The Kill Room

aimed her way that morning in the lab when a jolt nearly made her stumble? Every time she was around brass she struggled to hide the condition. Had she this morning? She believed so.
    She cleared the bridge and downshifted hard into second, matched revs to protect the boisterous engine. She’d done this to prove to herself that the pain wasn’t so bad. She was blowing it out of proportion. She could shift whenever she wanted.
    Except that lifting her left knee to stomp on the clutch had sent a fierce burst through her.
    A reactive tear eased into one eye. She wiped it away furiously.
    She drove more moderately toward her destination.
    In ten minutes she was easing through a pleasant neighborhood in Queens. Tidy, tiny lawns, shrubs well trimmed, trees rising from perfect circles of mulch.
    She checked house numbers. Halfway up the block she found Robert Moreno’s driver’s house. A single-story bungalow, very well maintained. In the driveway, half in the garage, half out, was a Lincoln Town Car, black and polished like a recruit’s gun for parade.
    Sachs double-parked and tossed the NYPD card onto the dash. Glancing at the house, she saw the flimsy curtain in the living room open slightly then fall back.
    So the driver was home. Good. Sometimes when police come a-calling, residents suddenly remember errands they have to run far across town. Or they simply hide in the basement and don’t answer the door.
    She stepped out, testing her left leg.
    Acceptable, though it still hurt. She was between pill times and resisted the urge to take another ibuprofen. That little liver failure thing.
    Then she grew impatient with herself for fussing. For God’s sake, Rhyme has the use of 5 percent of his body and he never complains. Shut up and get to work. Standing on the front stoop of the driver’s house, she pressed the doorbell, heard a Westminster chime inside, an elaborate trilling that seemed ironic, given the minuscule house.
    What could the driver tell them? Had Moreno commented that he’d been followed, that he’d received death threats, that someone had broken into his hotel room? Had the driver gotten a description of someone conducting surveillance?
    Then footsteps.
    She felt, more than saw, someone peering through the gauzy curtain covering the window in the door.
    Perfunctorily, she held her badge and shield up.
    The lock clicked.
    The door swung open.

CHAPTER 17
    H ELLO, OFFICER. NO, DETECTIVE. You are a detective? That’s what you said when you called.”
    “Detective, yes.”
    “And I am Tash. You can call me Tash.” He was cautious, as he’d been on the phone when she called earlier, but perhaps because she was a woman and a not unattractive one, he relaxed his guard. His Mideast accent was just as thick as earlier but he was easier to understand face-to-face.
    Beaming, he ushered her into the house, decorated largely with Islamic art. He was a slight man, with a dark complexion, thick black hair, and Semitic features. Iranian, she guessed. He was wearing a white shirt and chino slacks. His full name was Atash Farada and he’d been a driver with Elite Limousines for the past ten years, he explained. Somewhat proudly.
    A woman about the same age—Sachs made it mid-forties—greeted her pleasantly and asked if she wanted tea or anything else.
    “No, thank you.”
    “My wife, Faye.”
    They shook hands.
    Sachs said to Farada, “Your company, Elite, said Robert Moreno generally used another driver, right?”
    “Yes, Vlad Nikolov.”
    She asked for the spelling, which he gave. Sachs jotted.
    “But he was sick on May first and so they called me instead to drive. Could you tell me what this is about, please?”
    “I have to tell you that Mr. Moreno was killed.”
    “No!” Farada’s expression darkened. He was clearly upset. “Please, what happened?”
    “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
    “This is such bad news. He was quite the gentleman. Was it robbery?”
    Demurring further, she said, “I’d like to know where you drove Mr. Moreno.”
    “Dead?” He turned to his wife. “Dead, you heard. How terrible.”
    “Mr. Farada?” Sachs repeated with patient insistence. “Could you tell me where you drove him?”
    “Where we drove, where we drove.” He looked troubled. But he looked too troubled. Studiously troubled.
    Sachs wasn’t surprised when he said, “Sadly I am not sure I can remember.”
    Ah. She got it. “Here’s an idea. I could hire you to re-create the route. To