The Kill Room

Laurel seemed confused. “How could I bring that case? I’m a New York district attorney. There was no state nexus in al Awlaki’s assassination. But if you’re asking if I pick cases I think I can win, Detective Sachs, then the answer’s yes. Charging Metzger for assassinating a known and dangerous terrorist is probably unwi

With a glance at Rhyme, Sachs spoke to both Laurel and Myers. “I’m not sure. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“Feel right?” Laurel asked, seemingly perplexed by the phrase.

Two fingers rubbed together hard as Sachs said, “I don’t know, I’m not sure this’s our job.”

“You and Lincoln?” Laurel inquired.

“Any of us. It’s a political issue, not a criminal one. You want to stop NIOS from assassinating people, that’s fine. But shouldn’t it be a matter for Congress, not the police?”

Laurel underhanded a glance at Rhyme. Sachs certainly had a point – one that hadn’t even occurred to him. He cared very little about the broader questions of right and wrong when it came to the law. It was enough for him that Albany or Washington or the city council had defined an answerable offense. His job was then simple: tracking down and building a case against the offender.

Just like with chess. Did it matter that the creators of that arcane board game had decreed that the queen was all powerful and that the knight made right angle turns? No. But once those rules were established, you played by them.

He ignored Laurel and kept his eyes on Sachs.

Then the assistant DA’s posture changed, subtly but clearly. Rhyme thought at first she was defensive but that wasn’t it, he realized. She was going into advocate mode. As if she’d stood up from counsel table in court and had walked to the front of the jury – a jury as yet unconvinced of the suspect’s guilt.

“Amelia, I think justice is in the details,” Laurel began. “In the small things. I don’t prosecute a rape case because society becomes less stable when sexual violence is perpetrated against women. I prosecute rape because one human being behaves according to the prohibited acts in New York Penal Code section one thirty point three five. That’s what I do, that’s what we all do.”

After a pause, she said, “Please, Amelia. I know your track record. I’d like you on board.”

Ambition or ideology? Rhyme wondered, looking over the compact package of Nance Laurel, with her stiff hair, blunt fingers and nails free of polish, small feet in sensible pumps, on which the liquid cover up had been applied as carefully as the makeup on her face. He honestly couldn’t say which of the two motivated her but one thing he observed: He was actually chilled to see the absence of passion in her black eyes. And it took a great deal to chill Lincoln Rhyme.

In the silence that followed, Sachs’s eyes met Rhyme’s. She seemed to sense how much he wanted the case. And this was the tipping factor. A nod. “I’m on board,” she said.

“I am too.” Rhyme was looking, though, not at Myers or Laurel but at Sachs. His expression said, Thanks.

“And even though nobody asked me,” Sellitto said with a grumble, “I’m also happy to fuck up my career by busting a senior federal official.”

Rhyme then said, “I assume a priority is discretion.”

“We have to keep it quiet,” Laurel replied. “Otherwise evidence will start disappearing. But I don’t think we have to worry at this point. In my office we’ve done everything we can to keep a lid on the case. I really doubt NIOS knows anything about the investigation.”

CHAPTER 6

As he drove the borrowed car to a cay on the southwest shore of New Providence Island, near the huge Clifton Heritage Park, Jacob Swa

Moving quickly. Much more quickly than he’d expected.

He heard a thump from the trunk of the car, where A

No vehicles either, or boaters in the turquoise water.

The Caribbean was such a contradiction, Swa

He climbed out and blew into his gloves to cool his sweaty hands. Damn, it was hot . He’d been to this spot before, last week. After a particularly challenging but accurate rifle shot had torn apart the heart of the traitorous Mr. Robert Moreno, Swa

But first, another chore…another task.

Swa

Trying to breathe.

He then stepped to the rear seat, opened his suitcase and removed one of his treasures, his favorite chef’s knife, a Kai Shun Premier slicing model. It was about nine inches long and had the company’s distinctive hammered tsuchime finish, pounded by metalsmiths in the Japanese town of Seki. The blade had a VG 10 steel core with thirty two layers of Damascus steel. The handle was walnut. This knife cost $250. He had models by the same manufacturer in various shapes and sizes, for different kitchen techniques, but this was his favorite. He loved it like a child. He used it to fillet fish, to slice beef translucent for carpaccio and to motivate human beings.

Swa

Removing the goat meat from the bones last week, for instance, and cubing it for the stew.

My little butcher man, my dear little butcher…

He heard another noise, a thud. A

Swa

“Uhn, uhn, uhn…”

This was probably her version of “no, no, no.”

He found an indentation in the sand, surrounded by reedy plants and decorated with crushed Kalik cans and Red Stripe bottles, used condoms and decaying cigarette butts. He rolled her over onto her back and sat on her chest.

A look around. No one. The screams would be much softer, thanks to the blow to the throat, but they wouldn’t be silent.

“Now. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to have to form the words. I need answers and I need them quickly. Can you form words?”