The Kill Room (13 page)

S
O, THIS IS THE CARIBBEAN.”

His hand on the joystick of his candy-apple-red wheelchair, Lincoln Rhyme steered out a door at Lynden Pindling Airport in Nassau into an atmosphere hotter and more dank than he could recall experiencing in years.

“Takes your breath away,” he called. “But I like it.”

“Slow down, Lincoln,” Thom said.

But Rhyme would have none of that. He was a child on Christmas morning. Here he was in a foreign country for the first time in many years. He was excited at the prospect of the trip itself. But also at what it might yield: hard, physical evidence in the Moreno case. He’d decided to come down here because of something he was nearly ashamed to admit: intuition, that fishy crap that Amelia Sachs was always going on and on about. He had a feeling that the only way he was going to get that million-dollar bullet and the rest of the evidence was to wheel right up to Corporal Mychal Poitier and ask him for it. In person.

Rhyme knew the officer was genuinely troubled by the death of Robert Moreno and troubled too that he was a pawn being used by his superiors to marginalize the case.

There wasn’t a single inspection or license I handled that was not completed in a timely, thorough and honest manner…

He didn’t think it would take much to convince the corporal to help them.

And so Thom had thrown himself upon the sword of airline and hotel reservation telephone hold, listening to bad music—the aide announced several times—to arrange the flight and motel, an assignment made complicated by Rhyme’s condition.

But not as complicated as they’d thought.

Certainly some issues had to be contended with when traveling as a quad—special wheelchairs to the seat, particular pillows, concerns about the Storm Arrow in storage, the practical matters of the piss and shit details that might have to be attended to on the flight.

In the end, though, the journey wasn’t bad. We’re all disabled in the eyes of the Transportation Security Administration, all immobile, all objects, all baggage to be shuffled about at whim. Lincoln actually felt that he was better off than most of his fellow travelers, who were used to being mobile and independent.

Outside the baggage claim area, on the ground floor of the airport, Rhyme motored to the edge of the sidewalk filled with tourists and locals bustling for cars and taxis and mini vans. He looked at a small garden of plants, some of whose varieties he’d never seen. He had no interest in horticulture for aesthetics but he found flora extremely helpful in crime scene work.

He’d also heard the rum was particularly good in the Bahamas.

Returning to where Thom was standing, making a phone call, Rhyme phoned Sachs and left a message. “Made it okay. I…” He turned, hearing a caterwauling screech behind him. “Christ, scared the hell out of me. There’s a parrot here. He’s talking!”

The cage had been placed there by a local tourist commission. Inside was an Abaco Bahamian parrot, according to the sign. The noisy bird, gray with a flourish of green on the tail, was saying, “Hello! Hi!
¡Hola!
” Rhyme recorded some of the greeting for Sachs.

Another breath of the dank, salty air, tinged with a sour aroma, what he realized was smoke. What was burning? No one else seemed alarmed.

“Got the bags,” came a voice from behind them.

NYPD patrolman Ron Pulaski—young, blond, thin—was wheeling the suitcases on a cart. The trio didn’t expect to be here long but the nature of Rhyme’s condition was such that he required accessories. A lot of them. Medicines, catheters, tubes, disinfectants, air pillows to prevent the sores that could lead to infections.

“What’s that?” Rhyme asked as Thom retrieved a small backpack from one bag and slung it on the back of the wheelchair.

“It’s a portable respirator,” Pulaski answered.

Thom added, “Battery-powered. Double oxygen tank. It’ll last for a couple of hours.”

“What the hell did you bring that for?”

“Flying with cabin pressure at seven thousand feet,” the aide replied as if the answer were obvious. “Stress. There’re a dozen reasons it can’t hurt to have one with us.”

“Do I look stressed?” Rhyme asked petulantly. He had weaned himself off the ventilator years ago, to breathe on his own, one of the proudest achievements possible for a quad. But Thom had apparently forgotten—or disregarded—that accomplishment. “I don’t need it.”

“Let’s hope you don’t. But what can it hurt?”

Rhyme had no answer to that. He glanced at Pulaski. “And it’s not a respirator, by the way. Respiration is the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Ventilation is the introduction of gas into the lungs. Hence, it’s a
ventilator
.”

Pulaski sighed. “Got it, Lincoln.”

At least the rookie had stopped his irritating habit of calling Rhyme “sir” or “captain.”

The young officer then asked, “Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters,” he snapped. “Precision is the key to everything. Where’s the van?”

Another of Thom’s tasks was getting a disabled-accessible vehicle in the Bahamas.

Still on the phone, he glanced at Rhyme, grimacing. “I’m on hold again.”

The aide finally made contact with somebody and several minutes later the van was pulling up to the curb near the resort mini bus waiting area. The white Ford was battered and stank of old cigarette smoke. The windows greasy. Pulaski loaded the luggage into the back while Thom signed forms and handed them to the lean, dark-skinned man who’d delivered the vehicle. Credit cards and a certain amount of cash were exchanged and the driver disappeared on foot. Rhyme wondered if the van had been stolen. Then decided that this was unfair.

You’re in a different world, not Manhattan anymore. Keep an open mind.

With Thom at the wheel, they drove along the main highway toward Nassau, a two-lane road in good repair. Traffic from the airport was heavy, mostly older American cars and imports from Japan, beat-up trucks, mini vans. Hardly any SUVs, not surprising in a land of expensive gas and no ice, snow or mountains. Curiously, though the driving here was left-sided—the Bahamas was a former British colony—most of the cars had left-hand drive, American-style.

As they poked along east, Rhyme noted along the roadside small businesses without signage to indicate what their products or services were, many unkempt plots of land, vendors selling fruits and vegetables out of the backs of their cars; they seemed uninterested in making sales. The van passed some large, rambling homes behind gates, mostly older construction. A number of smaller houses and shacks seemed abandoned, victims of hurricanes, he guessed. Nearly all the locals had very dark skin. Most of the men were dressed in T-shirts or short-sleeved shirts, untucked, and jeans or slacks or shorts. Women wore similar outfits too but many were in plain dresses of floral patterns or bright solid colors.

“Well,” Thom exclaimed breathlessly, braking hard and managing to avoid the goat while not capsizing their belongings.

“Look at that,” Pulaski said. And captured the animal on his cell phone camera.

Thom obeyed the GPS god and before they came to downtown Nassau itself they turned off the main road, away from dense traffic. They drove past the limestone walls of an old fort. In five minutes the aide pulled the van, rocking on a bad suspension, into the parking lot of a modest but well-kept-up motel. He and Pulaski handed off the luggage to a bellman and the aide went to the front desk to check in and examine the accessible aspects of the motel. He returned to report they were acceptable.

“Part of Fort Charlotte,” Pulaski said, reading a sign beside a path that led from the motel to the fort.

“What?” Rhyme asked.

“Fort Charlotte. After it was built, nobody ever attacked the Bahamas. Well, never attacked New Providence Island. That’s where we are.”

“Ah,” Rhyme offered, without interest.

“Look at this,” Pulaski said, pointing to a lizard standing motionless on the wall next to the front door of the place.

Rhyme said, “A green anole, an American chameleon. She’s gravid.”

“She’s what?”

“Pregnant. Obviously.”

“That’s what ‘gravid’ means?” the young officer asked.

“The technical definition is ‘distended with eggs.’
Ergo
, pregnant.”

Pulaski laughed. “You’re joking.”

Rhyme growled, “Joking? What would be funny about an expectant lizard?”

“No. I mean, how’d you know that?”

“Because I was coming to an area I’m not familiar with, and what’s in chapter one of my forensics book, rookie?”

“The rule that you have to know the geography when you run a crime scene.”

“I needed to learn the basic information about geology and flora and fauna that might help me here. The fact that nobody invaded after Fort Charlotte was built is pointless to me, so I didn’t bother to learn that. Lizards and parrots and Kalik beer and mangroves
might
be relevant. So I read up on them on the flight. What were
you
reading?”

“Uhm,
People
.”

Rhyme scoffed.

The lizard blinked and twisted its head but otherwise remained motionless.

Rhyme removed his mobile phone from his shirt pocket. The prior surgery, on his right arm and hand, had been quite successful. The movements were slightly off, compared with those of a non-disabled limb, but they were smooth enough so that an onlooker might not notice they weren’t quite natural. His cell was an iPhone and he’d spent hours practicing the esoteric skills of swiping the screen and calling up apps. He’d had his fill of voice-recognition, because of his condition, so he’d put Siri to sleep. He now used the recent calls feature to dial a number with one touch. A richly accented woman’s voice said, “Police, do you have an emergency?”

“No, no emergency. Could I speak to Corporal Poitier, please?”

“One moment, sir.”

A blessedly short period of hold. “Poitier speaking.”

“Corporal?”

“That’s right. Who is this, please?”

“Lincoln Rhyme.”

Silence for a lengthy moment. “Yes.” The single word contained an abundance of uncertainty and ill ease. Casinos were far safer places for conversations than the man’s office.

Rhyme continued, “I would have given you my own credit card. Or called you back on my line.”

“I couldn’t speak any longer. And I’m quite busy now.”

“The missing student?”

“Indeed,” said the richly inflected baritone.

“Do you have any leads?”

There was a pause. “Not so far. It’s been over twenty-four hours. No word at her school or part-time job. She most recently had been seeing a man from Belgium. He appears to be very distraught but…” He let the lingering words fade to smoke. Then he said, “I’m afraid I’m unable to help you in regard to your case.”

“Corporal, I’d like to meet with you.”

The fattest silence yet. “Meet?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how can that be?”

“I’m in Nassau. I’d suggest someplace other than police headquarters. We can meet wherever you like.”

“But…I…You’re
here
?”

“Away from the office might be better,” Rhyme repeated.

“No. That’s impossible. I can’t meet you.”

“I really must talk to you,” Rhyme said.

“No. I have to go, Captain.” There was a desperation in his voice.

Rhyme said briskly, “Then we’ll come to your office.”

Poitier repeated, “You’re really here?”

“That’s right. The case’s important. We’re taking it seriously.”

Rhyme knew this reminder—that the Royal Bahamas Police seemed not to be—was blunt. But he was still convinced that Poitier would help him if he pushed hard enough.

“I’m very busy, as I say.”

“Will you see us?”

“No, I can’t.”

There was a click as the corporal hung up.

Rhyme glanced at the lizard, then turned to Thom and laughed. “Here we are in the Caribbean, surrounded by such beautiful water—let’s go make some waves.”

O
DD. JUST PLAIN ODD
.

Dressed in black jeans, navy-blue silk tank top and boots, Amelia Sachs walked into the lab and was struck again at how different this case was.

Any other week-old homicide investigation would find the lab in chaos. Mel Cooper, Pulaski, Rhyme and Sachs would be parsing the evidence, jotting facts and conclusions and speculations on the whiteboards, erasing and writing some more.

Now the sense of urgency was no less—the leaked kill order taped up in front of her reminded that Mr. Rashid, and scores of others, were soon to die—but the room was quiet as a mausoleum.

Bad figure of speech, she decided.

But it was apt. Nance Laurel was not here yet and Rhyme was taking his first trip out of the country since his accident. She smiled. Not many criminalists would go to that kind of trouble to search a crime scene, and she was happy he’d decided to, for all kinds of reasons.

But not having him here was disorienting.

Odd…

She hated this sensation, the chill emptiness.

I have a bad feeling about this one, Rhyme…

She passed one of the long evidence examination tables, on which sat racks of surgical instruments and tools, many of them in sterile wrappers, for analyzing the evidence they didn’t have.

At her improvised workstation Sachs sat down and got to work. She called Robert Moreno’s regular driver for Elite Limousines, Vladimir Nikolov. She hoped he might know who the mysterious Lydia, possible escort, possible terrorist, might be. But, according to the company, the driver was out of town on a family emergency. She’d left a message at Elite and one on his personal voice mail too.

She’d follow up later if she didn’t hear back.

She ran a search for suspected terrorist or criminal activities in the vicinity of where Tash Farada had dropped Moreno and Lydia off on May 1, via the consolidated law enforcement database of state and federal investigations. She discovered a few warrants for premises and surveillance in the area but they related, not surprisingly given the locale, to insider trading and investor fraud at banks and brokerage houses. They were all old cases and she could see no connection whatsoever to Robert A. Moreno.

Then, finally, a break.

Her phone rang and, noting the incoming number, she answered fast. “Rodney?” The cybercrimes expert, trying to trace the whistleblower.

Chunka, chunka, chunka, chunka…

Rock in the background. Did he
always
listen to music? And why couldn’t it be jazz or show tunes?

The volume diminished. Slightly.

Szarnek said, “Amelia, remember: Supercomputers are our friends.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. What do you have?” Her eyes were on the empty parlor, in which dust motes ambled through a shaft of morning sun like hot-air balloons seen from miles away. Again, she was painfully aware of Rhyme’s absence.

“I’ve got the location where he sent the email from. I won’t bore you with nodes and networks but suffice it to say that your whistleblower sent the email and the STO attachment from Java Hut near Mott and Hester. Think about it: A Portland, Oregon, coffee chain setting up shop in the heart of Little Italy. What would the Godfather say?”

She glanced at the header on the copy of the whistleblower’s messages taped to the board. “Is the date on the email accurate? Could he have faked it?”

“No, that’s when it was sent. He could write whatever date he wanted in the email itself but routers don’t lie.”

So their man was in the coffee shop at 1:02 p.m., May 11.

The cybercrimes detective continued, “I’ve checked. You can log onto
Wi-Fi
there without any identifying information. All you have to do is agree to the three-page terms of service. Which everybody does and not a single soul in the history of the world has ever read.”

Sachs thanked the tech cop and disconnected. She called the coffee shop and got the manager, explaining that she was trying to identify someone who had sent important documents via the Wi-Fi on May 11 and she wanted to come in and talk to him about that. She added, “You have a security camera?”

“We do, yeah. They’re in all the Java franchises. In case we get stuck up, you know.”

Without expecting much, she asked, “How often does the video loop?” She was sure new footage would overwrite the old every few hours.

“Oh, we’ve got a five-terabyte drive. It’s got about three weeks of video on it. The quality’s pretty crappy and it’s black and white. But you can make out a face if you need to.”

A ping of excitement. “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

Sachs pulled on a black linen jacket and rubber-banded her hair back in a ponytail. She took her holstered Glock from the cabinet, checked it as she always did, a matter of routine, and clipped it to her jeans belt. The double-mag holster went on her left hip. She was slinging her large purse over her shoulder when her mobile buzzed. She wondered if the caller was Rhyme. She knew he’d landed safely in the Bahamas but she was concerned that the trip might have taken a toll on his health.

But, no, the caller was Lon Sellitto.

“Hey.”

“Amelia. The Special Services canvass team is about halfway through the building where Moreno and the driver picked up Lydia. Nothing yet. They’re running into a lot of Lydias—who’da thought?—but none of ’em are the one. You know, how hard is it to name your kid Tiara or Estanzia? They’d be a fuck of a lot easier to track down.”

She told him about the lead to the coffee shop and that she was on her way there now.

“Good. A security cam, excellent. Hey, Linc’s really down in the Caribbean?”

“Yep, landed safe. I don’t know how he’s going to be treated. Interloper, you know.”

“Bet he can handle it.”

There was silence.

Something’s up. Lon Sellitto brooded some but it was usually noisy brooding.

“What?” she asked.

“Okay, you didn’t hear this.”

“Go on.”

The senior detective said, “Bill came by my office.”

“Bill Myers, the captain?”

So how does it feel to be repurposed into a granular-level player…

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Sellitto said, “He asked about you. Wanted to know if you were okay. Physically.”

Shit.

“Because I was limping?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Anyway, s’what he said. Listen, a fat old fart like me, you can get away with some bad days, hobbling around. But you’re a kid, Amelia. And skinny. He checked your reports and the ten-seventeens. Saw you volunteered for a lot of tactical work, first through the door on the lead teams sometimes. He just asked if you’d had any problems in the field or if anybody’d said they weren’t comfortable with you on take-downs or rescues. I told him no, absolutely not. You were prime.”

“Thanks, Lon,” she whispered. “Is he thinking of ordering a physical?”

“The subject didn’t come up. But that doesn’t mean no.”

To become an NYPD officer an applicant has to take a medical exam but once on the force—unlike firefighters or emergency medical techs—he or she never has to again, unless a supervisor orders one in specific cases or the officers want to earn promotion credit. Aside from that first checkup, years ago, Sachs had never had a department physical. The only record of her arthritis was on file with her private orthopedists. Myers wouldn’t have access to that but if he ordered a physical, the extent of her condition would be revealed.

And that would be a disaster.

“Thanks, Lon.”

They disconnected and she stood motionless for a moment, reflecting: Why was it that only part of this case seemed to involve worrying about the perps? Just as critical, you had to guard against your allies too, it seemed.

Sachs checked her weapon once more and walked toward the door, defiantly refusing to give in to the nearly overwhelming urge to limp.