The Kill Room

manipulating the intelligence that formed the basis for the assassination, for his own agenda.”
    Pivoted…metrics…
    “And what is that agenda?” Rhyme asked.
    “We’re not sure,” the captain continued. “He seems obsessed with protecting the country, eliminating anybody who’s a threat—even those who maybe aren’t threats, if he considers them unpatriotic. The man he ordered shot in Nassau wasn’t a terrorist. He was just—”
    “Outspoken,” Laurel said.
    Sachs asked, “One question: The attorney general’s okayed the case?”
    Laurel’s hesitation this time might have covered up bristling at the reference to her boss and his permission to pursue the investigation. Hard to tell. She answered evenly, “The information about the killing came to our office in Manhattan, the jurisdiction where NIOS is located. The district attorney and I discussed it. I wanted the case because of my experience with immunity issues and because this type of crime bothers me a great deal—I personally feel that any targeted killings are unconstitutional because of due process issues. The DA asked me if I knew it was a land mine. I said yes. He went to the attorney general in Albany, who said I could go forward. So, yes, I have his blessing.” A steady gaze at Sachs, who looked back with eyes that were equally unwavering.
    Both of those men, the Manhattan DA and the attorney general of the state, Rhyme noted, were in the opposing political party to that of the current administration in Washington. Was this fair to consider? He decided that cynicism isn’t cynical if the facts support it.
    “Welcome to the hornet’s nest,” Sellitto said, drawing smiles from everybody but Laurel.
    Myers said to Rhyme, “That’s why I suggested you, Captain, when Nance came to us. You and Detectives Sellitto and Sachs operate a bit more independently than regular officers. You’re not as tethered to the hub as most investigators.”
    Lincoln Rhyme was now a consultant to the NYPD, FBI and any other organization wishing to pay the substantial fees he charged for his forensic services, provided the case could be fixed somewhere near the true north of challenging.
    He now asked, “And who is the main conspirator, this head of NIOS?”
    “His name’s Shreve Metzger.”
    “Any thoughts at all about the shooter?” Sachs asked.
    “No. He—or she—could be military, which would be a problem. If we’re lucky he’ll be civilian.”
    “Lucky?” From Sachs.
    Rhyme assumed Laurel meant because the military justice system would complicate matters. But she elaborated, “A soldier’s more sympathetic to a jury than a mercenary or civilian contractor.”
    Sellitto said, “You mentioned two conspirators, along with the shooter. Who else aside from Metzger?”
    “Oh,” Laurel continued in a faintly dismissive tone, “the president.”
    “Of what?” Sellitto asked.
    Whether or not this required a thoughtful hesitation Laurel paused anyway. “Of the United States, of course. I’m sure that every targeted killing requires the president’s okay. But I’m not pursuing him.”
    “Jesus, I hope not,” Lon Sellitto said with a laugh that sounded like a stifled sneeze. “That’s more than a political land mine; it’s a fucking nuke.”
    Laurel frowned, as if she’d had to translate his comment from Icelandic. “Politics aren’t the issue, Detective. Even if the president acted outside the scope of his authority in ordering a targeted killing, the criminal procedure in his case would be impeachment. But obviously that’s out of my jurisdiction.”

CHAPTER 4
    H E WAS DISTRACTED MOMENTARILY by the smell of grilling fish, with lime and plantain, he believed. Something else, a spice. He couldn’t quite place it.
    Sniffing the air again. What could it be?
    Compact, with crew-cut brown hair, he resumed his casual stroll along the broken sidewalk—and dirt path, where the concrete slabs were missing altogether. He billowed out his dark suit jacket to vent the heat and reflected he was glad he hadn’t worn a tie. He paused again beside a weed-filled lot. The street of low shops and pastel houses in need of more pastel paint was deserted now, late morning. No people, though two lazy potcake dogs were lounging in the shade.
    Then she emerged.
    She was leaving the Deep Fun Dive Shop and walking in the direction of West Bay, a Gabriel Márquez novel in her hand.
    Tan and sun-blond, the young woman had a tangle of hair, with a