The Kill Room

“They have proof of completion, the police?”

“No, I don’t think so. Status is closed, that’s all.”

Kill orders were just that – instructions to eliminate a task. There was never any documentation that an assassination was actually completed. The standard procedure when asked was to deny, deny, deny.

Boston began to ask, “Are we doing anything…?”

“I’ve made calls. Don Bruns knows about the case, of course. A few others. We’re…handling things.”

An ambiguous verb and object. Worthy of the Wizard.

Handling things…

Spencer Boston, of the impressive white mane and more impressive track record as a spy, sipped more tea. The straw eased farther through the plastic lid and gave a faint vibration like a bow on a viola string. “Don’t worry, Shreve. I’ll find him. Or her.”

“Thanks, Spencer. Anytime. Day or night. Call me, what you find out.”

The man rose, buttoned his ill tailored suit.

When he was gone Metzger heard his magic red phone trill with a text from his surveillance and datamining crowd in the basement.

Identified Nance Laurel as lead prosecutor. IDs of the NYPD investigators to follow soon.

The Smoke diminished considerably at reading this.

At last. A place to start.

CHAPTER 12

Jacob Swa

He set his suitcase into the trunk of his Nissan sedan carefully – his knives were inside. No carry on with them, of course. He dropped heavily into the front seat and stretched, breathing deeply.

Swa

His session with A

He’d then had to get off the island the same way he had last week: from a dock near Millars Sound, where he knew some of the men who clustered daily to work the ships or smoke Camels or ganja and drink Sands, Kalik or, more likely, Triple B malt. They would also handle various odd jobs. Efficiently and discreetly. They’d hurried him via small boat to one of the i

That was the thing about the Caribbean. There was Customs and there was custom. And the lower case version allowed for people like Jacob Swa

After the scoring with the blade, after the blood, he was convinced that A

He’d only used the Kai Shun a few times, slice, slice…It probably hadn’t been necessary, she was so frightened. But Jacob Swa

He now pulled to the airport parking lot’s exit kiosk, paid cash then drove a mile on the Grand Central before pulling over and swapping license plates. He then continued on to his house in Brooklyn.

A

Bad luck for the poor prostitute that they’d run into each other when he’d been pla

Ah, a working girl. Perfect.

He waited an hour or two and then circled the grounds casually until he found her in the bar, where she was buying herself watered down drinks and dangling like bait on a hook for another customer.

Swa

After the good sex and over the better stew he’d learned a great deal of solid information for the assignment. But he’d never anticipated that there’d be an investigation, so he hadn’t cleaned up as completely as he probably should have. Hence, his trip back to the island.

Successful. And satisfying.

He now returned to his town house in the Heights, off Henry Street, and parked in the garage in the alley. He dropped his bag in the front hall, then shed his clothes and took a shower.

The living room and two bedrooms were modestly furnished, inexpensive antiques mostly, a few Ikea pieces. It looked like the digs of any bachelor in New York City, except for two aspects: the massive green gun safe, in a closet, which held his rifles and pistols, and the kitchen. Which a professional chef might have envied.

It was to this room that he walked after toweling off and pulling on a terry cloth robe and slippers. Viking, Miele, KitchenAid, Sub Zero, separate freezer, wine cooler, radiant bulb cookers – his own making. Stainless steel and oak. Pots and implements sat in glass doored cabinets along one entire wall. (Those ceiling racks are showy, but why have to wash something before you cook in it?)

Swa

For the meal he decided on hash. Swa

You made fun of people like that at your peril.

He now lifted a one pound piece of rib eye steak from the refrigerator and unwrapped the thick white waxed paper. He himself had been responsible for this perfectly sized and edged piece. Every month or so, Swa

Some people who bought in bulk enjoyed brains, intestines, stomach and other organ meats. But those cuts didn’t appeal to him and he discarded them. There was nothing morally or emotionally troubling about those portions of an animal; for Swa