The Kill Room

ADA looked down at Swann. “My name is—”
    “I know who you are.”
    One of her trademarked pauses. “Now, Jacob, we know Harry Walker’s behind this. He had you plant fake intelligence to trick NIOS into assassinating Robert Moreno as a cover so you could kill his guard, Simon Flores, who was blackmailing Walker. You were at the South Cove Inn when it happened, waiting for the drone strike. Just afterward, before the rescue workers got there, you broke into suite twelve hundred and stabbed Flores and Eduardo de la Rua to death. Then you went to Flores’s lawyer’s office in Nassau and tortured and killed him, stole the documents Flores had left for safekeeping—the documents Walker was worried would be made public.
    “After my investigation started, Metzger gave Walker updates and names—to destroy evidence and be on guard against the police running the case. But Walker told you to do more than that—to eliminate witnesses and the investigators. You killed Annette Bodel, Lydia Foster and Moreno’s driver, Vlad Nikolov—” Laurel glanced toward Sachs and Rhyme. “Officers in Queens found his body in the basement of his house.”
    Swann merely looked down at his bandaged hand and said nothing.
    The prosecutor continued, “You also arranged with some associates in Nassau to kill Captain Rhyme and others working with him down there… And then there was this.” She offered a nod around the marred suburban landscape, resembling a combat zone.
    The depth of this information, laid out so unemotionally by Nance Laurel, must have taken Swann by surprise but he hesitated only a moment then said in a calm voice, “First of all, as for this incident…” He nodded at Boston’s house. “Regarding the weapons, all three of us have Class Three federal firearms licenses and concealed-carry permits valid in the state of New York. Now, in my job at Walker Defense, I’m involved in national security. We came here on a tip that Spencer Boston represented a dangerous security leak. My associates and I were simply going to check that out and discuss the matter with him. Next thing I know, tactical troops were threatening us. They claimed they were NYPD but how was I supposed to know? Not a single person offered me their identification.”
    Amelia Sachs actually laughed at this.
    Laurel asked, “Do you expect me to believe that?”
    “Ah, the important question, Ms. Laurel, is will a jury believe it? And I suspect they might. And as for those other crimes you mentioned? All speculation. I guarantee you don’t have anything on me.”
    The prosecutor looked at Rhyme, who wheeled up closer. He realized that Swann was intensely studying his insensate legs and left arm. He was truly curious but Rhyme had no idea what he was thinking or what the purpose for the examination was.
    The criminalist, in turn, looked the suspect up and down and smiled as he often did at the arrogance of perps. “Don’t have anything, don’t have anything.” Musing thoughtfully. “Oh, I think maybe we do, Jacob. Now, I don’t care much for motives, but we have a couple of good ones here, I have to admit. You killed Lydia Foster—and wanted to kill Moreno’s driver—because you thought the subject would come up of why Simon Flores wasn’t accompanying Moreno on the trip. And that would make us wonder why he wasn’t here too. And your motive for killing Annette Bodel was that she could place you at the scene in the Bahamas when the shooting happened.”
    Swann gave a blink but recovered quickly and simply cocked his head in curiosity.
    Rhyme paid him no mind and addressed the sky. “Now, for more objective evidence: We have a short brown hair from the Lydia Foster crime scene.” He glanced at Swann’s scalp. “We can do a mandatory DNA swab and I’m sure it will match. Oh, and we’re still working on tracing that silver necklace you bought Annette Bodel—to attract the barracuda to hide the fact you’d tortured and killed her. I’m sure somebody will have seen you buy it.”
    This opened Swann’s mouth slightly. A tongue touched the corner of his lips.
    “And we found some allspice and hot sauce on the clothing of Eduardo de la Rua. I thought that was from his breakfast the morning of May ninth. But knowing your affinity for the culinary arts, I wonder if you’d been cooking the night before you killed him. Maybe you made dinner for Annette. It’ll be interesting to examine your suitcase and clothing and see if