The Kill Room

Yes. Maybe he got some pictures of a surveiller.” Then he grew angry again. “The Venezuelan authorities. Bullshit.”
    Rhyme’s mobile buzzed. He looked at the caller ID.
    Well, what’s this?
    He hit answer. “Corporal?”
    Had Poitier been fired? Had he called to apologize for losing his temper, while reiterating that there was nothing he could do to help?
    The officer’s voice was a low, angry whisper: “I eat a late lunch every day.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Because of my shift,” Poitier continued harshly. “I eat lunch at three p.m. And do you wish to know where I eat lunch?”
    “Do I…?”
    “It’s a simple question, Captain Rhyme!” the corporal snapped. “Do you wish to know where I eat my lunch every day?”
    “I do, yes,” was all that Rhyme could muster, thoroughly confused.
    “I have lunch at Hurricane’s on Baillou Hill Road. Near West Street. That is where I have lunch!”
    The line went silent. There was no sound other than a soft click but Rhyme imagined the corporal had angrily slammed his thumb onto the disconnect button.
    “Well.” He told the others about the exchange. “Sounds like he might be willing to help us out after all.”
    Pulaski said, “Or he’s going to arrest us.”
    Rhyme started to protest but decided the young officer had a point. He said, “In case you’re right, rookie, change of plans. Thom and I are going to have lunch and/or get arrested. Possibly both. You’re going to canvass at the South Cove Inn. We’ll rent you a car. Thom, didn’t we pass a rental place somewhere?”
    “Avis. Do you want me to go there?”
    “Obviously. I wasn’t asking for curiosity’s sake.”
    “Don’t you get tired of being in a good mood all the time, Lincoln?”
    “Rental car. Please. Now.”
    Rhyme noticed that he’d had a call from Lon Sellitto. He’d missed it in the “discussion” he’d had with Poitier. There was no message. Rhyme called him back but voice mail replied. He left a phone-tag message and slipped the mobile away.
    Thom found the Avis office via GPS and steered in that direction. Just a few minutes later, though, he said uncertainly, “Lincoln.”
    “What?”
    “Somebody’s following us. I’m sure of it.”
    “Don’t look back, rookie!” Rhyme didn’t spend much time in the field any longer, for obvious reasons, but when he’d been active he had frequently worked “hot” crime scenes—those where the perp might still be lingering, for the purposes of learning which cops were on the case and what leads they were finding, or sometimes even trying to kill the officers right then. The instincts he’d honed over the years of working scenes like that were still active. And rule one was don’t let anybody know you’re on to them.
    Thom continued, “A car was oncoming but as soon as we passed, it made a U. I didn’t think much of it at first but we’ve been taking a pretty winding path and it’s still there.”
    “Describe it.”
    “Gold Mercury, black vinyl top. Ten years or older, I’d guess.”
    The age of many cars here.
    The aide glanced in the mirror. “Two, no, three people inside. Black males. Late twenties or thirties. T-shirts, one gray, one green, short-sleeved. One sleeveless yellow. Can’t make out their faces.”
    “You sound just like a patrol officer, Thom.” Rhyme shrugged. “Just police keeping an eye on us. That commissioner—McPherson—isn’t very happy we strangers’ve come to town.”
    Thom squinted into the rearview mirror. “I don’t think they’re cops, Lincoln.”
    “Why not?”
    “The driver’s got earrings and the guy next to him’s in dreads.”
    “Undercover.”
    “And they’re passing a joint back and forth.”
    “Okay. Probably not.”

CHAPTER 33
    F EW THINGS ARE MORE REPULSIVE than the chemical smoke aftermath of an IED plastic explosive detonation.
    Amelia Sachs could smell it, taste it. She shivered from the cloying assault.
    And then there was the ringing in her ears.
    Sachs was standing in front of what remained of Java Hut, waiting—impatiently—for the Bomb Squad officers to make their rounds. She would run the crime scene search herself but the explosives experts from the Sixth Precinct in Greenwich Village always did the first post-blast sweep to check for secondary, delayed devices, intended to take out rescue workers. This was a common technique, at least in countries where bombs were just another means of making a political statement. Maybe Don Bruns had