The Kill Room

“Now, we have a situation that needs to be…resolved. Your organization issued a Special Task Order.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please.” Rhyme lifted an impatient hand. “An STO against a man who appears to have been i

“If you’re suggesting that NIOS–”

“Called in a specialist?” Sachs said.

Metzger flickered again. He’d have to be wondering, How did they know that term? How did they know any  of this? He sputtered, “I did not and never have ordered anyone to do that.”

Spoken in bureaucratic euphemism.

To do that…

Sellitto barked, “Look at your wrists, Metzger. Look. You in cuffs? I don’t see any cuffs. You see any cuffs?”

Rhyme continued, “We know it was somebody else. And that’s why we’re here. We need you to help us find him.”

“Help you?” Metzger replied with a momentary smile. “And why on earth should I help people who are trying to bring down an important department of the government? A department that does vital work keeping citizens safe from our enemies?”

Rhyme offered a sardonic gaze and even the NIOS director seemed to realize the rhetoric was over the top.

“Why should you help?” Rhyme echoed. “Two reasons leap into my mind. First, so you don’t go down for obstruction of justice. You mounted a campaign to stop the investigation. You tracked down Moreno’s citizenship renunciation, presumably pulling strings at the State Department. It’d be interesting to see if you followed proper cha

Sachs said in a gritty voice, “You stole personal medical records.”

She and Rhyme had discussed how Captain Bill Myers had gotten from her orthopedist the files about her condition. They concluded that somebody at NIOS had hacked the records and sent them to Sachs’s superiors.

Metzger looked down. A silent confirmation.

“And the second reason to help us? You and NIOS got set up – to murder somebody. And we’re the only ones who can help you nail the perp.”

Rhyme had Metzger’s full attention now.

“What are you saying happened?”

Rhyme replied, “I’ve heard some people suggest that you’re using this job to kill whoever you think is unpatriotic or anti American. I don’t think so. I think you really believed Moreno was a threat – because somebody wanted  you to think that and leaked phony intelligence to you. So you’d issue an STO and take him out. And that would give the real perp a chance to murder the real intended victim.”

Metzger looked off for a moment. “Sure! Moreno gets shot, the others in the room are stu

“No, no, no,” Rhyme said, though he then conceded, “All right. I thought  the same thing at first. But then I realized that was wrong.” This was delivered as a confession. In fact, he was still irritated he’d jumped to the conclusion about the reporter without considering all the facts.

“Then who…?” Metzger lifted his hands, confused.

Amelia Sachs provided the answer. “Simon Flores, Moreno’s bodyguard. He was the target all along.”

CHAPTER 85

De la Rua was a feature writer for a business publication,” Rhyme explained. “We looked over all his recent articles and found out what he was working on. Human interest stories, business analysis, economics, investment. No investigative reporting, no exposés. Nothing controversial.”

As for the reporter’s personal life, well, Pulaski had found nothing that might motivate a killer to take him out. He wasn’t involved in shady business dealings or criminal activities, had no enemies and hadn’t engaged in any personal moral lapses – there was no controversy about whom  he was sleeping with (apparently only his wife of twenty three years).

“So when I didn’t find a motive,” Rhyme continued, “I had to ask what was curious? I went back to the evidence. And a few minutes later something jumped out. Or, I should say, the absence  of something jumped out. The bodyguard’s missing watch, which was stolen after the shooting. It was a Rolex. The fact of the theft was unremarkable. But why would a bodyguard be wearing a five thousand dollar watch?”

Metzger looked blank.

“His boss, Robert Moreno, wasn’t rich; he was an activist and journalist. He was probably pretty generous with his workers but paying enough of a salary for any of them to buy a Rolex? I didn’t think so. A half hour ago I had our FBI contact profile the guard. Flores had accounts worth six million dollars in banks around the Caribbean. Every month he got fifty thousand cash from an anonymous numbered account in the Caymans.”

Metzger’s eyes flashed. “The guard was blackmailing someone.”

You didn’t get to be head of a group like NIOS without being sharp but this was a particularly good deduction.

Rhyme nodded, with a smile. “I think that’s right. I remembered that the day of the attack at the South Cove I

Metzger said, “The guard was one of the lawyer’s clients, of course. The guard – Flores – left the incriminating information with the attorney for safekeeping. But the man being blackmailed got tired of paying or ran out of money and called up a hit man – this specialist – to kill the guard, kill the lawyer and steal the information, destroy it.”

“Exactly. The lawyer’s office was ransacked and looted after he died.”

Sellitto cast a wry glance at Metzger. “He’s good, Linc. He oughta be a spy.”

The director regarded the detective coolly, then continued, “Any ideas on how to find out who was being blackmailed?”

Sachs asked, “Who sent you the fake intel about Moreno, that he was pla

Metzger leaned back, eyes sweeping the ceiling. “I can’t tell you specifically. It’s classified. Only that they were intelligence assets in Latin America – ours and another U.S. security organization. Trusted assets.”

Rhyme suggested, “Could somebody have leaked bad intel to them  and they sent it to you?”

The doubtful look faded. “Yes, somebody who knew how the intelligence community worked, somebody with contacts.” Metzger’s jaw trembled alarmingly again. How fast he switched from calm to enraged. It was unsettling. “But how do we find him?”

“I’ve been considering that,” Rhyme said. “And I think the key is the whistleblower, the person who leaked the STO.”

Metzger grimaced. “The traitor.”

“What have you been doing to find him?”

“Searching for him day and night,” the man said ruefully. “But no luck. We’ve cleared everybody here with access to the STO. My personal assistant had the last polygraph appointment. She has…” He hesitated. “…reason to be unhappy with the government. But she passed. There are still a few people in Washington we have to check out. Has to have come from there, we’re thinking. Maybe a military base.”

“Homestead?”

A pause. “I can’t say.”

Rhyme asked, “Who was in charge of the internal investigation?”

“My administrations director, Spencer Boston.” A pause, as he regarded Rhyme’s piercing gaze, then looked down briefly. “He’s not a suspect. How could he be? What does he have to gain? Besides, he passed the test.”