The Kill Room lr-10

by Jeffery Deaver

  “What?”

  A pause. “What you just told me about the tracing and the type of computer.”

  Sachs said, “I was just going to write it up on the board.” A nod toward the whiteboard.

  “I’d actually like everything documented in as close to real time as possible.” The ADA’s nod was toward her own stacks of files. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  The prosecutor wielded the words “if you…” like a bludgeon.

  Sachs did mind but wasn’t inclined to fight this battle. She pounded out the brief memo on her keyboard.

  Laurel added, “Thank you. Just send it to me in an email and I’ll print it out myself. The secure server, of course.”

  “Of course.” Sachs fired off the document, noting that the prosecutor’s micromanagement didn’t seem to extend to Lincoln Rhyme.

  Her phone buzzed and she lifted a surprised eyebrow, noting caller ID.

  At last. A solid lead. The caller was a secretary at Elite Limousines, one of dozens of livery operations Sachs had canvassed earlier, inquiring if Robert Moreno had used their services on May 1. In fact, he had. The woman said the man had hired a car and driver for an as-directed assignment, meaning that Moreno had given the driver the locations he wished to go to after being picked up. The company had no record of those stops but the woman gave Sachs the driver’s name and number.

  She then called the driver, identified herself and asked if she could come interview him in connection with a case.

  In a heavily accented voice, hard to understand, he said he supposed so and he gave her his address. She disconnected and rose, pulling on her jacket.

  “Got Moreno’s driver for his visit here on May first,” she said to Rhyme. “I’m going to interview him.”

  Laurel said quickly, “Any chance you could write up your notes on Agent Dellray’s news before you go?”

  “First thing I’m back.”

  She noted Laurel stiffen but it seemed that this was a battle the prosecutor wasn’t willing to fight.

  CHAPTER 14

  At this point in a standard investigation Lincoln Rhyme would have enlisted the aid of perhaps the best forensics lab man in the city, NYPD detective Mel Cooper.

  But the presence of the slim, unflappable Cooper was pointless in the absence of physical evidence and all he’d done was alert the man to be on call — which to Lincoln Rhyme meant being prepared to drop everything, short of open-heart surgery, and get your ass to the lab. Stat.

  But that possibility didn’t seem very likely at the moment. Rhyme was now back to the task that had taken all morning: trying to actually get possession of some of the physical evidence in the Moreno shooting.

  He was on hold for the fourth time with an official in the Royal Bahamas Police Force in Nassau. A voice, at last: “Yes, hello. Can I help you?” a woman asked in a melodious alto.

  About time. But he reined in the impatience even though he had to explain all over again. “This is Captain Rhyme. I’m with the New York City Police Department.” He’d given up on “consulting with” or “working with.” That was too complicated and seemed to arouse suspicion. He’d get Lon Sellitto to informally deputize him if anyone called his bluff. (He wished somebody would, in fact; bluff-callers are people who can get things done.)

  “New York, yes.”

  “I’d like to speak to someone in your forensics department.”

  “Crime Scene, yes.”

  “That’s right.” Rhyme pictured the woman he was speaking to as a lazy, not particularly bright civil servant sitting in a dusty un-air-conditioned office, beneath a slowly revolving fan.

  Possibly an unfair image.

  “I’m sorry, you wanted which department?”

  Possibly not.

  “Forensics. A supervisor. This is about the Robert Moreno killing.”

  “Please hold.”

  “No, please…Wait!”

  Click.

  Fuck.

  Five minutes later he found himself talking to the woman officer he was sure had taken his first call, though she didn’t seem to remember him. Or was pretending not to. He repeated his request and this time — after a burst of inspiration — added, “I’m sorry for the urgency. It’s just that the reporters keep calling. I’ll have to send them directly to your office if I can’t give them information myself.”

  He had no idea what threat this was meant to convey exactly; he was improvising.

  “Reporters?” she asked dubiously.

  “CNN, ABC, CBS. Fox. All of them.”

  “I see. Yes, sir.”

  But the ploy had its effect, because the next hold was for three seconds, tops.

  “Poitier speaking.” Deep, melodious, with a British accent and a Caribbean inflection; Rhyme knew the lilt not from having been to the islands himself but owing to his role in putting a few people from that part of the world in New York jails. The Jamaican gangs outstripped the Mafia for violence, hands down.

  “Hello. This is Lincoln Rhyme with the New York Police Department.” He wanted to add, Do not, under any fucking circumstances, put me on hold. But refrained.

  The Bahamian cop: “Ah, yes.” Cautious.

  “Who’m I speaking to? Officer Poitier, did I hear?”

  “Corporal Mychal Poitier.”

  “And you’re with Crime Scene?”

  “No. I’m the lead investigator in the Moreno shooting…Wait, you said you’re Lincoln Rhyme. Captain Rhyme. Well.”

  “You’ve heard of me?”

  “We have one of your forensics books in our library. I’ve read it.”

  Maybe this would earn him a modicum of cooperation. On the other hand, the corporal had not said whether he’d liked the book or found it helpful. The latest edition’s bio page reported that Rhyme was retired, a fact that Poitier, fortunately, didn’t seem to know.

  Rhyme now made his pitch. Without naming Metzger or NIOS, he explained that the NYPD believed there was an American connection in the Moreno killing. “I have some questions about the shooting, about the evidence. Do you have some time now? Can we talk?”

  A pause worthy of Nance Laurel. “I’m afraid not, sir. The Moreno case has been put on hold for the time being and there are—”

  “I’m sorry, on hold?” An open case of a homicide that occurred a week ago? This was the time when the investigation should be at its most intense.

  “That’s correct, Captain.”

  “But why? You have a suspect in custody?”

  “No, sir. First, I don’t know what American connection you’re speaking of; the killing was committed by members of a drug cartel from Venezuela, most likely. We’re waiting to hear from authorities there before we proceed further. And I personally have had to focus on a more urgent case. A part-time student who’s just gone missing, an American girl. Ah, these crimes happen some in our nation.” Poitier added defensively, “But rarely. Very rarely. You know how it is, sir. A pretty student disappears and the press descends. Like vultures.”

  The press. Maybe that was why Rhyme finally got put through. His bluff had touched a nerve.

  The corporal continued, “We have less rape than Newark, New Jersey, much less. But a missing student in the Islands is magnified like a telephoto lens. And I have to say, with all respect, your news programs are most unfair. The British press too. But now we have lost an American student and not a British one, so it will be CNN and the rest. Vultures. With all respect.”

  He was rambling now — to deflect, Rhyme sensed. “Corporal—”

  “It’s most unfair,” Poitier repeated. “A student comes here from America. She comes here on holiday or — this girl — to study for a semester. And it’s always our fault. They say terrible things about us.”

  Rhyme had lost all patience but he struggled to remain calm. “Again, Corporal, about the Moreno murder? Now, we’re sure the cartels had nothing to do with his death.”

  Silence now, in stark contrast with the officer’s earlier rambling. Then: “W
ell, my efforts are on finding the student.”

  “I don’t care about the student,” Rhyme blurted, bad taste maybe but, in fact, at the moment he didn’t. “Robert Moreno. Please. There is an American connection and I’m looking into it now. There’s some urgency.”

  Task: Al-Barani Rashid (NIOS ID: abr942pd5t)

  Born: 2/73, Michigan

  Rhyme couldn’t begin to guess who this Rashid was, the next name in the STO queue, and doubted he was an innocent soccer dad in Connecticut. But he agreed with Nance Laurel that the man shouldn’t die on the basis of faulty, or faked, information.

  Complete by: 5/19…

  Rhyme continued, “I’d like a copy of the crime scene report, photos of the scene and the nest the sniper was shooting from, autopsy reports, lab analysis. All the documentation. And any datamined information about someone named Don Bruns on the island around the time of the shooting. It’s a cover. An AKA for the sniper.”

  “Well, we don’t actually have the final report yet. Some notes but it’s not complete.”

  “Not complete?” Rhyme muttered. “The killing was on May ninth.”

  “I believe that’s right.”

  He believes?

  Rhyme suddenly felt a stab of concern. “Of course the scene’s been searched?”

  “Yes, yes, naturally.”

  Well, this was a relief.

  Poitier said, “The day after Mr. Moreno was shot we got right to it.”

  “Next day?”

  “Yes.” Poitier hesitated as if he knew this was a misstep. “We had another situation, another case that same day. A prominent lawyer was killed and robbed downtown, in his office. That took priority. Mr. Moreno was not a national. The lawyer was.”

  Two conditions made crime scenes infinitely less valuable to investigators. The first was contamination from people trudging through the site — including careless police officers themselves. The second was the passage of time between the crime and the search. Evidence key to establishing a suspect’s identity and conviction could, literally, evaporate in a matter of hours.

  Waiting a day to search a scene could cut the amount of vital evidence in half.

  “So the scene is still sealed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That was something. In a voice he hoped was suitably grave Rhyme said, “Corporal, the reason we’re involved here is that we think whoever killed Moreno will kill again.”

  “Is that true, do you think?” He sounded genuinely concerned. “Here?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Then someone else was speaking to the corporal. A hand went over the mouthpiece of the phone, and Rhyme could hear only mumbles. Poitier came back on the line. “I will take your number, Captain, and if I am able to find anything helpful I will give you a call.”

  Rhyme’s jaw clenched. He gave the number then quickly asked, “Could you search the scene again, please?”

  “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 Swann pulled his gray Nissan Altima past the house of Robert Moreno’s limo driver.

  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. Swann had to make sure they didn’t get those facts.

  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 Swann knew he’d have to move fast; the police couldn’t datamine with the same impunity as his technical services department but traditional canvassing could reveal the driver’s identity too.

  Swann climbed out of his car and stretched, looking around.

  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, Swann noted. A spray of flowering plants, thick and brilliant courtesy of the delicate spring temperature and a recent rain, bordered the front of the beige brick bungalow. The grass was trim, the slate slabs leading to the front door had been swept, possibly even scrubbed, in the past day or two. The centerpiece of the yard was two boxwood bushes, diligently shaped.

  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. Swann supposed that perhaps he had family back in his native country.

  In any event, the man’s solitary life worked to Swann’s advantage.

  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 Swann minded killing her but because two deaths increased the number of people who might miss a victim and bring the police here all the more quickly. It made a bigger news splash too. He hoped to keep the driver’s death quiet for as long as possible.

  Swann came to the end of the block, turned and slipped a plain black baseball cap over his head, pulled his jacket off, turned it inside out and slipped it back on. Witnesses see upper garments and headgear mostly. Now, if anyone was looking, it would seem that two different people had walked past the house, rather than one man doing so twice.

  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 connect with bone or some other solid portion of his victim when he swung, the metacarpals wouldn’t snap. He’d learned this the hard way — by missing a blow to the throat and striking a man on the cheek, which had cracked his little finger. He’d regained control of the situation but the pain i
n his right hand was excruciating. He’d found it was very difficult to flay skin with the knife in one’s non-dominant hand.

  Swann took a blank, sealed envelope from his bag too.

  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.

  Swann was about to walk around behind the house and look for a window he might break through.

  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 Swann was surprised — and pleased — to see that Robert Moreno’s preferred driver was only about five feet, six inches and couldn’t have weighed more than 160 pounds, 25 fewer than Swann himself.

  “Yes?” he asked in a thick Slavic accent, looking at Swann’s left hand, the white envelope. The right was not visible.

  “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.”

  Swann lifted the envelope. “You can read this. Everybody’s taking the checks but it says you don’t have to, you can talk to an arbitrator. I don’t care. I deliver checks. You don’t want it, don’t take it.”