The Kill Room

from the dock crowd had blown the attempt. They’d asked if Swann wanted them to try again but he’d told them to get the hell off the island. It would be very difficult to trace them back to Swann and his boss but it could be done.
    He was sure there’d be another opportunity to take care of Rhyme. The man certainly couldn’t move very fast to get away from the Kai Shun. Swann had looked up Rhyme’s condition, quadriplegia, and discovered that the criminalist had no feeling whatsoever in most of his body. Swann was intrigued with the idea of the man’s just sitting still and watching someone flay his skin off—and slowly bleed to death—while feeling no pain.
    What an interesting idea: butchering a creature while it was alive.
    Curious. He’d have to—
    Ah, but here is our beautiful Amelia.
    She wasn’t coming from the direction he’d expected her—the L-shaped cul-de-sac for deliveries behind the town house, near where her Ford Torino was parked. She’d apparently left via the front door, which faced Central Park West. She was now walking west along the crosstown street’s sidewalk, across from the diner.
    He’d hoped to get her in the cul-de-sac; there were too many pedestrians, stragglers on their way to work, here at the moment. But finding her alone would be only a matter of time.
    Swann casually wiped the utensils and coffee mug, smearing prints. He paid by slipping a ten and a five under the plate, rather than taking the check to the cashier. He’d gotten these bills in change from a hotel concierge across town; cash from an ATM is frighteningly traceable, so he’d engaged in a little micro money laundering, leaving a generous but not overly so tip.
    Now he was out the door, climbing into his Nissan.
    He observed Sachs through the windshield. Vigilant, she looked around carefully, though not toward him—only at those places where an attacker might come from. Interesting too: She looked up, scanning.
    Don’t worry, Swann thought to her. That’s not where the bullet’s going to come from.
    As she fished for car keys her jacket slipped away from her hip and he noted she wore a Glock.
    He started his car at the same time she did hers, to cover the sound of his ignition.
    As Sachs’s Torino sped away from the curb, Swann followed.
    His only regret was that her fate would be that bullet he’d just been thinking of; using the Kai Shun on her silken flesh wasn’t an option in the present recipe.

CHAPTER 50
    M YCHAL POITIER WAS SPEAKING to the manager of the South Cove.
    “But, Officer, I thought you knew,” said the tall, curly-haired man in a very nice beige suit. He was presently frowning creases deep into his rosily tanned forehead. His accent was mildly British.
    “Knew what?” Poitier muttered.
    “You told us we could reopen the room and clean it, repair the damage.”
    “I? I never said any such thing.”
    “No, no, not you. But someone from your department. They called me and said to release the scene. I don’t remember his name.”
    Rhyme asked, “He called ? No one came here in person?”
    “No, it was a phone call.”
    Rhyme sighed. He asked, “When was this?”
    “Monday.”
    Poitier turned and looked at Rhyme with a dismayed gaze. “I gave very strict orders that the scene should have remained sealed. I can’t imagine who in the department—”
    “It wasn’t anybody in your department,” Rhyme said. “Our unsub made the call.”
    And the accomplice, of course, was the manager’s fervent desire to eliminate any sign that a murder had been committed here. Crime scene placards in hallways do not make for good public relations.
    “I’m sorry, Corporal,” the manager said defensively.
    Rhyme asked, “Where’s the carpet, sofa, the shattered window glass? The other furniture?”
    “A rubbish tip somewhere, I should suppose. I have no idea. We used a contractor. Because of the blood, they said they would burn the carpet and couch.”
    All the trash fires…
    Pulaski said, “Right after he killed Annette, our unsub makes one call and, bang, there goes the crime scene. Pretty smart, you think about it. Simple.”
    It was. Rhyme looked into the immaculate room. The only evidence of the crime was the missing window, over which plastic had been taped.
    “If there’s anything I can do,” the manager said.
    When no one said a word, he retreated.
    Thom wheeled Rhyme into the suite and, since the Kill Room wasn’t wheelchair-accessible, he was helped down two low