The Kill Room (37 page)

T
HE SITE WAS SECURE
, Shreve Metzger had been told, and he piloted his government car from the staging area a few blocks away through the trim streets to the home of his administrations director.

His friend.

His Judas.

Metzger was astonished to see that the man’s pleasant suburban house, where he’d had dinner two weeks ago, looked like some of the battlefield locales he remembered from Iraq, except for the lush grass and the Lexuses and Mercs parked on the street nearby. Trees smoldered and smoke dribbled skyward from Boston’s windows. The smell would be in the walls for years, even after painting. And forget the furniture and clothing.

Metzger’s own brand of Smoke filled him. He thought again for the hundredth time that day: How could you have done this, Spencer?

As with anybody who had affronted him—from rude coffee vendor to someone like this traitor—Metzger felt a mousetrap snap, a nearly overwhelming urge to grab them, shatter their bones, scream, draw blood. Utterly destroy.

But then, thinking that Boston’s life as he’d lived it would be over with, Metzger decided that was punishment enough. The Smoke within him faded.

A good sign, Dr. Fischer?

Probably it was. But would the serenity last? Maybe, maybe not. Why did all the important battles have to be lifetime battles? Weight, anger, love…

He flashed an ID at a couple of local uniforms and ducked under the tape, walking toward Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs.

He greeted them and then learned his administrations director’s motive for leaking the STO. The sin arose not from conscience or ideology or money. But simply because he was passed over for the job of head of NIOS.

Metzger was stunned. For one thing, Boston was totally wrong for the senior job. For all his scrawny physique and bland eyes, Metzger was a killer. Whatever makes your own personal Smoke go away defines you.

Spencer Boston, on the other hand, was a diligent and meticulous national security professional, an organizer, a player, a dealer, a man who got things done in the hazy streets of Managua or Rio. Who didn’t own a gun and wouldn’t know how to use one—or have the guts to do so.

What on earth would he do with an organization like NIOS, whose sole purpose was to end lives?

But ambition doesn’t grow from logic, Metzger knew.

He now nodded a tepid farewell to Rhyme and Sachs. He’d hoped to confront Spencer Boston but Sachs had explained that the administrations director had gone to be with his wife and children in Larchmont. He hadn’t been officially arrested yet. There was still considerable debate as to what crime, if any, he’d committed. The charges would be federal, not state, however, so the NYPD’s involvement was marginal.

Nothing more to do here.

Spencer, how could you…

He turned abruptly toward his car.

And nearly walked smack into stocky Assistant District Attorney Nance Laurel.

They both froze, inches away from each other.

He was silent. She said, “You were lucky this time.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“Moreno’s renunciation of his citizenship. That’s why the case got dropped. The only reason.”

Shreve Metzger wondered if she held everyone’s eyes so steadily. Probably. Everyone except lovers’, he suspected. In this they were the same. And he wondered where on earth that thought had come from.

She continued, “How did you manage to pull it off?”

“What?”

“Did Moreno really renounce? Were those documents from the embassy in Costa Rica legitimate?”

“Are you accusing me of obstruction?”

“You’re guilty of obstruction,” she said. “That’s a given. We’re choosing not to pursue those charges. I just want to know specifically about the renunciation documents.”

Meaning calls had been made from Washington to Albany dictating that obstruction charges not be brought. Metzger wondered if this was a farewell present from the Wizard. Probably not. A case like that would look bad for everybody.

“I don’t really have anything more to say on that topic, Counselor. Take it up with State.”

“Who’s al-Barani Rashid?”

So she had at least two entries in the STO queue—Moreno’s and Rashid’s.

“I can’t discuss NIOS operations with you. You don’t have a clearance.”

“Is he dead?”

Metzger said nothing. He kept his hazel eyes locked easily on hers.

Laurel pressed ahead, “You’re positive Rashid is guilty?”

The Smoke boiled and cracked his skin like an eggshell. He whispered harshly, “Walker used me, he used NIOS.”

“You
let
yourself be used. You heard what you wanted to about Moreno and stopped asking questions.”

Smoke, plumes and plumes of Smoke now. “What’s wrong, Counselor? Upset that all you ended up with was a run-of-the-mill homicide? A CEO at a defense contractor orders a couple of hits? Boring. Won’t make CNN the way a federal security director’s going to jail would.”

She didn’t rise to the argument. “And Rashid? No mistakes there, you’re convinced?”

Metzger couldn’t help but recall that Barry Shales—and he—had nearly blown two children to oblivion in Reynosa, Mexico.

CD: Not approved…

An urge to strike Laurel swelled. Or to lash out with cruel words about her short stature, wide hips, excessive makeup, her parents’ bankruptcy, her failed love life—a deduction but surely accurate. Metzger’s anger had inflicted only a half dozen bruises or welts over the years; his words had hurt legions. The Smoke did that. The Smoke made you inhuman.

Just leave.

He turned.

Laurel said evenly, “And what’s Rashid’s crime—saying things about America
you
didn’t like? Asking people to question the values and the integrity of the country?…But isn’t being free to ask questions like that what America’s all about?”

Metzger stopped fast, turned and snapped, “Spoken like the most simple-minded, cliché-ridden of bloggers.” He reseated himself in front of her. “What is it with you? Why do you resent what we do so much?”

“Because what you do is wrong. The United States is a country of laws, not men.”

“‘Government’ of laws,” he corrected. “John Adams. It’s a nice-sounding phrase. But parse it and things aren’t so simple. A government of laws. Okay. Think about that: Laws require interpretation and delegations of power, down and down the line. To people like me—who make decisions on how to implement those laws.”

She fired back with: “Laws don’t include ignoring due process and executing citizens arbitrarily.”

“There’s nothing arbitrary about what I do.”

“No? You kill people you
think
are going to commit an offense.”

“All right, Counselor. What about a policeman on the street? He sees a perp in a dark alley with what might be a gun. It seems that he’s about to shoot someone. The cop is authorized to kill, right? Where’s your due process there, where’s your reasonable search and seizure, where’s your right to confront your accuser?”

“Ah, but Moreno
didn’t
have a gun.”

“And sometimes the guy in the alley only has a cell phone. But he gets shot anyway because we’ve chosen to give the police the right to make judgments.” He gave a deep, chill laugh. “Tell me, aren’t you guilty of the same thing?”

“What do you mean?” she snapped.

“What about
my
due process? What about Barry Shales’s?”

She frowned.

He continued, “In making the case, did you datamine me? Or Barry? Did you get classified information from, say, the FBI? Did you somehow ‘accidentally’ happen to get your hands on NSA intercepts?”

An awkward hesitation. Was she blushing beneath the white mask? “Every bit of evidence I present at trial can pass Fourth Amendment scrutiny.”

Metzger smiled. “I’m not talking about trial. I’m talking about unwarranted gathering of information as part of an investigation.”

Laurel blinked. She said nothing.

He whispered, “You see? We both interpret, we judge, we make decisions. We live in a gray world.”

“You want another quotation, Shreve? Blackstone: ‘Better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer.’ That’s what
my
system does, makes sure the innocent don’t end up as victims.
Yours
doesn’t.” She fished her keys from her battered purse. “I’m going to keep watching you.”

“Then I’ll look forward to seeing you in court, Counselor.”

He turned and walked back to his car. He sat, calming, in the front seat, not looking back. Breathing.

Let it go.

Five minutes later he started at his phone’s buzz. He noted Ruth’s number on caller ID.

“Hi, there.”

“Uhm, Shreve. I heard. Is it true about Spencer?”

“Afraid it is. I’ll tell you more later. I don’t want to talk on an open line.”

“Okay. But that’s not why I called. We heard from Washington.”

The Wizard.

“He wanted to schedule a call with you for tomorrow afternoon.”

Didn’t firing squads gather at
dawn
?

“That’s fine,” he said. “Send me the details.” He stretched. A joint popped. “Say, Ruth?”

“Yes?”

“What did he sound like?”

There was a pause. “He…It wasn’t so good, I don’t think, Shreve.”

“Okay, Ruth. Thank you.”

He disconnected and looked out over the busy crime scene at Spencer Boston’s house. The sour chemical vapors still lingered, surrounding the Colonial home and the grounds.

Smoke…

So that was it. Whether Moreno was guilty or not was irrelevant; Washington now had plenty of reason to disband NIOS. Metzger had picked for his administrations director a whistleblower, and for his defense contractor a corrupt CEO who’d ordered people tortured and killed.

This was the end.

Metzger sighed and put the car in gear, thinking: Sorry, America. I did the best I could.

A
T NINE ON SATURDAY MORNING
Lincoln Rhyme was maneuvering through the lab and dictating the evidence report to back up the Walker trial and the Swann plea agreement.

He noted too his calendar, up on a big monitor.

He smiled at the second line, Thom’s entry.

The town house was quiet. His aide was in the kitchen and Sachs was in her apartment in Brooklyn. She’d had basement problems and was waiting for the contractor. She would also be seeing Nance Laurel later today—getting together for drinks and dinner.

And dish on men too…

Rhyme was pleased the women had, against all odds, become friends. Sachs didn’t have many.

The sound of a doorbell echoed and Rhyme heard Thom’s footfalls making for the portal. A moment later he returned with a tall figure in a brown suit, white shirt and green tie whose hue he couldn’t begin to describe.

NYPD Captain Bill Myers. Special Services Division. Whatever that might be.

Greetings were exchanged and the man fell into an effusive tone, with Myers complimenting Rhyme on the resolution of the case.

“Never in a million years would have seen that potentiality,” the captain said.

“Was surprised at how it turned out.”

“I’ll say. Some pretty decent deductions on your part.”

The word “decent” only describes that which is socially proper or non-obscene; it doesn’t mean fair or good. But you can’t change a jargonist so Rhyme kept mum. He realized that silence had descended as Myers took in the gas chromatograph with an intensity that circumstances—and the equipment itself—didn’t warrant.

Then the captain looked around the lab and observed that they were alone.

And Rhyme knew.

“This’s about Amelia, right, Bill?”

Wishing he hadn’t used her first name. Neither of them was the least superstitious, except in this tradition. They never referred to each other by their givens.

“Yes. Lon talked to you? About my problems with her health issues?”

“He did.”

“Let me unpack it further,” Myers said. “I allowed her some time to finish this case and then have her take a medical. But I’m not going that route. I read the report of the take-down in Glen Cove, when she and Officer Pulaski collared Jacob Swann. The medic’s report said that her knee gave out completely after the suspect noticed she was in pain and kicked or hit it. If Officer Pulaski hadn’t been there she would have been killed. And Spencer Boston too, and maybe a few of the tactical officers as they did a dynamic entry.”

Rhyme said bluntly, “She took down the perp, Bill.”

“She was lucky. The report said afterward she could hardly walk.”

“She’s fine now.”

“Is she?”

No, she wasn’t. Rhyme said nothing.

“It’s the elephant in the room, Lincoln. Nobody wants to talk about it but it’s a problematic circumstance. She’s putting herself and other people at risk. I wanted to talk to you alone about this. We huddled and conjured up a decision. I’m promoting her out of the field. She’ll be a supervisor in Major Cases. And we’ll rank her. Sergeant. But I know there’ll be pushback from her.”

Rhyme was furious. This was his Sachs the captain was talking about in the cheapest of clichés.

But he kept silent.

The captain continued, “I need you to talk her into it, Lincoln. We don’t want to lose her; she’s too good. But the department can’t keep her if she insists on being in the field. Desking her’s the only option.”

And what would she do post-NYPD? Become a freelance consultant, like him? But that wasn’t Sachs’s way. She was a brilliant crime scene searcher, with her natural empathy and dogged nature. But she had to be a cop in the field, not lab-bound, like he was. And forensics wasn’t her only specialty, of course; if she couldn’t speed to a hostage taking or robbery in progress to engage the perp, she’d wither.

“Will you talk to her, Lincoln?”

Finally he said, “I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you. It’s for her own good, you know. We really do want the best. It’ll be a three-sixty for everybody.”

The captain shook his hand and departed.

Rhyme stared at the table where Sachs had recently been sitting to work the Moreno case. He believed he could smell some of the gardenia soap she favored though possibly that was just a fragrance memory.

I’ll talk to her…

Then he turned his wheelchair and motored back to the whiteboards, examining them closely. Taking, as always, comfort in the elegance and intrigue of evidence.