Lincoln Rhyme: The Kill Room Part 45

Startled by the uncontrolled outburst, Shales stared at his boss for a moment. Then dug into his pocket and tossed his lanyard and ID card onto the desk. "Kids, Shreve. I nearly blew up two children today. I've had it. I'm quitting."

"No." Metzger leaned forward. "You can't quit."

"Why not?"

Shales was expecting his boss to raise issues of contracts, security.

But the man said, "Because you're the best, Barry. n.o.body can handle a bird like you. n.o.body can shoot like you. I knew you were the man for the STO program when I conceived it, Barry."

Shales recalled a grinning car salesman who'd used his first name repeatedly because, apparently, he'd been taught at grinning-car-salesman school that this wore down the potential buyer, made him less resistant.

Shales had left the lot without the car he'd very much wanted.

He now shouted, "The project was all about eliminating collateral damage!"

"We didn't run a scenario of firing through picture windows! We should have. It didn't occur to anyone. Did it occur to you? We got it wrong. What more do you want me to say? I apologize."

"To me? Maybe you should apologize to Robert Moreno's wife and children or the family of de la Rua, the reporter, or his bodyguard. They need an apology more than I do, don't you think, Shreve?"

Metzger pushed the ID back toward Shales. "This's been tough for you. Take some time off."

Leaving the badge untouched, Shales turned and opened the door, walking out of the office. "I'm sorry if I upset you, Ruth."

She only stared.

In five minutes he was outside the front gate of NIOS and walking through the alley to the main northsouth street nearby.

Then he was on the sidewalk, feeling suddenly light of step and aglow with ambiguous satisfaction.

He'd call the sitter, take Margaret to dinner that night. He'd break the news to her that he was now unemployed. He could- A dark sedan squealed to a stop beside him. Two men flung doors open and were outside in an instant, moving toward him.

For a moment Shales wondered if Shreve Metzger had called in specialists-had arranged for an STO with the name Barry Shales as the task, to eliminate him as a threat to his precious a.s.sa.s.sination program.

But the men moving toward him didn't pull out suppressed Berettas or SIGs. The palms of their hands glinted with metal, yes-but they were gold. New York City Police Department s.h.i.+elds.

"Barry Shales?" the older of the two asked.

"I...yes, I'm Shales."

"I'm Detective Brickard. This is Detective Samuels." The badges and IDs disappeared. "You're under arrest, sir."

Shales gave a brief, surprised laugh. A mistake. Word hadn't filtered down to them that the investigation was over.

"No, there's some mistake."

"Please turn around and put your hands behind your back."

"But what's the charge?"

"Murder."

"No, no-the Moreno case...it's been dropped."

The detectives looked at each other. Brickard said, "I don't know anything about any Moreno, sir. Please. Your hands. Now."

CHAPTER 76.

IT MAY BE A TOUGH SELL TO THE JURY," Lincoln Rhyme said, speaking of the theory behind a new case against Metzger and Shales.

Amelia Sachs's theory, not his. And one he was quite enamored of-and proud of her for formulating. Rhyme secretly loved it when people-some people-outthought him.

Sachs glanced at her humming phone. "A text."

"Nance?"

"No." She looked from the querying eyes of Mel Cooper to Ron Pulaski to, finally, Rhyme. "Barry Shales's in custody. No resistance."

So, they were proceeding now according to Sachs's theory, which she'd come up with from a simple entry in the evidence charts.

Victim 2: Eduardo de la Rua. COD: Loss of blood. Lacerations from flying gla.s.s from gunshot, measuring 34mm wide, 23cm long.

Supplemental information: Journalist, interviewing Moreno. Born Puerto Rico, living in Argentina.

Camera, tape recorder, gold pen, notebooks missing.

Shoes contained fibers a.s.sociated with carpet in hotel corridor, dirt from hotel entryway.

Clothing contained traces of breakfast: allspice and pepper sauce.

Her thinking was all the more brilliant because of its simplicity: People born in Puerto Rico are U.S. citizens.

Therefore Barry Shales had killed an American in the attack on May 9 in the South Cove Inn.

Nance's boss, the DA, had decided not to pursue the case only because Moreno wasn't a citizen. But de la Rua was. Even an unintended death under some circ.u.mstances can subject the killer to murder charges.

Sachs continued, "But at the very least, I'd think we could get manslaughter. Shales inadvertently killed de la Rua as part of the intentional act of killing Moreno. He should have known that someone else in the room could have been fatally wounded when he fired the shot."

A woman's voice filled the room. "Good a.n.a.lysis, Amelia. Have you ever thought of going to law school?"

Rhyme turned to see Nance Laurel striding into the parlor, lugging her briefcase and litigation bag once again. Behind her was the detective they'd asked to collect her, a friend of Sachs's. Bill Flaherty. Rhyme had thought it safer for her to have an escort. He was still uneasy that Unsub 516 was at large, especially now that there was a chance of reviving the Moreno case.

Laurel thanked the detective, who nodded and-with a smile toward Sachs and Rhyme-left the town house.

Rhyme asked the ADA, "So? Our case? What do you think? Legally?"

"Well," she said, sitting down at her desk and extracting her files once more, organizing them, "we probably can get Barry Shales on murder two. The penal code provision covers us there." She paraphrased, "A person is guilty of murder in the second degree when he intends to cause the death of someone and he causes the death of a third person. But Amelia's right, manslaughter's definitely a possibility. We'll make it a lesser-included offense, though I'm confident I can make murder stick."

"Thanks for coming back," Sachs said.

"No, thanks to you all for saving our case." She was looking around the room.

Our case...

"Amelia came up with the idea," Lon Sellitto said.

Rhyme added, "I missed the option entirely."

Sellitto added that he'd been in touch with Captain Myers and the man had-with some reluctance-agreed they should proceed with the new charges. The attorney general had given his tentative approval too.

"Now we have to consider how to proceed," Laurel said, surprising Rhyme by not only unb.u.t.toning but slipping off her jacket. She could smile, she could sip whiskey, she could relax. "First, I'd like some background. Who was he, this reporter?"

Ron Pulaski had been researching. He said, "Eduardo de la Rua, fifty-six. Married. Freelance journalist and blogger. Born in Puerto Rico, U.S. pa.s.sport. But he's been living in Buenos Aires for the past ten years. Last year he won the Premio a la Excelencia en el Periodismo. That's 'Award for Excellence in Journalism.'"

"You speak Spanish too, rookie?" Rhyme interrupted. "You never fail to astound. Good accent too."

"Nada."

"Ha," Sellitto offered.

The young officer: "Lately de la Rua's been writing for Diario Seminal Negocio de Argentina."

"The Weekly Journal of Argentina," Rhyme tried.

"Almost. Weekly Business Journal."

"Of course."

"He was doing a series on American businesses and banks starting up in Latin America. He'd been after Moreno for months to do an interview about that-the alternative view, why U.S. companies shouldn't be encouraged to open operations down there. Finally he agreed and de la Rua flew to Na.s.sau. And we know what happened next."

Sachs told Laurel, "Shales is in custody."

"Good," the prosecutor said. "Now, where are we with the evidence?"

"Ah, the evidence," Rhyme mused. "The evidence. All we need to prove is that the bullet caused the flying gla.s.s, and the gla.s.s was the cause of the reporter's death. We're close. We've got the trace of gla.s.s splinters on the bullet and on de la Rua's clothes. I'd just really like some of the shards that actually caused the laceration and bleeding." He looked to Laurel. "Juries love the weapons, don't they?"

"They sure do, Lincoln."

"The morgue in the Bahamas?" Sachs asked. "The examiner would still have the gla.s.s, wouldn't you think?"

"Let's hope. People may steal Rolexes and Oakleys down there but I imagine broken gla.s.s is safe from sticky fingers. I'll call Mychal and see what he can find. He can s.h.i.+p some up here with an affidavit that states the shards were recovered from the body and were the cause of death. Or, h.e.l.l, maybe he could come up himself to testify."

"That's a great idea," Thom said. "He could stay with us for a while, hang out."

Rhyme exhaled in exasperation. "Oh, sure. We've got so much time for socializing. I could take him on a tour of the Big Apple. You know, haven't been to the Statue of Liberty in...ever. And I intend to keep it that way."

Thom laughed, irritating Rhyme all the more.

The criminalist called up the autopsy pictures and scrolled through them. "A shard from the jugular, carotid or femoral would be best," he mused. "Those would be the fatal ones." But an initial review didn't show any obvious splinters of gla.s.s jutting from the pale corpse of Eduardo de la Rua.

"I'll give Mychal a call in the morning. It's late now. Don't want to interfere with his moonlighting job."

Rhyme could have called now but he wanted to speak to the corporal in private. The fact was that he had been considering inviting Poitier to New York at some point in the near future and this would be a good excuse to do so.

And, he reflected with some irony, yes, he did intend to show Poitier around town. The Statue of Liberty, however, would not be on the tour.

CHAPTER 77.

JACOB SWANN WONDERED what had happened.

His plans for Nance Laurel had been interrupted by the arrival of an unmarked police car in front of her apartment in Brooklyn-just as Swann had been about to rise and go visit the ADA, to play out his revenge scenario.

The plainclothes detective had whisked her out quickly-so fast that it was clear something significant was going on. Did it relate to the Moreno case, which supposedly was a case no longer? Or something else?

He was now in his Nissan, headed back home. The answer to the mystery arrived in the form of a text from headquarters. s.h.i.+t. Shreve Metzger had reported that the case was back on but with a curious variation: Barry Shales had been arrested for the killing not of Robert Moreno but of Eduardo de la Rua, the reporter who'd been interviewing him at the time the bullet had blown the hotel window into a million little shards of gla.s.s.

Because de la Rua was a U.S. citizen-Hola, Puerto Rico!-Ms. Nance Laurel had been reinstated on the case.

Metzger had not been charged but it was possible that he would be soon, accused of at least one or two felony counts; the point of Shales's arrest, of course, was to pressure the drone pilot to give up his boss.

How easy was it to kill someone in detention? Swann wondered. Not that easy, he suspected, at least not without some inside help, which would be extremely expensive.

Swann was told additional services would be needed. He was to await instructions. Tomorrow promised to be a busy day but since the hour was late he doubted any of those directives would involve his going out again tonight.

This was good.

The little butcher man was hungry and had a taste for some wine. A gla.s.s or two of Spanish Albario beckoned, as did some of the Veronique from last night, carefully wrapped up and tucked into the fridge. There wasn't a chef in the world-even those whose eateries boasted three Michelin stars-who didn't appreciate leftovers, whatever they said in public.

FRIDAY, MAY 19.

VI.

SMOKE.