The Kill Room

business attire—but seemed to have light-colored hair. A big laptop sat open before him.
    “That’s him,” Sachs said. “He’s got an iBook.” She’d downloaded a picture of every model.
    The criminalist observed, “Suit doesn’t fit well. It’s cheap. And see the Splenda packets on the table, along with the stirrer? Confirms he’s our man.”
    “Why?” Sellitto asked. “I use Splenda.”
    “Not the substance—the fact it’s on the table. Most people add sugar or sweetener at the milk station and throw the empty packets out, and the stirrers too. So there’s less mess at the table. He’s taking his detritus with him. Didn’t want to leave friction ridge evidence.”
    Most objects, even paper, retain very good fingerprints where food is served because of grease from the meals.
    “Anything else about him?” Pulaski asked.
    “You tell me, rookie.”
    The young officer said, “Look how he’s holding his right hand, palm cupped upward? Maybe he was about to take a pill. Could be a headache, backache. Wait, look, there’s a box. Is it? A box at the side of the table?”
    It seemed that there was. Blue and gold.
    Rhyme said, “Good. I think you’re right. And notice he’s drinking tea—see the bag in the napkin?—in a coffeehouse? Looks pale. Maybe it’s herbal. Not that unusual but a reasonable deduction could be stomach issues. Check antacid, reflux, indigestion medicine boxes that come in two colors.”
    A moment later Cooper said, “Could be Zantac, maximum strength. Hard to say.”
    “We don’t need definitive answers on everything,” Rhyme said softly. “We need direction. So he’s probably got a bum gut.”
    “Stress from leaking classified government documents’ll do that,” Mel Cooper offered.
    “Age?” Rhyme wondered.
    “Can’t tell,” the young officer replied. “How could you tell?”
    “Well, I’m not asking you to play a carnival game, rookie. We see he’s stocky, we see he’s got stomach issues. Hair could be blond but could be gray. Conservative dress. It’s reasonable to speculate he’s middle-aged or older.”
    “Sure. I see.”
    “And his posture. It’s perfect, even though he’s not young. Suggests a military background. Or could still be in the service, dressing civie.”
    They stared at the picture and Sachs found herself wondering, Why did you leak the kill order? What was in it for you?
    A person with a conscience…
    But are you a patriot or a traitor?
    Wondering too: And where the hell are you?
    Sellitto took a call. Sachs noticed that his face went from curious to dark. He glanced at the others in the room, then turned away.
    Whispering now: “What?…That’s fucked up. You can’t just tell me that. I need details.”
    Everyone was staring at him.
    “Who? I want to know who. All right, find out and let me know.”
    He disconnected and the glance in Sachs’s direction, but not directly at her, explained that she was the subject of the call.
    “What, Lon?”
    “You want to step outside.” He nodded toward the hallway.
    Sachs glanced at Rhyme and said, “No. Here. What is it? Who called?”
    He hesitated.
    “Lon,” she said firmly. “Tell me.”
    “Okay, Amelia, I’m sorry. Look, you’re off the case.”
    “What?”
    “Actually, gotta say, you’re on mandatory leave altogether. You’ve gotta report down to—”
    “What happened?” Rhyme snapped.
    “I don’t know for sure. That was my PA. She told me the word came from the chief of detectives’ office. The formal report’s on its way. I don’t know who’s behind this.”
    “Oh, I do,” Sachs snapped. She ripped open her purse and looked inside to make sure she had the copy of the document she’d found on Nance Laurel’s desk the other night. At that time, she’d been reluctant to brandish it as a weapon.
    Now she no longer was.

CHAPTER 65
    S HREVE METZGER RAN A HAND through his trim hair, remembered his first day out of the service.
    Somebody, a civilian, on the streets of Buffalo had called him a skinhead. Baby-killer too. The guy was drunk. Anti-military. An asshole. All of the above.
    The Smoke had filled Metzger fast, though he didn’t call it Smoke then, didn’t call it anything. He proceeded to break at least four bones in the man’s body before the relief shot through him. More than relief—almost sexual.
    Sometimes this memory came back, like now, when he happened to touch his hair. Nothing more than that. He remembered the man, his unfocused,