The Kill Room

anticipating decline with dread.
    And yet, ironically, the opposite was true for Lincoln Rhyme. From the ninth circle of injury, he had been improving, thanks to new spinal cord surgical techniques and his own take-no-prisoners attitude about exercise and risky experimental procedures.
    Which reminded him again that he was irritated the doctor was late for today’s assessment appointment, in anticipation of the upcoming surgery.
    The two-tone doorbell chime sounded.
    “I’ll get that,” Thom called.
    The town house was disability-modified, of course, and Rhyme could have used a computer to view and converse with whoever was at the door and let them in. Or not. (He didn’t like folks to come-a-callin’ and tended to send them away—sometimes rudely—if Thom didn’t act fast.)
    “Who is it? Check first.”
    This couldn’t be Dr. Barrington, since he was going to call once he’d disposed of the “something” that had delayed him. Rhyme wasn’t in the mood for other visitors.
    But whether his caregiver checked first or not didn’t matter apparently. Lon Sellitto appeared in the parlor.
    “Linc, you’re home.”
    Safe bet.
    The squat detective beelined to a tray with coffee and pastry.
    “You want fresh?” Thom asked. The slim aide was dressed in a crisp white shirt, floral blue tie and dark slacks. Cuff links today, ebony or onyx.
    “Naw, thanks, Thom. Hey, Amelia.”
    “Hi, Lon. How’s Rachel?”
    “Good. She’s taken up Pilates. That’s a weird word. It’s exercise or something.” Sellitto was decked out in a typically rumpled suit, brown, and a typically rumpled powder-blue shirt. He sported a striped crimson tie that was atypically smooth as a piece of planed wood. A recent present, Rhyme deduced. From girlfriend Rachel? The month was May—no holidays. Maybe it was a birthday present. Rhyme didn’t know the date of Sellitto’s. Or, for that matter, most other people’s.
    Sellitto sipped coffee and pestered a Danish, two bites only. He was perpetually dieting.
    Rhyme and the detective had worked together years ago, as partners, and it had largely been Lon Sellitto who’d pushed Rhyme back to work after the accident, not by coddling or cajoling but by forcing him to get off his ass and start solving crimes again. (More accurately, in Rhyme’s case, to stay on his ass and get back to work.) But despite their history Sellitto never came by just to hang out. The detective first-class was assigned to Major Cases, working out of the Big Building—One Police Plaza—and he was usually the lead detective on the cases for which Rhyme was hired to consult. His presence now was a harbinger.
    “So.” Rhyme looked him over. “Do you have something good for me, Lon? An engaging crime? Intriguing? ”
    Sellitto sipped and nibbled. “All I know is I got a call from on top asking if you were free. I told ’em you were finishing up Williams. Then I was told to get here ASAP, meet somebody. They’re on their way.”
    “‘Somebody’? ‘They’?” Rhyme asked acidly. “That’s as specific as the ‘something’ detaining my doctor. Seems infectious. Like the flu.”
    “Hey, Linc. All I know.”
    Rhyme cast a wry look toward Sachs. “I notice that no one called me about this. Did anybody call you, Sachs?”
    “Not a jingle.”
    Sellitto said, “Oh, that’s ’causa the other thing.”
    “What other thing?”
    “Whatever’s going on, it’s a secret. And it’s gotta stay that way.”
    Which was, Rhyme decided, at least a step toward intriguing.

CHAPTER 3
    R HYME WAS LOOKING UP at the two visitors, as different as could be, now stepping into his parlor.
    One was a man in his fifties, with a military bearing, wearing an untailored suit—the shoulders were the giveaway—in navy blue, bordering on black. He had a jowly, clean-shaven face, tanned skin and trim hair, marine-style. Has to be brass, Rhyme thought.
    The other was a woman hovering around the early thirties. She was approaching stocky, though not overweight, not yet. Her blond, lusterless hair was in an anachronistic flip, stiffly sprayed, and Rhyme noted that her pale complexion derived from a mask of liberally applied flesh-toned makeup. He didn’t see any acne or other pocks and assumed the pancake was a fashion choice. There was no shadow or liner around her gun-muzzle black eyes, all the more stark given the cream shade of the face in which they were set. Her thin lips were colorless too and dry. Rhyme assessed that