Lincoln Rhyme: The Kill Room Part 3

Rhyme was about to mention this but Laurel got there first. She said, "It wasn't an attack Moreno was talking about, though. It was a peaceful protest. On the tenth of May, at noon, a half dozen trucks showed up in front of the APDR headquarters. They weren't delivering bombs; they were delivering people for a demonstration.

"And the bomb ingredients? They were for Moreno's Local Empowerment Movement branch in the Bahamas. The diesel fuel was for a transportation company. The fertilizer was for agricultural co-ops and the nitromethane was for use in soil fumigants. All legitimate. Those were the only materials cited in the order approving Moreno's killing but there were also tons of seed, rice, truck parts, bottled water and other innocent items in the same s.h.i.+pment. NIOS conveniently forgot to mention those."

"Not intelligence failure?" Rhyme offered.

The pause that followed was longer than most and Laurel finally said, "No. I think intelligence manipulation. Metzger didn't like Moreno, didn't like his rhetoric. He was on record as calling him a despicable traitor. I think he didn't share with the chain of command all of the information he found. So the higher-ups in Was.h.i.+ngton approved the mission, thinking a bomb was involved, while Metzger knew otherwise."

Sellitto said, "So NIOS killed an innocent man."

"Yes," Laurel said with a flick of animation in her voice. "But that's good."

"What?" Sachs blurted, brows furrowed.

A heartbeat pause. Laurel clearly didn't understand Sachs's apparent dismay, echoing the detective's reaction to Laurel's earlier comment that they'd be "lucky" if the shooter was a civilian, not military.

Rhyme explained, "The jurors again, Sachs. They're more likely to convict a defendant who's killed an activist who was simply exercising his First Amendment right to free speech-rather than a hard-core terrorist."

Laurel added, "To me there's no moral difference between the two; you don't execute anybody without due process. Anybody. But Lincoln's right, I have to take the jury into account."

"So, Captain," Myers said to Rhyme, "if the case is going to gain traction, we need somebody like you with your feet on the ground."

Poor choice of jargon in this instance, given the criminalist's main means of transportation.

Rhyme's immediate reaction was to say yes. The case was intriguing and challenging in all sorts of ways. But Sachs, he noted, was looking down, rubbing her scalp with a finger, a habit. He wondered what was troubling her.

She said to the prosecutor, "You didn't go after the CIA for al-Awlaki."

Anwar al-Awlaki, a U.S. citizen, was a radical Muslim imam and advocate of jihad, as well as a major player within al-Qaeda's affiliate in Yemen. An expatriate like Moreno, he'd been dubbed the Bin Laden of the Internet and enthusiastically encouraged attacks on Americans through his blog posts. Among those inspired by him were the shooter at Fort Hood, the underwear airplane bomber, both in 2009, and the Times Square bomber in 2010.

Al-Awlaki and another U.S. citizen, his online editor, were killed in a drone strike under the direction of the CIA.

Laurel seemed confused. "How could I bring that case? I'm a New York district attorney. There was no state nexus in al-Awlaki's a.s.sa.s.sination. But if you're asking if I pick cases I think I can win, Detective Sachs, then the answer's yes. Charging Metzger for a.s.sa.s.sinating a known and dangerous terrorist is probably unwinnable. So is a case for a.s.sa.s.sinating a nonU.S.-citizen. But the Moreno shooting I can sell to a jury. When I get a conviction against Metzger and his sniper, then I'll be able to look at other cases that are more gray." She paused. "Or maybe the government'll simply rea.s.sess its policies and stick to following the Const.i.tution...and get out of the murder-for-hire business."

With a glance at Rhyme, Sachs spoke to both Laurel and Myers. "I'm not sure. Something doesn't feel right."

"Feel right?" Laurel asked, seemingly perplexed by the phrase.

Two fingers rubbed together hard as Sachs said, "I don't know, I'm not sure this's our job."

"You and Lincoln?" Laurel inquired.

"Any of us. It's a political issue, not a criminal one. You want to stop NIOS from a.s.sa.s.sinating people, that's fine. But shouldn't it be a matter for Congress, not the police?"

Laurel underhanded a glance at Rhyme. Sachs certainly had a point-one that hadn't even occurred to him. He cared very little about the broader questions of right and wrong when it came to the law. It was enough for him that Albany or Was.h.i.+ngton or the city council had defined an answerable offense. His job was then simple: tracking down and building a case against the offender.

Just like with chess. Did it matter that the creators of that arcane board game had decreed that the queen was all-powerful and that the knight made right-angle turns? No. But once those rules were established, you played by them.

He ignored Laurel and kept his eyes on Sachs.

Then the a.s.sistant DA's posture changed, subtly but clearly. Rhyme thought at first she was defensive but that wasn't it, he realized. She was going into advocate mode. As if she'd stood up from counsel table in court and had walked to the front of the jury-a jury as yet unconvinced of the suspect's guilt.

"Amelia, I think justice is in the details," Laurel began. "In the small things. I don't prosecute a rape case because society becomes less stable when s.e.xual violence is perpetrated against women. I prosecute rape because one human being behaves according to the prohibited acts in New York Penal Code section one thirty point three five. That's what I do, that's what we all do."

After a pause, she said, "Please, Amelia. I know your track record. I'd like you on board."

Ambition or ideology? Rhyme wondered, looking over the compact package of Nance Laurel, with her stiff hair, blunt fingers and nails free of polish, small feet in sensible pumps, on which the liquid cover-up had been applied as carefully as the makeup on her face. He honestly couldn't say which of the two motivated her but one thing he observed: He was actually chilled to see the absence of pa.s.sion in her black eyes. And it took a great deal to chill Lincoln Rhyme.

In the silence that followed, Sachs's eyes met Rhyme's. She seemed to sense how much he wanted the case. And this was the tipping factor. A nod. "I'm on board," she said.

"I am too." Rhyme was looking, though, not at Myers or Laurel but at Sachs. His expression said, Thanks.

"And even though n.o.body asked me," Sellitto said with a grumble, "I'm also happy to f.u.c.k up my career by busting a senior federal official."

Rhyme then said, "I a.s.sume a priority is discretion."

"We have to keep it quiet," Laurel replied. "Otherwise evidence will start disappearing. But I don't think we have to worry at this point. In my office we've done everything we can to keep a lid on the case. I really doubt NIOS knows anything about the investigation."

CHAPTER 6.

AS HE DROVE THE BORROWED CAR to a cay on the southwest sh.o.r.e of New Providence Island, near the huge Clifton Heritage Park, Jacob Swann heard his phone buzz with a text. The message was an update about the police investigation in New York into Robert Moreno's death, the conspiracy charges. Swann would be receiving details in the next few hours, including the names of the parties involved.

Moving quickly. Much more quickly than he'd expected.

He heard a thump from the trunk of the car, where Annette Bodel, the unfortunate hooker, was crumpled in a ball. But it was a soft thump and there was no one else around to hear, no cl.u.s.ters of roadside scavengers or hangers-out like you often saw in the Bahamas, sipping Sands or Kalik, joking and gossiping and complaining about women and bosses.

No vehicles either, or boaters in the turquoise water.

The Caribbean was such a contradiction, Swann reflected as he gazed about: a glitzy playground for the tourists, a threadbare platform for the locals' lives. The focus was on the fulcrum where dollars and euros met service and entertainment, and much of the rest of the nation just felt exhausted. Like this hot, weedy, trash-strewn patch of sandy earth, near the beach.

He climbed out and blew into his gloves to cool his sweaty hands. d.a.m.n, it was hot. He'd been to this spot before, last week. After a particularly challenging but accurate rifle shot had torn apart the heart of the traitorous Mr. Robert Moreno, Swann had driven here and buried some clothes and other evidence. He'd intended to let them stay forever interred. But having received the odd and troubling word that prosecutors in New York were looking into Moreno's death, he'd decided it best to retrieve them and dispose of them more efficiently.

But first, another ch.o.r.e...another task.

Swann walked to the trunk, opened it and glanced down at Annette, teary, sweaty, in pain.

Trying to breathe.

He then stepped to the rear seat, opened his suitcase and removed one of his treasures, his favorite chef's knife, a Kai Shun Premier slicing model. It was about nine inches long and had the company's distinctive hammered tsuchime finish, pounded by metalsmiths in the j.a.panese town of Seki. The blade had a VG-10 steel core with thirty-two layers of Damascus steel. The handle was walnut. This knife cost $250. He had models by the same manufacturer in various shapes and sizes, for different kitchen techniques, but this was his favorite. He loved it like a child. He used it to fillet fish, to slice beef translucent for carpaccio and to motivate human beings.

Swann traveled with this and other knives in a well-worn Messermeister knife roll, along with two battered cookbooks-one by James Beard and one by the French chef Michel Guerard, the cuisine minceur guru. Customs officials thought very little about a set of professional knives, however deadly, packed in checked luggage beside a cookbook. Besides, on a job away from home, the knives were useful; Jacob Swann would often cook, rather than hang out in bars or go to movies alone.

Removing the goat meat from the bones last week, for instance, and cubing it for the stew.

My little butcher man, my dear little butcher...

He heard another noise, a thud. Annette was starting to kick.

Swann returned to the trunk and dragged the woman from the car by her hair.

"Uhn, uhn, uhn..."

This was probably her version of "no, no, no."

He found an indentation in the sand, surrounded by reedy plants and decorated with crushed Kalik cans and Red Stripe bottles, used condoms and decaying cigarette b.u.t.ts. He rolled her over onto her back and sat on her chest.

A look around. No one. The screams would be much softer, thanks to the blow to the throat, but they wouldn't be silent.

"Now. I'm going to ask you some questions and you're going to have to form the words. I need answers and I need them quickly. Can you form words?"

"Uhn."

"Say, 'yes.'"

"Ye...ye...yessssss."

"Good." He fished a Kleenex from his pocket, then pinched her nose with his other hand and when she opened her mouth he grabbed her tongue with the tissue, tugged the tip an inch beyond her lips. Her head shook violently until she realized that was more painful than his pinch.

She forced herself to calm.

Jacob Swann eased the Kai Shun forward-admiring the blade and handle. Cooking implements are often among the most stylishly designed of any object. The sunlight reflected off the upper half of the blade, pounded into indentations, as if flickering on waves. He carefully stroked the tip of her tongue with the point, drawing a streak in deeper pink but no blood.

Some sound. "Please" maybe.

Little butcher man...

He recalled scoring a duck breast just a few weeks ago, with this same knife, slicing three shallow slits to help render the fat under the broiler. He leaned forward. "Now, listen carefully," he whispered. Swann's mouth was close to her ear and he felt her hot skin against his cheek.

Just like last week.

Well, somewhat like last week.

CHAPTER 7.

CAPTAIN BILL MYERS HAD TAKEN his grating verbiage and left, now that he'd handed off the baton of the case to Rhyme and crew.

While the Moreno conspiracy investigation was in some ways monumental, it was ultimately just another of the thousands of felony cases active in New York, and other matters surely beckoned the captain and his mysterious Special Services Division.

Rhyme supposed too that he'd want to distance himself. Myers had backed up the DA-a captain had to do that, of course; police and prosecutors were Siamese twins-but now was the moment for Myers to head to an undisclosed location. Rhyme was thinking of the political ambition he'd smelled earlier, and if that was true the bra.s.s would step back and see how the case unfolded. He'd then return to the podium in glory, in time for the perp walk. Or vanish completely if the case exploded into a public relations nightmare.

A very likely possibility.

Rhyme didn't mind. In fact, he was pleased Myers was gone. He didn't do well with any other cooks in the kitchen.

Lon Sellitto, of course, remained. Technically the lead investigator, he was now sitting in a creaky rattan chair, debating a m.u.f.fin on the breakfast tray, even though he'd pecked half the Danish away. But he then squeezed his gut twice, as if hoping the message would be that he'd lost enough weight on his latest fad diet to deserve the pastry. Apparently not.

"What do you know about this guy running NIOS?" Sellitto asked Laurel. "Metzger?"

She again recited without the benefit of notes: "Forty-three. Divorced. Ex-wife's a lawyer in private practice, Wall Street. He's Harvard, ROTC. After, went into the army, Iraq. In as a lieutenant, out as a captain. There was talk of him going further but that got derailed. Had some issues I'll tell you about later. Discharged, then Yale, master's in public policy along with a law degree. Went to the State Department, then joined NIOS five years ago as operations director. When the existing NIOS head retired last year, Metzger got his job, even though he was one of the youngest on the management panel. The word is nothing was going to stop him from taking the helm."

"Children?" Sachs asked.

"What?" Laurel replied.

"Does Metzger have children?"

"Oh, you're thinking someone was pressuring him, using the children to force him to take on improper missions?"

"No," Sachs said. "I just wondered if he had children."

A blink from Laurel. Now she consulted notes. "Son and daughter. Middle school. He was disallowed any custody for a year. Now he's got some visitation rights but mostly they're with the mother.

"Now, Metzger's beyond hawkish. He's on record as saying he would've nuked Afghanistan on September twelve, two thousand one. He's very outspoken about our right to preemptively eliminate enemies. His nemesis is American citizens who've gone overseas and are engaged in what he considers un-American activities, like joining insurgencies or vocally supporting terrorist groups. But those're his politics and're irrelevant to me." A pause. "His more significant quality is that he's mentally unstable."

"How so?" Sellitto asked.

Rhyme was beginning to lose patience. He wanted to consider the forensics of the case.

But since both Sachs and Sellitto approached cases "globally," as Captain Myers might have said, he let Laurel continue and he tried to appear attentive.

She said, "He's had emotional issues. Anger primarily. That's largely what's driving him, I think. He left the army with an honorable discharge but he had a half dozen episodes that hurt his career there. Fits of rage, tantrums, whatever you want to call them. Totally lost control. He was actually hospitalized at one point. I've managed to datamine some records and he still sees a psychiatrist and buys meds. He's been detained by the police a few times for violent episodes. Never charged. Frankly, I think he's borderline with a paranoid personality. Not psychotic but has definite issues of delusion and addiction-addicted to anger itself. Well, to be precise, the response to anger. From what I've studied up on the subject, the relief you feel in acting out during an episode of anger is addicting. Like a drug. I think ordering a sniper to kill somebody he's come to detest gives him a high."

Studied up indeed. She sounded like a psychiatrist lecturing students.

"How'd he get the job, then?" Sachs asked.

A question that had presented itself to Rhyme.

"Because he's very, very good at killing people. At least, that's what his service record indicates." Laurel continued, "It'll be hard to get his personality workup to a jury but I'm going to do it somehow. And I can only pray he takes the stand. I'd have a field day. I'd love for a jury to see a tantrum." She glanced from Rhyme to Sachs. "As you pursue the investigation I want you to look for anything that suggests Metzger's instability, anger and violent tendencies."

Now a pause preceded Sachs's response. "That's a little fishy, don't you think?"

The battle of the silences. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"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."