The Kill Room

of his treasures, his favorite chef’s knife, a Kai Shun Premier slicing model. It was about nine inches long and had the company’s distinctive hammered tsuchime finish, pounded by metalsmiths in the Japanese town of Seki. The blade had a VG-10 steel core with thirty-two layers of Damascus steel. The handle was walnut. This knife cost $250. He had models by the same manufacturer in various shapes and sizes, for different kitchen techniques, but this was his favorite. He loved it like a child. He used it to fillet fish, to slice beef translucent for carpaccio and to motivate human beings.
    Swann traveled with this and other knives in a well-worn Messermeister knife roll, along with two battered cookbooks—one by James Beard and one by the French chef Michel Guérard, the cuisine minceur guru. Customs officials thought very little about a set of professional knives, however deadly, packed in checked luggage beside a cookbook. Besides, on a job away from home, the knives were useful; Jacob Swann would often cook, rather than hang out in bars or go to movies alone.
    Removing the goat meat from the bones last week, for instance, and cubing it for the stew.
    My little butcher man, my dear little butcher…
    He heard another noise, a thud. Annette was starting to kick.
    Swann returned to the trunk and dragged the woman from the car by her hair.
    “Uhn, uhn, uhn…”
    This was probably her version of “no, no, no.”
    He found an indentation in the sand, surrounded by reedy plants and decorated with crushed Kalik cans and Red Stripe bottles, used condoms and decaying cigarette butts. He rolled her over onto her back and sat on her chest.
    A look around. No one. The screams would be much softer, thanks to the blow to the throat, but they wouldn’t be silent.
    “Now. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to have to form the words. I need answers and I need them quickly. Can you form words?”
    “Uhn.”
    “Say, ‘yes.’”
    “Ye…ye…yessssss.”
    “Good.” He fished a Kleenex from his pocket, then pinched her nose with his other hand and when she opened her mouth he grabbed her tongue with the tissue, tugged the tip an inch beyond her lips. Her head shook violently until she realized that was more painful than his pinch.
    She forced herself to calm.
    Jacob Swann eased the Kai Shun forward—admiring the blade and handle. Cooking implements are often among the most stylishly designed of any object. The sunlight reflected off the upper half of the blade, pounded into indentations, as if flickering on waves. He carefully stroked the tip of her tongue with the point, drawing a streak in deeper pink but no blood.
    Some sound. “Please” maybe.
    Little butcher man…
    He recalled scoring a duck breast just a few weeks ago, with this same knife, slicing three shallow slits to help render the fat under the broiler. He leaned forward. “Now, listen carefully,” he whispered. Swann’s mouth was close to her ear and he felt her hot skin against his cheek.
    Just like last week.
    Well, somewhat like last week.

CHAPTER 7
    C APTAIN BILL MYERS HAD TAKEN his grating verbiage and left, now that he’d handed off the baton of the case to Rhyme and crew.
    While the Moreno conspiracy investigation was in some ways monumental, it was ultimately just another of the thousands of felony cases active in New York, and other matters surely beckoned the captain and his mysterious Special Services Division.
    Rhyme supposed too that he’d want to distance himself. Myers had backed up the DA—a captain had to do that, of course; police and prosecutors were Siamese twins—but now was the moment for Myers to head to an undisclosed location. Rhyme was thinking of the political ambition he’d smelled earlier, and if that was true the brass would step back and see how the case unfolded. He’d then return to the podium in glory, in time for the perp walk. Or vanish completely if the case exploded into a public relations nightmare.
    A very likely possibility.
    Rhyme didn’t mind. In fact, he was pleased Myers was gone. He didn’t do well with any other cooks in the kitchen.
    Lon Sellitto, of course, remained. Technically the lead investigator, he was now sitting in a creaky rattan chair, debating a muffin on the breakfast tray, even though he’d pecked half the Danish away. But he then squeezed his gut twice, as if hoping the message would be that he’d lost enough weight on his latest fad diet to deserve the