The Kill Room (23 page)

J
ACOB SWANN BRAKED HIS CAR
to a stop a half block from Amelia Sachs’s, near Lincoln Rhyme’s town house.

He’d followed her downtown, where she’d had a meeting on Chambers Street, and he’d looked for a chance to shoot. But there had been too many people down there. Always a problem in Manhattan. Now she was back, aggressively parallel parking in an illegal spot near the cul-de-sac once again.

He looked up and down the shadowy avenue. Deserted at last. Yes, this would be the place and the time. In his latex-gloved hand Swann gripped the SIG Sauer, adjusted it to be able to draw quickly.

He wasn’t going to kill her. He’d decided that would create too much of a stir—too many police, too intense a manhunt, too much press. Instead he’d shoot into her back or legs.

Once she stepped out, he’d double-park, climb out, shoot her and then drive off, pausing a few blocks away to swap plates again.

Sachs got out of the Torino, looking around carefully again, hand near her hip. This keen gaze kept Swann in the front seat of his Nissan, head down. When she started up the street he opened the door of the car but paused. Sachs didn’t head for the cul-de-sac leading to Rhyme’s town house or toward Central Park West but rather walked across the street—to a Chinese restaurant.

He saw her step inside, laughing as she spoke with the woman at the register. Sachs examined the menu. She was getting an order to go. A glance up and then she was waving at one of the busboys. He smiled back.

Swann pulled the Nissan forward, noted a space a few car lengths away. He parked and shut the engine off. His hand slipped inside his jacket and made sure once again he knew just where the pistol was. The receiver was more cumbersome than a Glock’s, with safeties and slide catches, but the gun itself was heavy, which guaranteed the subsequent shots after the first would be particularly accurate; light weapons need more recentering on target than heavy ones do.

He studied Sachs through the streaked glass.

Such an attractive woman.

Long, red hair.

Tall.

Slim too. So slim. Did she not like to eat? She didn’t seem the cooking type. This made Swann dislike her. And takeout from a place like this, salt and overused grease? Shame on you, Amelia. You’ll be right at home for the next few months, eating Jell-O and pudding while you recuperate.

In ten minutes she was out the door, take-out food in one hand, and playing the cooperative target: walking straight into the cul-de-sac.

She paused at the entrance, looking into the bag, apparently making sure the restaurant had included the extra rice or fortune cookies or chopsticks. Still fiddling with the bag, she continued toward Rhyme’s town house.

Swann eased his car back into the street but had to brake fast, as a bicyclist sped in front of him and stopped, debating for some reason whether to turn around or continue on to Central Park. Swann was angry but didn’t want to draw attention by honking. He waited, face flushed.

The biker headed on—opting for the beautiful green of a spring park—and Swann punched the accelerator to get to the cul-de-sac fast. But the delay had cost him. Walking quickly, Sachs had reached the end of the L-shaped passage and disappeared to the left, toward the back of the town house.

Not a problem. Better actually. He’d park, follow her in and shoot her as she approached the door. The geometry of the cul-de-sac there would mute the gunshots and send the sounds in a hundred different directions. Whoever heard would have no idea where they came from.

He looked around. No cops. Little traffic. A few oblivious passersby, lost in their own worlds.

Swann pulled the car into the mouth of the cul-de-sac, put the transmission in park and stepped out. With the gun drawn, but hidden under his windbreaker, he started over the cobblestones.

He recited to himself: two shots, low in her back, one toward the knee. Although he vastly preferred his knife he was a good marksman. He’d have to—

A voice behind him, a woman’s: “Excuse me. Could you help me?” British accent.

It belonged to a slim, attractive jogger in her early thirties. She stood about eight feet away, between him and the open driver’s door of his car.

“I’m from out of town. I’m trying to find the reservoir. There’s a running path…”

And then she saw it.

His windbreaker had eased away from his body. She saw the gun.

“Oh, God. Look, don’t hurt me. I didn’t see anything! I swear.”

She started to turn but Swann moved fast; he was in front of her in an instant. She took a breath to scream but he struck her in the throat, his open-handed blow. She dropped hard to the concrete, out of sight of a couple across the street, arguing about something.

Swann glanced back up the dim canyon between the nearby buildings. Would Sachs be inside by now?

Maybe not. He didn’t know how far the L of the cul-de-sac extended behind Rhyme’s.

But he had only a matter of seconds to decide. He glanced down at the woman, gasping for breath, just the way Annette had in the Bahamas and Lydia Foster had here.

Uhn, uhn, uhn
. Hands to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open.

Yes or no? He debated.

Choose now.

He decided: Yes.

A
MELIA SACHS STOOD IN THE CUL-DE-SAC
behind the town house, Glock drawn, aimed toward where the dim canyon made a right turn and eventually joined the crosstown street.

The Chinese takeout she’d ordered was sitting on the cobblestones and she was in a combat shooting stance: feet planted parallel, toes pointed at your enemy, leaning forward slightly with gun hand gripping hard, other hand cradling the trigger guard for stability. Your dominant arm stiff; if the muscles aren’t taut the recoil might not eject the spent shell and chamber another. A jam can mean death. You and your gun have to be partners.

Come on, Sachs thought to her adversary. Come on, present! This was, of course, Unsub 516. She knew it wasn’t Barry Shales, the sniper; he was still under surveillance by Lon Sellitto’s team.

Several times today she’d noticed a light-colored sedan—first, near Henry Cross’s office building on Chambers Street. Then on the drive here and again fifteen minutes ago. She hadn’t seen the car clearly but it was likely the same one that had been following her from Tash Farada’s house in Queens.

Noting the car pull into a space at the end of the block, she’d debated how to handle it. To call Central Dispatch or to approach him by herself on the street might have precipitated a firefight, a bad idea in this densely populated area.

So she’d decided to take him in the cul-de-sac. She’d bought the Chinese takeout to give him a chance to spot her. Before leaving, she’d slipped her weapon into the bag. Then she’d started across the street, careful not to present a target, and into the cul-de-sac, apparently focusing on her order but actually sensing from her periphery when the man would make his move.

She’d hurried to the bend in the cul-de-sac, aware that the car was approaching then stopping. At that point she’d turned, dropped the food and gripped her weapon.

Now she was waiting for the target to present.

Would he drive farther in? Probably not. Too easy to get blocked in, if a delivery or moving truck showed up.

Was he out of the car and moving fast toward her?

Palms dry, both eyes open—you never squint when you shoot. And you focus on two things only: your target and the front sight of your weapon. Forget the blade sight at the back of the receiver. You can’t bring everything into definition.

Come on!

Breathing steadily.

Where was he? Prowling forward, about to leap around the corner and drop into his own shooting stance?

Or what if he’d anticipated she was on to him? He might have grabbed a passerby to shove into the cul-de-sac as a distraction. Or use him or her as a shield, hoping that Sachs would react and shoot the innocent.

Inhale, exhale, inhale…

Did she hear a voice? A soft cry?

What was that? Easing forward, Sachs crept toward the other leg of the L. Paused, flattened against the brick.

Where the hell was he? Was
his
weapon up too, pointed at exactly the spot where she’d appear if she stepped forward?

Okay, go. Just go low and get ready to shoot. Watch your backdrop.

One…two…

Now!

Sachs leapt into the main part of the cul-de-sac, gun up, and dropped into a crouch.

Which is when her left knee gave out completely.

Before she got a clear look at where the unsub might be waiting for her, she tumbled sideways onto the cobblestones, managing to lift her finger off the trigger before she pulled off a random round or two. Amelia Sachs rolled once and lay stunned, a perfect target.

Even her vision had deserted her. Tears from the pain.

But she forced herself to ignore the agony and scrabbled into a prone position, gun muzzle aimed down the cul-de-sac, where Unsub 516 would be coming for her. Aiming at her. Sending hollow-point bullets into her.

Except that he wasn’t.

She blinked the moisture from her eyes, then wiped them fiercely with her sleeve.

Empty. The cul-de-sac was empty. Five sixteen was gone.

Struggling to her feet, she holstered her weapon and massaged her knee. She limped to the street and conducted a canvass of those on the sidewalk. But no one had paid any attention to light-colored cars, no one had seen a compact man with brown hair and military bearing acting strangely, no one had seen any weapons.

Standing with hands on hips, looking west then east. All was peaceful, all was normal. A typical day on the Upper West Side.

Sachs returned to the cul-de-sac, fighting the limp. Man, that hurt. She collected the Chinese and tossed it into a Dumpster.

In New York City alleyways the five-second rule about dropped food does not apply.

Y
OU WERE RIGHT, CAPTAIN,”
Mychal Poitier called from the second-story porch outside Annette Bodel’s apartment in Nassau. “The side window has been jimmied. Barry Shales or your unsub broke in here, either before or after he killed her.”

Rhyme gazed up, squinting into the brilliant sky. He couldn’t see the corporal, just the silhouette of a palm waving lethargically near the roof of the building in which prostitute-student Annette had lived.

This was the other crime scene he’d referred to. He’d known that Annette’s killer had to come here to find any information she might have had about him and his visit to South Cove last week. Poitier and his men had been here before—after she was reported missing—but merely to see if she, or her body, was present. The door locks had not been disturbed and the officers hadn’t investigated further.

“Probably afterward,” Rhyme called. Part of the questions during Annette’s torture would have been about address books and computer files that might have referenced him. Diaries too, of course. All of that would be gone but, he hoped, some trace of the unsub remained.

A small cluster of locals, faces tanned and faces black, were nearby, checking out the entourage. Rhyme supposed their words ought to be delivered more discreetly but twenty-five vertical feet separated him from Poitier and so there was no choice but to shout.

“Don’t go inside, Corporal. Ron will handle it.” He turned. “Rookie, how we doing?”

“Almost ready, Lincoln.” He was suiting up in RBPF crime scene coveralls and assembling the basic collection equipment.

Rhyme didn’t even consider running this scene himself, though he’d earlier been tempted. There was no elevator in the building and it would be nearly impossible to carry the heavy wheelchair up the narrow rickety stairs. Besides, Pulaski was good. Nearly as good as Amelia Sachs.

The officer now paused in front of Rhyme as if expecting a briefing. But the criminalist offered simply, “It’s your scene. You know what to do.”

A nod from the young man and up the stairs he trotted.

IT TOOK ABOUT AN HOUR
for him to walk the grid.

When Pulaski emerged, with a half dozen collection bags, he asked Rhyme and Poitier if they wanted to review the evidence now. Rhyme debated but in the end he decided to take everything back to New York and do the analysis there.

Part of this was the familiarity of working with Mel Cooper.

Part was that he missed Sachs, a fact he wouldn’t share with another human being…except her.

“What are our travel options?” he asked Thom.

He checked his phone. “If we can get to the airport in a half hour, we can make the next flight.”

Rhyme glanced at the corporal.

“We’re twenty minutes at the most,” Poitier said.

“Even in the infamous Bahamian traffic?” Rhyme asked wryly.

“I have red lights.”

Pulaski headed toward the van, still in coveralls, booties and shower cap.

“Get into street clothes, rookie. I think you’d upset the passengers, dressed like that.”

“Oh, right.”

The flashing lights did help and soon they were at the terminal. They exited the van and, while Pulaski saw to the luggage and Thom arranged for the vehicle to be collected, Rhyme remained next to Poitier. The area was bustling with tourists and locals, and the air filled with dust and the endless bangs and catcalls of construction. And that constant perfume, trash fire smoke.

Rhyme began to speak, then found words had abandoned him. He forced them into line. “I’m sorry about what happened at the sniper nest, Corporal. The assistant commissioner was right. I nearly got you killed.”

Poitier laughed. “We aren’t in a business like librarians or dental workers, Captain. Not all of us go home every night.”

“Still, I wasn’t as competent as I should have been.” These words seared him. “I should have anticipated the attack.”

“I have not been a real police officer for very long, Captain, but I think it’s safe to say that it would be impossible to anticipate everything that could happen in this profession. It’s really quite mad, what we do. Little pay, danger, politics at the top, chaos on the streets.”

“You’ll do well as a detective, Corporal.”

“I hope so. I certainly feel more at home here than in Business Inspections and Licensing.”

A flashing light caught Rhyme’s eye and he could hear a siren as well. A police car was speeding into the airport, weaving through traffic.

“Ah, the last of the evidence,” Poitier said. “I was worried it wouldn’t arrive in time.”

What evidence could it be? Rhyme wondered. They had everything that existed from the Moreno sniper shooting, as well as from Annette Bodel’s apartment. The divers had given up searching for Barry Shales’s spent cartridges.

The corporal waved the car over.

The young constable who’d met them at the South Cove Inn was behind the wheel. Holding an evidence bag, he got out and saluted, the gesture aimed halfway between the two men he faced.

Rhyme resisted a ridiculous urge to salute back.

Poitier took the bag and thanked the officer. Another tap of stiff fingers to his forehead and the constable returned to the car, speeding away and clicking on the siren and lights once more, though his mission had been accomplished.

“What’s that?”

“Can’t you tell?” Poitier asked. “I remember in your book you instruct officers to always smell the air when they’re running the crime scene.”

Frowning, Rhyme leaned down and inhaled.

The fragrant aroma of fried conch rose from the bag.