The Kill Room

“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.

CHAPTER 15

Jacob Swa

His tech people had come through. They’d learned that Moreno had used an outfit called Elite Limousine when he was in the city on May 1. He discovered too that Moreno had a particular driver he always used. His name was Vlad Nikolov. And, being the activist’s regular chauffeur, he probably had information that the investigators would want. Swa

He’d made a fast call via his prepaid–“Sorry, wrong number”–and learned the driver was home at the moment. His thickly Russian  or Georgian accented voice sounded a bit groggy, which meant he’d probably worked the late night shift. Good. He wasn’t going anywhere soon. But Swa

Swa

Many livery workers lived in Queens. This was because the parking situation in Manhattan was so horrific and the real estate prices so high. And because limo work often involved shuttles to and from LaGuardia and JFK airports, both of which were located in the borough.

Vlad Nikolov’s house was modest but well tended, Swa

The utility bill information, including smart electric meter patterns, and food and other purchasing profiles that the tech department had datamined, suggested that the forty two year old Nikolov lived alone. This was unusual for Russian or Georgian immigrants, who tended to be very family minded. Swa

In any event, the man’s solitary life worked to Swa

He continued past the house, glancing briefly at a window, covered with a gauzy curtain. Lace. Maybe Nikolov had a girlfriend who came to visit sporadically. A Russian man would be unlikely to buy lace. Another person inside would be a problem – not because Jacob Swa

Swa

Every grain of suspicion counts.

On this second trip he looked the other way – at all the cars on the street in front of and near the house. Obviously no NYPD cruisers but no unmarkeds either that he could sense.

He walked up to the door, reaching into his backpack and withdrawing a six inch length of capped pipe, filled with lead shot. He wrapped his right hand around this, making a fist. The point of the pipe was to give support to the inside of the fingers so that if he happened to co

Swa

A glance around. Nobody on the street. He rang the bell with his knuckle, put a cheerful smile on his face.

No response. Was he asleep?

He lifted a paper napkin from his pocket and tried the knob. Locked. This was always the case in New York. Not so in the suburbs of Cleveland or Denver – where he’d killed an information broker last month. All the doors in Highlands Ranch were unlocked, windows too. The man hadn’t even locked his BMW.

Swa

But then he heard a thud, a click.

He rang the bell again, just to let Mr. Nikolov know that his presence was still requested. This is what any normal visitor would have done.

A grain of suspicion…

A voice, muffled by the thickness of the door. Not impatient. Just tired.

The door opened and Swa

“Yes?” he asked in a thick Slavic accent, looking at Swa

“Mr. Nikolov?”

“That’s right.” He was wearing brown pajamas and was in house slippers.

“I’ve got a TLC refund for you. You gotta sign for it.”

“What?”

“Taxi Limousine Commission, the refund.”

“Yeah, yeah, TLC. What refund?”

“They overcharged fees.”

“You with them?”

“No, I’m the contracting agent. I just deliver the checks.”

“Well, they pricks. I don’t know about refund but they pricks, what they charge. Wait, how do I know they not ripping me off? I sign, I sign away my rights? Maybe I should get a lawyer.”

Swa

Nikolov unlatched the screen door. “Lemme have it.”

Swa

When the door opened, Swa

Nikolov gasped, retched and went down fast.