Lincoln Rhyme: The Kill Room Part 32

"Roberto liked it that we're not a charity. We call ourselves a distributor of resources. My organization doesn't just give money away to the indigent. We fund schools, which teach people skills so they can work their way out of poverty. I don't have any patience for anyone with their hands out. It really irks me when..."

Cross stopped speaking, raised a hand and laughed. "Like Roberto, I tend to lecture. Sorry. But I'm speaking from experience, speaking from getting my hands dirty on the job, speaking from knowing what it's like to live in the trenches. I used to work in the s.h.i.+pping industry and one thing I noticed was that most people want to work hard. They want to improve themselves. But they can't do it without a good education, and schools down there were basically s.h.i.+t, excuse me. I wanted to change it. That's how I met Roberto. We were setting up an office in Mexico and he was in town speaking at some empowerment group for farmers. We kind of connected." The big lips formed a wan smile. "Power to the people...It's not a bad sentiment, I have to say. Roberto did his thing through microbusinesses; I do mine through education."

Though he still seemed more like the owner of a b.u.t.ton factory in the Fas.h.i.+on District or a personal injury lawyer than a foundation director.

"So you're here about those drug a.s.sholes who killed him?" Cross barked. Chewed on his cigar ferociously for a moment then set it down on a gla.s.s ashtray in the shape of a maple leaf.

"We're just getting information at this point," Sachs said noncommittally. "We're looking into his whereabouts on the recent trip to New York-when he met with you. Can you tell me where else he went in the city?"

"Some other nonprofits, he said, three or four of them. I know he needed an interpreter for some of them, if that helps."

"Did he mention which ones?"

"No, he just came by to drop off a check and find out about some new projects we were putting together. He wanted something named after him. A cla.s.sroom. Not a whole school. See, that was Roberto. He was realistic. He donated X amount of money, not a zillion dollars, so he knew he wouldn't have a whole school named after him. He was happy with a cla.s.sroom. Modest guy, you know what I'm saying? But he wanted some recognition."

"Did he seem worried about his safety?"

"Sure. He always was. He was, you know, real outspoken." A sad smile. "He hated this politician or that CEO and, man, he wasn't afraid to say it on the air or in his blogs. He called himself the Messenger, the voice of conscience. He made a lot of enemies. Those f.u.c.king drug a.s.sholes. Pardon my French. I hope they get the chair or lethal injection or whatever."

"He mentioned cartels or gangs as a threat?"

Cross leaned back and thought for a moment. "You know, not by name. But he said he was being followed."

"Tell me."

Cross ran a finger over a cl.u.s.ter of moles on his neck. "He said there was this guy who was there but not there, you know what I'm saying? Following him on the street."

"Any description?"

"White, a guy. Looked tough. That's it."

She thought immediately of Barry Shales and Unsub 516.

"But there was something else. The airplane. That freaked him out the most."

"Airplane?"

"Roberto traveled a lot. He said he'd noticed this private jet three or four times in different cities he'd been in-places with small airports, where a private jet was more, you know, noticeable. Bermuda, the Bahamas, Caracas, where he lived. Some towns in Mexico. He said it was strange-because the plane always seemed to be there before he arrived. Like somebody knew his travel schedule."

By tapping his phone, for instance? A favorite sport of Metzger, Shales and Unsub 516.

The cigar got chomped. "The reason he recognized it: He said most private jets're white. But this one was blue."

"Markings, designations, numbers?"

A shrug. "No, he never said. But I was thinking, somebody in a jet's following you? What's that all about? Who the h.e.l.l could it be? Those things cost money."

"Anything else you can remember?"

"Sorry."

Sachs rose and shook his hand, reflecting that the convoluted trail here-starting with the limo driver-had paid off with a solid clue. If a cryptic one.

The blue jet ...

Cross sighed, looking at another picture of himself and Moreno, this one snapped in a jungle. They were surrounded by cheerful workers. More shovels, more hard hats, more mud.

"You know, Detective, we were good friends but I've gotta say I never quite figured him out. He was always down on America, just hated the place. Wouldn't shut up about it. I told him one time, 'Come on, Roberto. Why're you dissing the one country on earth where you can say those things and not get shot in an alley by a truth squad or hauled off to a secret prison in the middle of the night? Ease up.'"

A bitter laugh escaped the fat, damp mouth. "But he just wouldn't listen."

CHAPTER 52.

JACOB SWANN BRAKED HIS CAR to a stop a half block from Amelia Sachs's, near Lincoln Rhyme's town house.

He'd followed her downtown, where she'd had a meeting on Chambers Street, and he'd looked for a chance to shoot. But there had been too many people down there. Always a problem in Manhattan. Now she was back, aggressively parallel parking in an illegal spot near the cul-de-sac once again.

He looked up and down the shadowy avenue. Deserted at last. Yes, this would be the place and the time. In his latex-gloved hand Swann gripped the SIG Sauer, adjusted it to be able to draw quickly.

He wasn't going to kill her. He'd decided that would create too much of a stir-too many police, too intense a manhunt, too much press. Instead he'd shoot into her back or legs.

Once she stepped out, he'd double-park, climb out, shoot her and then drive off, pausing a few blocks away to swap plates again.

Sachs got out of the Torino, looking around carefully again, hand near her hip. This keen gaze kept Swann in the front seat of his Nissan, head down. When she started up the street he opened the door of the car but paused. Sachs didn't head for the cul-de-sac leading to Rhyme's town house or toward Central Park West but rather walked across the street-to a Chinese restaurant.

He saw her step inside, laughing as she spoke with the woman at the register. Sachs examined the menu. She was getting an order to go. A glance up and then she was waving at one of the busboys. He smiled back.

Swann pulled the Nissan forward, noted a s.p.a.ce a few car lengths away. He parked and shut the engine off. His hand slipped inside his jacket and made sure once again he knew just where the pistol was. The receiver was more c.u.mbersome than a Glock's, with safeties and slide catches, but the gun itself was heavy, which guaranteed the subsequent shots after the first would be particularly accurate; light weapons need more recentering on target than heavy ones do.

He studied Sachs through the streaked gla.s.s.

Such an attractive woman.

Long, red hair.

Tall.

Slim too. So slim. Did she not like to eat? She didn't seem the cooking type. This made Swann dislike her. And takeout from a place like this, salt and overused grease? Shame on you, Amelia. You'll be right at home for the next few months, eating Jell-O and pudding while you recuperate.

In ten minutes she was out the door, take-out food in one hand, and playing the cooperative target: walking straight into the cul-de-sac.

She paused at the entrance, looking into the bag, apparently making sure the restaurant had included the extra rice or fortune cookies or chopsticks. Still fiddling with the bag, she continued toward Rhyme's town house.

Swann eased his car back into the street but had to brake fast, as a bicyclist sped in front of him and stopped, debating for some reason whether to turn around or continue on to Central Park. Swann was angry but didn't want to draw attention by honking. He waited, face flushed.

The biker headed on-opting for the beautiful green of a spring park-and Swann punched the accelerator to get to the cul-de-sac fast. But the delay had cost him. Walking quickly, Sachs had reached the end of the L-shaped pa.s.sage and disappeared to the left, toward the back of the town house.

Not a problem. Better actually. He'd park, follow her in and shoot her as she approached the door. The geometry of the cul-de-sac there would mute the gunshots and send the sounds in a hundred different directions. Whoever heard would have no idea where they came from.

He looked around. No cops. Little traffic. A few oblivious pa.s.sersby, lost in their own worlds.

Swann pulled the car into the mouth of the cul-de-sac, put the transmission in park and stepped out. With the gun drawn, but hidden under his windbreaker, he started over the cobblestones.

He recited to himself: two shots, low in her back, one toward the knee. Although he vastly preferred his knife he was a good marksman. He'd have to- A voice behind him, a woman's: "Excuse me. Could you help me?" British accent.

It belonged to a slim, attractive jogger in her early thirties. She stood about eight feet away, between him and the open driver's door of his car.

"I'm from out of town. I'm trying to find the reservoir. There's a running path..."

And then she saw it.

His windbreaker had eased away from his body. She saw the gun.

"Oh, G.o.d. Look, don't hurt me. I didn't see anything! I swear."

She started to turn but Swann moved fast; he was in front of her in an instant. She took a breath to scream but he struck her in the throat, his open-handed blow. She dropped hard to the concrete, out of sight of a couple across the street, arguing about something.

Swann glanced back up the dim canyon between the nearby buildings. Would Sachs be inside by now?

Maybe not. He didn't know how far the L of the cul-de-sac extended behind Rhyme's.

But he had only a matter of seconds to decide. He glanced down at the woman, gasping for breath, just the way Annette had in the Bahamas and Lydia Foster had here.

Uhn, uhn, uhn. Hands to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open.

Yes or no? He debated.

Choose now.

He decided: Yes.

CHAPTER 53.

AMELIA SACHS STOOD IN THE CUL-DE-SAC behind the town house, Glock drawn, aimed toward where the dim canyon made a right turn and eventually joined the crosstown street.

The Chinese takeout she'd ordered was sitting on the cobblestones and she was in a combat shooting stance: feet planted parallel, toes pointed at your enemy, leaning forward slightly with gun hand gripping hard, other hand cradling the trigger guard for stability. Your dominant arm stiff; if the muscles aren't taut the recoil might not eject the spent sh.e.l.l and chamber another. A jam can mean death. You and your gun have to be partners.

Come on, Sachs thought to her adversary. Come on, present! This was, of course, Unsub 516. She knew it wasn't Barry Shales, the sniper; he was still under surveillance by Lon Sellitto's team.

Several times today she'd noticed a light-colored sedan-first, near Henry Cross's office building on Chambers Street. Then on the drive here and again fifteen minutes ago. She hadn't seen the car clearly but it was likely the same one that had been following her from Tash Farada's house in Queens.

Noting the car pull into a s.p.a.ce at the end of the block, she'd debated how to handle it. To call Central Dispatch or to approach him by herself on the street might have precipitated a firefight, a bad idea in this densely populated area.

So she'd decided to take him in the cul-de-sac. She'd bought the Chinese takeout to give him a chance to spot her. Before leaving, she'd slipped her weapon into the bag. Then she'd started across the street, careful not to present a target, and into the cul-de-sac, apparently focusing on her order but actually sensing from her periphery when the man would make his move.

She'd hurried to the bend in the cul-de-sac, aware that the car was approaching then stopping. At that point she'd turned, dropped the food and gripped her weapon.

Now she was waiting for the target to present.

Would he drive farther in? Probably not. Too easy to get blocked in, if a delivery or moving truck showed up.

Was he out of the car and moving fast toward her?

Palms dry, both eyes open-you never squint when you shoot. And you focus on two things only: your target and the front sight of your weapon. Forget the blade sight at the back of the receiver. You can't bring everything into definition.

Come on!

Breathing steadily.

Where was he? Prowling forward, about to leap around the corner and drop into his own shooting stance?

Or what if he'd antic.i.p.ated she was on to him? He might have grabbed a pa.s.serby to shove into the cul-de-sac as a distraction. Or use him or her as a s.h.i.+eld, hoping that Sachs would react and shoot the innocent.

Inhale, exhale, inhale...

Did she hear a voice? A soft cry?

What was that? Easing forward, Sachs crept toward the other leg of the L. Paused, flattened against the brick.

Where the h.e.l.l was he? Was his weapon up too, pointed at exactly the spot where she'd appear if she stepped forward?

Okay, go. Just go low and get ready to shoot. Watch your backdrop.

One...two...

Now!

Sachs leapt into the main part of the cul-de-sac, gun up, and dropped into a crouch.

Which is when her left knee gave out completely.

Before she got a clear look at where the unsub might be waiting for her, she tumbled sideways onto the cobblestones, managing to lift her finger off the trigger before she pulled off a random round or two. Amelia Sachs rolled once and lay stunned, a perfect target.

Even her vision had deserted her. Tears from the pain.

But she forced herself to ignore the agony and scrabbled into a p.r.o.ne position, gun muzzle aimed down the cul-de-sac, where Unsub 516 would be coming for her. Aiming at her. Sending hollow-point bullets into her.