The Kill Room

“Do you think there would be that retribution if you conducted a more rigorous investigation?”

“It’s a reasonable explanation for the otherwise inexplicable fact that the lead investigator in the Moreno case – that is, myself – was, only two weeks ago, making certain proper fire exits existed in new buildings and that Jet Ski rental companies had paid all their fees on time.”

Poitier’s voice rose in volume and there was some steel in it. “But I have to tell you, Captain: I may have been assigned to Business Inspections and Licensing but there wasn’t a single inspection or license I handled that was not completed in a timely, thorough and honest ma

“I don’t doubt it, Corporal.”

“So it is troublesome for me to be given this case and yet not be given this case, if you understand my meaning.”

Silence, broken by a slot machine clattering loudly into Rhyme’s ear.

When the noise stopped, Mychal Poitier whispered, “The Moreno case is in dry dock here, Captain. But I assume yours is steaming ahead.”

“Correct.”

“And you are, I assume, pursuing a conspiracy charge.”

Selling him short indeed. “That’s right.”

“I looked for that name, Don Bruns. You said it was a cover.”

“Yes.”

“There was nothing in any of our records here. Customs, Passport Control, hotel registers. He could easily have slipped onto the island, though, unseen. It’s not difficult. But there are two things that might help you. I will say I didn’t neglect the case entirely. I interviewed witnesses, as I said. A desk clerk at the South Cove I

“Did you get the number?”

“I was told it was an American area code. But the full number was not available. Or, to be frank, I was told not to dig further to find the number. Now, the second thing is that the day before the shooting, someone was at the i

“Did you get a description?”

“Male, Caucasian, mid thirty years of age, short cut hair, light brown. American accent too. Thin but athletic, the maid said. She said too he seemed military.”

“That’s our man. First, he called to make sure Moreno was still arriving. Then he showed up the day before the shooting to check out the target zone. Any car? Other details?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Beep.

Rhyme heard the sound over the line and he thought: Shit, NIOS’s tapping us.

But Poitier said, “I only have a few minutes left. That’s the tone warning me the time on my card is expiring.”

“I’ll call you back–”

“I must go anyway. I hope this–”

Rhyme said urgently, “Please, wait. Tell me about the crime scene. I asked you earlier about the bullet.”

That’s key to the case…

A pause. “The sniper fired three times from a very far distance, more than a mile. Two shots missed and those bullets disintegrated on the concrete wall outside the room. The one that killed Moreno was recovered largely intact.”

“One bullet?” Rhyme was confused. “But the other victims?”

“Oh, they were not shot. The round was very powerful. It hit the windows and showered everyone with glass. The guard and the reporter interviewing Moreno were badly cut and bled to death before they got to the hospital.”

The million dollar bullet.

“And the brass? The cartridges?”

“I asked a crime scene team to go search where the sniper had to shoot from. But…” His voice dimmed. “I was, of course, very junior and they told me they didn’t want to bother.”

“They didn’t want to bother?”

“The area was rugged, they said, a rocky shoreline that would be hard to search. I protested but by then the decision had been made not to pursue the case.”

“You yourself can search it, Corporal. I can tell you how to find the place he shot from,” Rhyme said.

“Well, the case is suspended, as I said.”

Beep.

“There are simple things to look for. Snipers leave a great deal of trace, however careful they are. It won’t take much time.”

Beep, beep…

“I’m not able to, Captain. The missing student still hasn’t been found–”

Rhyme blurted: “All right, Corporal, but please – at least send me the report, photos, the autopsy results. And if I could get the victims’ clothing. Shoes particularly. And…the bullet. I really want that bullet. We’ll be very diligent about the chain of custody.”

A pause. “Ah, Captain, no, I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Beep, beep, beep…

The last that Rhyme heard before the line went silent was the urgent hoot of a slot machine and a very drunken tourist saying, “Great, great. You realize it just cost you two hundred bucks to win thirty nine fucking dollars.”

CHAPTER 23

That night Rhyme and Sachs lay in his SunTec bed, fully reclined.

She had assured him that the bed was indescribably comfortable, an assessment for which he would have to take her word, since his only sensation was the smooth pillowcase. Which in fact was quite luxurious.

“Look,” she whispered.

Immediately outside the window of Rhyme’s second story bedroom, on the ledge, was a flurry of movement, hard to discern in the dusk.

Then a feather rose and drifted out of sight. Another.

Di

Peregrine falcons had lived on this sill, or one of the others outside the town house, ever since Rhyme had been a resident. He was particularly pleased they’d chosen his abode for nesting. As a scientist, he emphatically did not believe in signs or omens or the supernatural, but he saw nothing wrong with the idea of emblems. He viewed the birds metaphorically, thinking in particular of a fact that most people didn’t know about them: that when they attack they are essentially immobile. Falling bundles of muscle with legs fixed outward and wings tucked, streamlined. They dive at over two hundred miles per hour and kill prey by impact, not rending or biting.

Immobile, yet predatory.

Another feather floated away as the avian couple bent to their main course. The entrée was what had until recently been a fat, and careless, pigeon. Falcons are generally diurnal and hunt until dusk but in the city they are often nocturnal.

“Yum,” said Sachs.

Rhyme laughed.

She moved closer to him and he smelled her hair, the rich scent. A bit of shampoo, floral. Amelia Sachs was not a perfume girl. His right arm rose and he cradled her head closer.

“Are you going to follow up?” she asked. “With Poitier?”

“I’ll try. He seemed pretty adamant that he wouldn’t help us anymore. But I know he’s frustrated he hasn’t been allowed to go further.”

“What a case this is,” she said.

He whispered, “So how does it feel to be repurposed into a granular level player, Sachs? Are you pivoting to it or not?”

She laughed hard. “And what exactly is that outfit he’s working for, Captain Myers: Special Services?”

“You’re  the cop. I thought you’d know.”

“Never heard of it.”

They fell silent and then, in his shoulder, normal as anyone’s, he could feel her stiffen.

“Tell me,” he said.

“You know, Rhyme, I’m not feeling any better about this case.”

“You’re talking about what you said before, to Nance? That you’re not sure if Metzger and our sniper are the kinds of perps we want to go after?”