard before him.

But he lifted free weights—because he enjoyed working out.

He jogged—because he enjoyed jogging.

And the former air force captain held the opinion, wholly unsupported, that the more you liked working out the better your muscles responded.

So when he pushed past an alarmed Ruth, the guard dog of a personal assistant, into Shreve Metzger’s office and drew back an arm and slugged his boss, the skinny man stumbled and went down hard.

The head of NIOS dropped to one knee, arms flailing. Files slid off the desk from trying to catch himself.

Shales strode forward, arm drawn back again, but hesitated. The one blow was enough to deflate the anger that had been growing since he’d seen the impromptu soccer match between the task he’d been ordered to blast into molecules and a teenage boy in the courtyard of the safe house in a dingy Mexican suburb.

He lowered his fist, stepped back. But he felt no inclination to help Metzger up and he crossed his arms and watched coldly as the shaken man pressed a hand to his cheek and clumsily rose, collecting the files that had fallen. Shales noted that several manila binders sported a classified stamp that he was not familiar with despite his stratospheric security clearance.

He noted too that Metzger’s first concern at the moment wasn’t the injury but securing the secret files.

“Barry…Barry.” He looked behind Shales and shook his head. Ruth, shocked, hovered, not unlike a drone herself. Metzger smiled at her and pointed to the door. She hesitated then stepped out, closing it.

The man’s smile vanished.

Shales walked to the window, breathing deeply. He glanced down to see the fake Maersk container in NIOS’s parking lot. A look at the Ground Control Station from which he’d very nearly killed at least three innocent civilians minutes ago re-ignited his anger.

He turned back to Metzger. But the director didn’t cower or beg. He gave no response, physical or verbal, except to touch his cheek again and peruse the smear of red on his finger and thumb.

“Did you know?” Shales asked.

“About the collateral in Reynosa? No.” As NIOS head, he would have followed the attack in real time. “Of course not.”

“I’d launched, Shreve. The Hellfire was in the air! What do you think about that? We were ten seconds away from murdering a young boy and girl and a woman who was probably their mother. And who the hell else was inside, as well?”

“You saw the documentation with the STO. The surveillance program we put in place for Rashid was totally robust. We had DEA and Mexican federal surveillance reports—twenty-four/seven. Nobody had gone inside or come out for a week. Who holes up for seven days, Barry? You ever hear of that? I never have.” Metzger sat down. “Hell, Barry, we’re not God. We do what we can. My ass was on the line too, you know. If anybody else’d died, it would have been the end of my career. Probably NIOS too.”