The Kill Room (7 page)

Hands on her hips, Amelia Sachs studied the whiteboard.

She noted Rhyme glance without interest at her flowing script. He wouldn’t pay much attention to what she’d written until hard facts—evidence, mostly, in his case—began to appear.

It was just the three of them at the moment, Sachs, Laurel and Rhyme. Lon Sellitto had gone downtown to recruit a specially picked canvass-and-surveillance team from Captain Bill Myers’s Special Services operation; with secrecy a priority, Laurel didn’t want to use regular Patrol Division officers.

Sachs returned to her desk. She didn’t do well sitting still and that was largely what she’d been doing for the past two hours. Confined here, the bad habits returned: She’d dig one nail into another, scratch her scalp to bleeding. Fidgety by nature, she felt a compulsion to walk, to be outside, to drive. Her father had coined an expression that was her anthem:

When you move they can’t getcha…

The line had meant several things to Herman Sachs. Certainly it could refer to his job,
their
job—he too had been a cop, a portable, walking his beat in the Deuce, Times Square, at a time when the murder rate in the city was at an all-time high. Fast of foot, fast of thought, fast of eye could keep you alive.

Life in general too. Moving… The briefer you were a target for any harm, the better, whether from lovers, bosses, rivals. He’d recited those words a lot, up until he died (some things, your own failing body, for instance, you can’t outrun).

But all cases require backgrounding and paperwork and that was particularly true in this one, where facts were hard to come by and the crime scene inaccessible. So Sachs was in desk job prison at the moment, plowing through documents and canvassing—discreetly—via phone. She turned from the board and sat once more as she absently dug a thumbnail into the quick of a finger. Pain spread. She ignored it. A faint swirl of red appeared on a piece of intelligence she was reading and she ignored this too.

Some of the tension was due to the Overseer, which was how Sachs had come to think of Nance Laurel. She wasn’t used to anyone looking over her shoulder, even her superiors—and as a detective third, Amelia Sachs had a lot of those. Laurel had fully moved in now—with two impressive laptops up and running—and had had even more thick files delivered.

Was she going to have a folding cot brought in next?

The unsmiling, focused Laurel, on the other hand, wasn’t the least edgy. She hunched over documents, clattered away loudly and irritatingly at the keyboards and jotted notes in extremely small, precise lettering. Page after page was examined, notated and organized. Passages on the computer screen were read carefully and then rejected or given a new incarnation via the laser printer and joined their comrades in the files of
People v. Metzger, et al.

Sachs rose, walked to the whiteboards again and then returned to the dreaded chair, trying to learn what she could about Moreno’s trip to New York on April 30 through May 2. She’d been canvassing hotels and car services. She was getting through to human beings about two-thirds of the time, leaving messages the rest.

She glanced across the room toward Rhyme; he was on the phone, trying to get the Bahamian police to cooperate. His expression explained that he wasn’t having any more luck than she was.

Then Sachs’s phone buzzed. The call was from Rodney Szarnek, with the NYPD Computer Crimes Unit, an elite group of thirty or so detectives and support staff. Although Rhyme was a traditional forensic scientist, he and Sachs had worked more and more closely with CCU in recent years; computers and cell phones—and the wonderful evidence they retained, seemingly forever—were crucial to running successful investigations nowadays. Szarnek was in his forties, Sachs estimated, but his age was hard to determine for sure. Szarnek projected youth—from his shaggy hair to his uniform of wrinkled jeans and T-shirt to his passionate love of “boxes,” as he called computers.

Not to mention his addiction to loud and usually bad rock music.

Which now blared in the background.

“Hey, Rodney,” Sachs now said, “could we de-volume that a bit. You mind?”

“Sorry.”

Szarnek was key to finding the whistleblower who’d leaked the STO. He was tracing the anonymous email with its STO kill order attachment, working backward from the destination, the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office, and trying to find where the leaker had been when he sent it.

“It’s taking some time,” the man reported, over a faint 4/4 rock beat of bass and drum. “The email was routed through proxies halfway around the world. Well, actually
all
the way around the world. So far I’ve traced it back from the DA’s Office to a remailer in Taiwan and from there to Romania. And I’ll tell you, the Romanians are
not
in a cooperating mode. But I got some information on the box he was using. He tried to be smart but he tripped up.”

“You mean you found the brand of his computer?”

“Possibly. His agent user string…Uhm, do you know what that is?”

Sachs confessed she didn’t.

“It’s information your computer sends out to routers and servers and other computers when you’re online. Anybody can see it and find out exactly what your operating system and browser are. Now, your
whistleblower’s
box was running Apple’s OS Nine two two and Internet Explorer Five for Mac. That goes back a long time. It really narrows the field. I’m guessing he had an iBook laptop. That was the first portable Mac to have an antenna built in so he could’ve logged into Wi-Fi for the upload without any separate modem or server.”

An iBook? Sachs had never heard of it. “How old, Rodney?”

“Over ten years. Probably one he bought secondhand and paid cash for it, so it couldn’t be traced back to him. That’s where he tried to be smart. But he didn’t figure that we could find out the brand.”

“What would it look like?”

“If we’re lucky it’ll be a clamshell model—they came two-toned, white and some bright colors, like green or tangerine. They’re shaped just what they sound like.”

“Clams.”

“Well, rounded. There’s a standard rectangular model too, solid graphite, square. But it’d be big. Twice as thick as today’s laptops. That’s how you could recognize it.”

“Good, Rodney. Thanks.”

“I’ll stay on the router. The Romanians’ll cave. I just need to negotiate.”

Up with the music, and the line went dead.

Sachs glanced around and found Nance Laurel looking at her, the expression on the ADA’s face both blank and inquisitive. How did she manage that? Sachs told the woman and Rhyme about the cybercrime cop’s response. Rhyme nodded, unimpressed, and returned to the phone. He said nothing. Sachs supposed he was on hold.

Laurel nodded approvingly, it seemed. “If you could document that and send it to me.”

“What?”

A pause. “What you just told me about the tracing and the type of computer.”

Sachs said, “I was just going to write it up on the board.” A nod toward the whiteboard.

“I’d actually like everything documented in as close to real time as possible.” The ADA’s nod was toward her own stacks of files. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

The prosecutor wielded the words “if you…” like a bludgeon.

Sachs did mind but wasn’t inclined to fight this battle. She pounded out the brief memo on her keyboard.

Laurel added, “Thank you. Just send it to me in an email and I’ll print it out myself. The secure server, of course.”

“Of course.” Sachs fired off the document, noting that the prosecutor’s micromanagement didn’t seem to extend to Lincoln Rhyme.

Her phone buzzed and she lifted a surprised eyebrow, noting caller ID.

At last. A solid lead. The caller was a secretary at Elite Limousines, one of dozens of livery operations Sachs had canvassed earlier, inquiring if Robert Moreno had used their services on May 1. In fact, he had. The woman said the man had hired a car and driver for an as-directed assignment, meaning that Moreno had given the driver the locations he wished to go to after being picked up. The company had no record of those stops but the woman gave Sachs the driver’s name and number.

She then called the driver, identified herself and asked if she could come interview him in connection with a case.

In a heavily accented voice, hard to understand, he said he supposed so and he gave her his address. She disconnected and rose, pulling on her jacket.

“Got Moreno’s driver for his visit here on May first,” she said to Rhyme. “I’m going to interview him.”

Laurel said quickly, “Any chance you could write up your notes on Agent Dellray’s news before you go?”

“First thing I’m back.”

She noted Laurel stiffen but it seemed that
this
was a battle the
prosecutor
wasn’t willing to fight.

A
T THIS POINT IN A STANDARD INVESTIGATION
Lincoln Rhyme would have enlisted the aid of perhaps the best forensics lab man in the city, NYPD detective Mel Cooper.

But the presence of the slim, unflappable Cooper was pointless in the absence of physical evidence and all he’d done was alert the man to be on call—which to Lincoln Rhyme meant being prepared to drop everything, short of open-heart surgery, and get your ass to the lab. Stat.

But that possibility didn’t seem very likely at the moment. Rhyme was now back to the task that had taken all morning: trying to actually get possession of some of the physical evidence in the Moreno shooting.

He was on hold for the fourth time with an official in the Royal Bahamas Police Force in Nassau. A voice, at last: “Yes, hello. Can I help you?” a woman asked in a melodious alto.

About time. But he reined in the impatience even though he had to explain all over again. “This is Captain Rhyme. I’m with the New York City Police Department.” He’d given up on “consulting with” or “working with.” That was too complicated and seemed to arouse suspicion. He’d get Lon Sellitto to informally deputize him if anyone called his bluff. (He wished somebody
would
, in fact; bluff-callers are people who can get things done.)

“New York, yes.”

“I’d like to speak to someone in your forensics department.”

“Crime Scene, yes.”

“That’s right.” Rhyme pictured the woman he was speaking to as a lazy, not particularly bright civil servant sitting in a dusty un-air-conditioned office, beneath a slowly revolving fan.

Possibly an unfair image.

“I’m sorry, you wanted which department?”

Possibly not.

“Forensics. A supervisor. This is about the Robert Moreno killing.”

“Please hold.”

“No, please…Wait!”

Click.

Fuck.

Five minutes later he found himself talking to the woman officer he was sure had taken his first call, though she didn’t seem to remember him. Or was pretending not to. He repeated his request and this time—after a burst of inspiration—added, “I’m sorry for the urgency. It’s just that the reporters keep calling. I’ll have to send them directly to your office if I can’t give them information myself.”

He had no idea what threat this was meant to convey exactly; he was improvising.

“Reporters?” she asked dubiously.

“CNN, ABC, CBS. Fox. All of them.”

“I see. Yes, sir.”

But the ploy had its effect, because the next hold was for three seconds, tops.

“Poitier speaking.” Deep, melodious, with a British accent and a Caribbean inflection; Rhyme knew the lilt not from having been to the islands himself but owing to his role in putting a few people from that part of the world in New York jails. The Jamaican gangs outstripped the Mafia for violence, hands down.

“Hello. This is Lincoln Rhyme with the New York Police Department.” He wanted to add, Do
not
, under any fucking circumstances, put me on hold. But refrained.

The Bahamian cop: “Ah, yes.” Cautious.

“Who’m I speaking to? Officer Poitier, did I hear?”

“Corporal Mychal Poitier.”

“And you’re with Crime Scene?”

“No. I’m the lead investigator in the Moreno shooting…Wait, you said you’re Lincoln Rhyme. Captain Rhyme. Well.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“We have one of your forensics books in our library. I’ve read it.”

Maybe this would earn him a modicum of cooperation. On the other hand, the corporal had not said whether he’d liked the book or found it helpful. The latest edition’s bio page reported that Rhyme was retired, a fact that Poitier, fortunately, didn’t seem to know.

Rhyme now made his pitch. Without naming Metzger or NIOS, he explained that the NYPD believed there was an American connection in the Moreno killing. “I have some questions about the shooting, about the evidence. Do you have some time now? Can we talk?”

A pause worthy of Nance Laurel. “I’m afraid not, sir. The Moreno case has been put on hold for the time being and there are—”

“I’m sorry, on
hold
?” An open case of a homicide that occurred a week ago? This was the time when the investigation should be at its most intense.

“That’s correct, Captain.”

“But why? You have a suspect in custody?”

“No, sir. First, I don’t know what American connection you’re speaking of; the killing was committed by members of a drug cartel from Venezuela, most likely. We’re waiting to hear from authorities there before we proceed further. And I personally have had to focus on a more urgent case. A part-time student who’s just gone missing, an American girl. Ah, these crimes happen some in our nation.” Poitier added defensively, “But rarely. Very rarely. You know how it is, sir. A pretty student disappears and the press descends. Like vultures.”

The press. Maybe that was why Rhyme finally got put through. His bluff had touched a nerve.

The corporal continued, “We have less rape than Newark, New Jersey, much less. But a missing student in the Islands is magnified like a telephoto lens. And I have to say, with all respect, your news programs are most unfair. The British press too. But now we have lost an American student and not a British one, so it will be CNN and the rest. Vultures. With all respect.”

He was rambling now—to deflect, Rhyme sensed. “Corporal—”

“It’s most unfair,” Poitier repeated. “A student comes here from America. She comes here on holiday or—this girl—to study for a semester. And it’s always our fault. They say terrible things about us.”

Rhyme had lost all patience but he struggled to remain calm. “Again, Corporal, about the Moreno murder? Now, we’re sure the cartels had nothing to do with his death.”

Silence now, in stark contrast with the officer’s earlier rambling. Then: “Well, my efforts are on finding the student.”

“I don’t care about the student,” Rhyme blurted, bad taste maybe but, in fact, at the moment he didn’t. “Robert Moreno. Please. There
is
an American connection and I’m looking into it now. There’s some urgency.”

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

Born: 2/73, Michigan

Rhyme couldn’t begin to guess who this Rashid was, the next name in the STO queue, and doubted he was an innocent soccer dad in Connecticut. But he agreed with Nance Laurel that the man shouldn’t die on the basis of faulty, or faked, information.

Complete by: 5/19…

Rhyme continued, “I’d like a copy of the crime scene report, photos of the scene and the nest the sniper was shooting from, autopsy reports, lab analysis. All the documentation. And any datamined information about someone named Don Bruns on the island around the time of the shooting. It’s a cover. An AKA for the sniper.”

“Well, we don’t actually have the final report yet. Some notes but it’s not complete.”

“Not complete?” Rhyme muttered. “The killing was on May ninth.”

“I believe that’s right.”

He
believes
?

Rhyme suddenly felt a stab of concern. “Of course the scene’s been searched?”

“Yes, yes, naturally.”

Well, this was a relief.

Poitier said, “The day after Mr. Moreno was shot we got right to it.”

“Next day?”

“Yes.” Poitier hesitated as if he knew this was a misstep. “We had another situation, another case that same day. A prominent lawyer was killed and robbed downtown, in his office. That took priority. Mr. Moreno was not a national. The lawyer was.”

Two conditions made crime scenes infinitely less valuable to investigators. The first was contamination from people trudging through the site—including careless police officers themselves. The second was the passage of time between the crime and the search. Evidence key to establishing a suspect’s identity and conviction could, literally, evaporate in a matter of hours.

Waiting a day to search a scene could cut the amount of vital evidence in half.

“So the scene is still sealed?”

“Yes, sir.”

That was something. In a voice he hoped was suitably grave Rhyme said, “Corporal, the reason we’re involved here is that we think whoever killed Moreno will kill again.”

“Is that true, do you think?” He sounded genuinely concerned. “Here?”

“We don’t know.”

Then someone else was speaking to the corporal. A hand went over the mouthpiece of the phone, and Rhyme could hear only mumbles. Poitier came back on the line. “I will take your number, Captain, and if I am able to find anything helpful I will give you a call.”

Rhyme’s jaw clenched. He gave the number then quickly asked, “Could you search the scene again, please?”

“With all respect, Captain, you have far greater resources in New York than we do here. And, to be honest, this has all been a little overwhelming for me. It’s my first homicide case. A foreign activist, a sniper, a luxury resort, and—”

“First homicide case?”

“Well, yes.”

“Corporal, with all respect—” Echoing the man’s own line. “—could I speak to a supervisor?”

Poitier didn’t sound insulted when he said, “One moment, please.” Again the hand went over the receiver. Rhyme could hear muted words. He thought he could make out “Moreno” and “New York.”

Poitier came back on a moment later. “I’m sorry, Captain. It seems my supervisor is unavailable. But I have your number. I will be glad to call you when we know something more.”

Rhyme believed this might be his only chance. He thought quickly. “Just tell me one thing: Did you recover bullets intact?”

“One, yes, and—” His conversation braked to a halt. “I’m not sure. Excuse me, please. I must go.”

Rhyme said, “The bullet? That’s key to the case. Just tell me—”

“I believe I may have been mistaken about that. I must hang up now.”

“Corporal, what was the department with the police force you transferred from?”

Another pause. “Business Inspections and Licensing Division, sir. And before that, Traffic. I must go.”

The line died.