The Kill Room

“An hour?” she asked before remembering she’d added the qualifier with her prior question.

A smile. “That’s three hundred and eighty two dollars and fifty cents.”

Shit, Sachs thought, she’d assumed it would be about a quarter of that. So, one more reason not to be a limo girl.

He added, “And of course…”

“I agreed to double it.”

“That is a grand total of seven hundred and sixty five dollars.”

A sigh. “Will you give me one more ride?” Sachs asked.

“Well, if it won’t take too much time.” A nod toward the house. “Supper, you know.”

“Just to the nearest ATM.”

“Ah, yes, yes…And I won’t charge you for that trip at all!”

CHAPTER 20

Imagination or not?

No.

Cruising back into Manhattan, in the Torino Cobra, Sachs was sure she was being followed.

Glances into the rearview mirror as she exited the Midtown Tu

But how was this possible? The Overseer had assured them that NIOS, Metzger and the sniper didn’t know about the investigation.

And even if they did find out, how could they identify her personal car and locate it?

Yet Sachs had learned from a case she and Rhyme had run a few years ago that anyone with a rudimentary datamining system could track someone’s location pretty easily. Video images of tag numbers, facial recognition, phone calls and credit cards, GPS, E ZPass transponders, RFID chips – and NIOS was sure to have much more than a basic setup. She’d been careful but perhaps not careful enough.

That was easily remedied.

Smiling, she executed a series of complicated, fast and extremely fun turns, most of which involved smoking tires and cracking sixty mph in second gear.

By the time she performed the last one and stabilized the marvelous Cobra, offering a sweet smile of apology to the Sikh driver she’d skidded around, she was convinced that she’d lost whatever tail might have been after her.

At least until datamining caught up with her again.

And even if this was  surveillance did the tailer represent a true threat?

NIOS might want information about her and might try to derail or slow down the case but she could hardly see the government physically hurting an NYPD officer.

Unless the threat wasn’t from the government itself but an anger driven psychotic who happened to be working for  the government, using his position to play out some delusional dream of eliminating those who weren’t as patriotic as he liked.

Then too this threat might have nothing to do with Moreno. Amelia Sachs had helped put a lot of people in jail and none of them, presumably, was very pleased about that.

Sachs actually felt a shiver down her spine.

She parked just off Central Park West, on a cross street, and tossed the NYPD placard on the dash. Climbing out, Sachs tapped her Glock grip to orient herself as to its exact position. Every nearby car, it seemed, was light colored and nondescript and contained a shadowy driver looking her way. Every ante

Sachs walked quickly to the town house and let herself in. Bypassing the parlor, where Nance Laurel was still typing away, exactly as the detective had left her hours ago, she walked into Rhyme’s rehab room – one of the bedrooms on the first floor – where he was working out.

With Thom nearby as a spotter, Rhyme was in a sitting position, strapped into an elaborate stationary bicycle, a functional electrical stimulation model. The unit sent electrical impulses into his muscles via wires to mimic brain signals and made his legs operate the pedals. He was presently pumping away like a Tour de France competitor.

She smiled and kissed him.

“I’m sweaty,” he a

He was.

She kissed him again, longer this time.

Although the FES workout would not cure his quadriplegia it kept the muscles and vascular system in shape and improved the condition of his skin, which was important to avoid sores that were common among those with severe disabilities. As Rhyme often a

The exercise had also enhanced nerve functioning.

This was the aerobic portion of his exercise. The other part involved building up the muscles in his neck and shoulders; it was these elements of his body that would largely control the movement of his left hand and arm, as they now did his right, after his surgery in several weeks, if all went well.

Sachs wished she hadn’t thought that last clause.

“Anything?” he called, breathing heavily.

She gave him a rundown of the chauffeur trip, explaining about Moreno’s close childhood friend dying at the hands of the American invaders in Panama.

“Grudges can run deep.” But he wasn’t interested in what he would consider the mumbo jumbo of the man’s psyche; Rhyme never was. More interesting was what she’d learned about Lydia, the closed bank accounts, the mysterious meeting, Moreno’s pla

“Fred’s going to keep digging. Any luck in the Bahamas?”

“Crap all,” he snapped, panting. “I don’t know whether it’s incompetence or politics – probably both – but I’ve called back three times and ended up on hold again until I hang up. That’s seven times today. I truly resent hold. I was going to call our embassy there or consulate or whatever they have to intervene. But Nance didn’t think that was a good idea.”

“Why? Word would get back to NIOS?”

“Yeah. I can’t disagree, I suppose. She’s sure evidence is going to start disappearing the minute they find out. The problem is…” He drew a deep breath and with his functioning right hand turned the speed of the bike up a bit higher. “…there is  no goddamn evidence.”

Thom said, “Slow down a bit there.”

“What, my diatribe, or my exercise? That’s rather poetic, don’t you think?”

“Lincoln.”

The criminalist gave it a defiant thirty seconds more and lowered the speed. “Three miles,” he a

Sachs took a cloth and wiped a bit of sweat that ran down his temple. “I think somebody might’ve already found out about the investigation.”

He turned those dark, radar eyes her way.

She told him about the car she thought might have been tailing her.

“So our sniper has found out about us already? Any ID?”

“No. Either he was real good, or my imagination was working overtime.”

“I don’t think we can be too paranoid in this case, Sachs. You should tell our friend in the parlor. And have you told her that Saint Moreno might not be so saintly?”

“Not yet.”

She found Rhyme looking at her with a particular expression.

“And that means what?” she asked.

“Why don’t you like her?”

“Oil and water.”

Rhyme chuckled. “The hydrophobia myth! They do  mix, Sachs. Simply remove gases from the water and it will blend perfectly well with the oil.”

“I should know not to offer a cliché to a scientist.”

“Especially when it doesn’t answer his question.”

It was a thick five seconds before she answered. “I don’t know why I don’t like her. I’m no good with being micromanaged, for one thing. She leaves you  alone. Maybe it’s a woman thing.”

“I have no opinion on the subject.”

Digging into her scalp, she sighed. “I’ll go tell her now.”

She walked to the door and paused, looking back at Rhyme hard at work on the bicycle.

Sachs had mixed feelings about his plans for the forthcoming surgery. The operation was risky. Quads start with a hampered physiological system to begin with; an operation could lead to severe complications that wouldn’t be an issue with the non disabled.