Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

“I don’t know what kind of forensic evidence we could find showing that this guy has temper tantrums.”

“I wasn’t thinking forensics. I was thinking general investigation.” The ADA was looking up at Sachs—the detective was eight or nine inches taller. “You have good write-ups in your file for psych profiling and witness interrogation. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something if you look for it.”

Sachs cocked her head slightly, eyes narrowed. Rhyme too was surprised that the ADA had profiled her—and presumably the criminalist himself too.

Studied up…

“So.” The word was delivered by Laurel abruptly. The matter was settled; they’d look for instability. Got it.

Rhyme’s caregiver rounded the corner. He was carrying a pot of fresh coffee. The criminalist introduced the man. He noted that Nance Laurel’s made-up façade stirred briefly as she looked at Thom. An unmistakable focus was in her eyes, though as good looking and charming as he was, Thom Reston was not a romantic option for the woman—who wore no heart-finger rings. But a moment later Rhyme concluded her reaction arose not from attraction to the aide himself but because he resembled somebody she knew or had known closely.

Finally looking away from the young man, Laurel declined coffee, as if it were some ethics breach to indulge on the job. She was digging in her litigation bag, whose contents were perfectly organized. Folder tabs were color-coded and he noted two computers, whose eyes pulsed orange in their state of hibernation. She extracted a document.

“Now,” she said, looking up, “do you want to see the kill order?”

Who could say no to that?

CHAPTER 8

OF COURSE THEY DON’T CALL IT THAT, a kill order,” Nance Laurel assured. “That’s shorthand. The term is ‘STO,’ a Special Task Order.”

“Almost sounds worse,” Lon Sellitto said. “Kind of sanitized, you know. Creepy.”

Rhyme agreed.

Laurel handed Sachs three sheets of paper. “If you could tape them up, so we could all see them?”

Sachs hesitated and then did as the prosecutor requested.

Laurel tapped the first. “Here’s the email that came to our office last Thursday, the eleventh.”

Check the news about Robert Moreno. This is the order behind it. Level Two is the present head of NIOS. His idea to pursue. Moreno was a U.S. citizen. The CD means Collateral Damage. Don Bruns is a code name for the officer who killed him.

—A person with a conscience.

“We’ll see about tracing the email,” Rhyme said. “Rodney.” A glance toward Sachs, who nodded.

She explained to Laurel that they worked with the cybercrimes unit in the NYPD frequently. “I’ll send them a request. Do you have the email in digital form?”

Laurel dug a Baggie containing a flash drive from her briefcase. Rhyme was impressed to see that a chain-of-custody evidence card was attached. She handed it to Sachs, saying, “If you could—”

Just as the detective jotted her name on the card.

Sachs plugged the drive into the side of her computer and began to type.

“You’re going to let them know that security’s a priority.”

Without looking up, Sachs said, “It’s in my first paragraph.” A moment later she sent the request to the CCU.

“Code name sounds familiar,” Sellitto pointed out. “Bruns, Bruns…”

“Maybe the sniper likes country-western music,” Sachs pointed out. “There’s a Don Bruns who’s a songwriter and performer, folk, country-western. Pretty good.”

Laurel cocked her head as if she had never listened to any music, much less something as lively as CW.

“Check with Information Services,” Rhyme said. “Datamine ‘Bruns.’ If it’s a NOC, he’ll still have a presence in the real world.”

Agents operating under non-official covers nonetheless have credit cards and passports that can—possibly—allow their movements to be traced and yield clues to their true identity. Information Services was a new division at the NYPD, a massive datamining operation, one of the best in the country.

As Sachs put the request in, Laurel turned back to the board and tapped a second sheet she’d taped up there. “And here’s the order itself.”

RET - TOP SECRET - TOP SECRET - TOP SE

Special Task Orders

Queue 8/27

Task: Robert A. Moreno (NIOS ID: ram278e4w5)

Born: 4/75, New Jersey

Complete by: 5/8–5/9

Approvals:

Level Two: Yes

Level One: Yes

Supporting Documentation:

See “A”

Confirmation required: Yes

PIN required: Yes

CD: Approved, but minimize

Details:

Specialist assigned: Don Bruns, Kill Room. South Cove Inn, Bahamas, Suite 1200

Status: Closed 9/27

Task: Al-Barani Rashid (NIOS ID: abr942pd5t)

Born: 2/73, Michigan

Complete by: 5/19

Approvals:

Level Two: Yes

Level One: Yes

Supporting Documentation:

N/R

Confirmation required: No

PIN required: Yes

CD: Approved, but minimize

Details: To come

Status: Pending

The other document on the board was headed “A.” This gave the information that Nance Laurel had mentioned earlier, supporting data about the shipments of fertilizer and diesel fuel and chemicals to the Bahamas. The shipments were from Corinto, Nicaragua and Caracas.

Laurel nodded toward the flash drive, still inserted into the computer nearby. “The whistleblower also sent a .wav file, a sound file of a phone call or radio transmission to the sniper, apparently from his commander. This was just before the shooting.” She looked expectantly at Sachs, who paused then sat down at the computer again. She typed. A moment later, a brief exchange came from the tinny speakers:

“There seem to be two, no three people in the room.”

“Can you positively identify Moreno?”

“It’s…there’s some glare. Okay, that’s better. Yes. I can identify the task. I can see him.”

Then the transmission ended. Rhyme was about to ask Sachs to run a voiceprint but she’d already done so. He said, “It doesn’t prove he actually pulled the trigger but it gets him on the scene. Now all we need is a body to go with the voice.”

“‘Specialists,’” Laurel pointed out. “That’s the official job title of assassins, apparently.”

“What’s with the NIOS ID code?” Sellitto asked.

“Presumably to make sure they get the right R. A. Moreno. Embarrassing to make that mistake.” Rhyme read. “Interesting that the whistleblower didn’t give us the name of the shooter.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know,” Sellitto said.

Sachs: “Looks like he knows everything else. His conscience extends up to a certain point. He’ll dime out the head of the organization but he’s sympathetic toward the guy who got the assignment to shoot.”

Laurel said, “I agree. The whistleblower has to know. I want him too. Not to prosecute, just for information. He’s our best lead to the sniper—and without the sniper there’s no conspiracy and no case.”

Sachs said, “Even if we find him he’s not going to tell us willingly. Otherwise he already would have.”

Laurel said absently, “You get me the whistleblower…and he’ll talk. He’ll talk.”

Sachs asked, “Any consideration about going after Metzger for the other deaths, the guard and that reporter, de la Rua?”

“No, since only Moreno was named in the kill order and they were collateral damage we didn’t want to muddy the waters.”

Sachs’s sour expression seemed to say: even though they were just as dead as the target. Can’t confuse the precious jury, can we?

Rhyme said, “Give me the details of the killing itself.”

“We have very little. The Bahamian police gave us a preliminary report, then everything shut down from them. They’re not returning calls. What we know is that Moreno was in his suite when he was shot.” She indicated the STO. “Suite twelve hundred. The Kill Room, they’re calling it. The sniper was shooting from an outcrop of land about two thousand yards from the hotel.”