The Kill Room

Someone from Pe

When the Wizard came back on the line he asked, “And we hear there’s some investigation?”

So. Fuck. He did know. How had word gotten out? Leaks are as big a threat to what I’m doing as the terrorists themselves.

Smoke, big time.

“Seems to be.”

A pause that clearly asked: And when were you going to mention it to us, Shreve?

The Wizard’s stated question, though, was: “Police?”

“NYPD, yes. Not feds. But there’s a solid case for immunity.” Metzger’s law degree had been gathering dust for years but he’d looked up In re Neagle  and related cases very carefully before taking on the job here. He could recite the conclusion of that case in his sleep: That federal officials could not be prosecuted for state crimes, provided they were acting within the scope of their authority.

“Ah, right, immunity,” the Wizard said. “We’ve looked into that, of course.”

Already? But Metzger wasn’t really surprised.

A viscous pause. “You’re happy that everything was  within the scope of authority, Shreve?”

“Yes.”

Please, Lord, let me keep the Smoke inside now.

“Excellent. Now, it was Bruns who was the specialist, right?”

Either no names or code names over the phone, however well encrypted.

“Yes.”

“The police talked to him?”

“No. He’s deep cover. There’s no way anyone could find him.”

“Of course I don’t need to say – he knows to be careful.”

“He’s taking precautions. Everybody is.”

A pause. “Well, enough said about that matter. I’ll let you take care of it.”

“I will.”

“Good. Because it turns out some Intelligence Committee budget discussions have come up. Suddenly. Can’t understand why. Nothing scheduled but you know those committees. Looking over where the money’s going. And I just wanted to tell you that for some reason – it really frosts me, I’ll say – NIOS is in their sights.”

No Smoke but Metzger was stu

The Wizard steamed forward. “Nonsense, isn’t it? You know  we fought hard to get your outfit up and ru

“Anyway. Probably nothing’ll come of it. Ah, money. Why does it always come down to money? So. How’re Katie and Seth?”

“They’re fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Glad to hear it. Have to go, Shreve.”

They disco

Oh, Jesus.

This was bad.

What the cheerful Wizard with his serge wizard suit and brash socks and his dark razor sharp eyes had actually been saying was: You took out a U.S. citizen on the basis of bad intel and if the case goes to trial in state court it’s going to bleed all the way to Oz. A lot of people down in the capital would be keeping a very close eye on New York and the results of the Moreno matter. They were fully prepared to send a shooter of their own after NIOS itself – figurative, of course, in the form of gutted budget. The Service would be out of business in six months.

And the whole affair would have been quiet as a snake’s sleep, if not for the whistleblower.

The traitor.

Blinded by the Smoke, Metzger intercommed his assistant and picked up his coffee again.

All your intel was buttoned up, double  and triple checked…

Well, about that…

Metzger now told himself, Think the situation through: You’ve made some calls, you’ve sent some texts. Clean up was well under way.

“You, ah, all right, Shreve?” Ruth’s eyes were on his fingers around the cardboard cup. Metzger realized he was about to crush it and send tepid coffee over his sleeve and several files that only a dozen people in the whole of America were authorized to read.

He released the death grip and managed a smile. “Yes, sure. Long night.”

His personal assistant was in her early sixties, a long, attractive face, still dusted with faint freckles, making her appear younger. She’d been, he’d learned, a flower child decades ago. Summer of Love in San Francisco. Living in the Haight. Now her gray hair was, as often, pulled back in a severe bun and she wore bands of colored rubber on her wrists, bracelets signifying support for various causes. Breast cancer, hope, reconciliation. Who could tell? He wished she wouldn’t; messages like that, even if ambiguous, seemed inappropriate in a government agency with a mission like NIOS’s.

“Is Spencer here yet?” he asked her.

“About a half hour, he said.”

“Have him come to see me as soon as he’s in.”

“All right. Anything else I can do?”

“No, thank you.”

When Ruth had left the office and closed the door, leaving a trail of patchouli oil scent behind her, Metzger sent a few more texts and received some.

One was encouraging.

At least it thi

CHAPTER 10

Rhyme noted Nance Laurel scrutinizing her face in the dim mirror of the gas chromatograph’s metal housing. She gave no reaction to what she was seeing. She didn’t seem like a primping woman.

She turned and asked Sellitto and Rhyme, “How do you suggest we proceed?”

In Rhyme’s mind the case was already laid out clearly. He answered, “I’ll run the crime scene as best I can. Sachs and Lon’ll find out what they can about NIOS, Metzger and the other conspirator – the sniper. Sachs, start a chart. Add the cast of characters on there, even if we don’t know very much.”

She took a marker and walked to an empty whiteboard, jotted the sparse information.

Sellitto said, “I wa

Sachs replied, “I’ve sent Rodney the information about the email and the STO. I’ll coordinate with him and Computer Crimes. If anybody can trace an anonymous upload, he can.” She thought for a moment and said, “Let’s call Fred too.”

Rhyme considered this and said, “Good.”

“Who’s that?” Laurel asked.

“Fred Dellray. FBI.”

“No,” Laurel said bluntly. “No feds.”

“Why not?” Sellitto’s question.

“A chance word’ll get to NIOS. I don’t think we can risk it.”

Sachs countered, “Fred’s specialty’s undercover work. If we say be discreet, that’s how he’ll handle it. We need help, and he’ll have access to a lot more information than NCIC and state criminal databases.”

Laurel debated. Her round, pale face – pretty from some angles, farm girl pretty – registered a very subtle change. Concern? Pique? Defiance? Her expressions were like lettering in Hebrew or Arabic, tiny diacritical marks the only clues to radically different meanings.

Sachs glanced once at the prosecutor, said insistently, “We’ll tell him how sensitive it is. He’ll go along.”

She hit speaker on a phone nearby before Laurel could say any more. Rhyme saw the prosecutor stiffen and wondered if she was actually going to step forward and press her finger down on the cradle button.

The hollow sound of ringing filled the air.

“S’Dellray here,” the agent answered. The muted tone suggested he might’ve been on an undercover set somewhere in Trenton or Harlem and didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

“Fred. Amelia.”

“Well, well, well how’s it goin’? Been a while. Now how imperiled am I, speaking into a telephone that on my end is nice and private but on yours is broadcasting to Madison Square Garden? I do truly hate speakers.”

“You’re safe, Fred. You’re on with me, Lon, Lincoln–”

“Hey, Lincoln. You lost that Heidegger bet, ya know. I’ma peeking in my mailbox everday and as of yesterday, ain’t a single check appeared. Pay to the order of Fred Don’t Argue Philosophy With Dellray.”