The Kill Room

Nobody downloaded it except those on the list. That means somebody probably snagged it off a desk here, Washington or in Florida, smuggled it out and copied it or scanned it at home or a Kinko’s.”
    At NIOS and its affiliated organizations, all photocopying and logging on were automatically recorded.
    “Kinko’s. Jesus.”
    The administrations director continued, “And I went back and looked over the vetting assessments here. Not a hint that anybody’d have a problem with STO missions. Hell, most of our people knew what we were up to before they joined.”
    NIOS was created after 9/11 largely for the purpose of targeted remedies, along with other extreme operational activities, like kidnappings, bribery and other dirty tricks. Most of the office’s specialists had a history of military service and had taken lives in the course of their careers before joining NIOS. It seemed inconceivable that any of them would have a change of heart and try to bring down his operation. As for the other staff, Boston was right, most applicants knew what the organization was up to before they signed on.
    Unless, of course, that was why they joined in the first place. Moles. Despicable.
    Metzger: “We’ll have to keep looking. And for God’s sake, there can’t be any more leaks. He already knows too much.”
    Wizardly.
    Boston’s white eyebrows furrowed. He whispered, “They’re not…This isn’t going to knock us out, is it?”
    Metzger was painfully aware that he didn’t have a clue what Washington was thinking, since he hadn’t heard a word from the man after the initial phone call.
    It turns out some Intelligence Committee budget discussions have come up. Suddenly. Can’t understand why …
    “Jesus, Shreve. They can’t . We’re the best ones suited for this kind of work.”
    True. But apparently not the best suited for keeping this kind of work secret.
    Which Metzger didn’t say.
    Boston asked, “What more do you know about the investigation, the police?”
    Now Metzger grew cautious. He said, “Not much. Still circling the wagons. Just to be safe.” And glanced at his magic phone, the red one, which happened to contain an acid capsule that would melt the drive in a matter of seconds. The screen reported no messages.
    He exhaled. “Fact is, I don’t think it’s moving very quickly. I got the names of the investigators and’ve checked them out. The cops’re using a skeleton crew to stay under the radar, not standard NYPD. Keeping it quiet. It’s really just Nance Laurel, the prosecutor, and two others and some support staff. The main cop’s a detective named Amelia Sachs and, get this, the other guy is a consultant, Lincoln Rhyme. Retired from the force a while ago. They’re operating out of his apartment on the Upper West Side. A private residence, not police headquarters.”
    “Rhyme, wait. I’ve heard of him,” Boston said, frowning. “He’s famous. I saw a show on him. He’s the best forensic scientist in the country.”
    Metzger knew this, of course. Rhyme was the “other” investigator gunning for him, the intel memo had reported yesterday. “I know. But he’s a quadriplegic.”
    “What does that matter?”
    “Spencer, where’s the crime scene?”
    “Oh, sure. The Bahamas.”
    “What’s he going to do, roll around in the sand looking for shell casings and tire prints?”

CHAPTER 26
    S O, THIS IS THE CARIBBEAN.”
    His hand on the joystick of his candy-apple-red wheelchair, Lincoln Rhyme steered out a door at Lynden Pindling Airport in Nassau into an atmosphere hotter and more dank than he could recall experiencing in years.
    “Takes your breath away,” he called. “But I like it.”
    “Slow down, Lincoln,” Thom said.
    But Rhyme would have none of that. He was a child on Christmas morning. Here he was in a foreign country for the first time in many years. He was excited at the prospect of the trip itself. But also at what it might yield: hard, physical evidence in the Moreno case. He’d decided to come down here because of something he was nearly ashamed to admit: intuition, that fishy crap that Amelia Sachs was always going on and on about. He had a feeling that the only way he was going to get that million-dollar bullet and the rest of the evidence was to wheel right up to Corporal Mychal Poitier and ask him for it. In person.
    Rhyme knew the officer was genuinely troubled by the death of Robert Moreno and troubled too that he was a pawn being used by his superiors to