Jeffery Deaver is the #1 international bestselling author of over thirty novels and three collections of short stories. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into 25 languages. His first novel featuring Lincoln Rhyme, The Bone Collector, was made into a major motion picture starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. He's received or been shortlisted for a number of awards around the world. He lives in North Carolina.

The Kill Room

By Jeffery Deaver

Grand Central Publishing

Copyright © 2013 Jeffery Deaver
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4555-1706-0

CHAPTER 1

The flash of light troubled him.

A glint, white or pale yellow, in the distance.

From the water? From the strip of land across the peaceful turquoise bay?

But here, there could be no danger. Here, he was in a beautiful and isolatedresort. Here, he was out of the glare of media and the gaze of enemies.

Roberto Moreno squinted out the window. He was merely in his late thirties buthis eyes were not good and he pushed the frames higher on his nose and scannedthe vista—the garden outside the suite's window, the narrow white beach,the pulsing blue-green sea. Beautiful, isolated ... and protected. No vesselsbobbed within sight. And even if an enemy with a rifle could have learned he washere and made his way unseen through the industrial plants on that spit of landa mile away across the water, the distance and the pollution clouding the viewwould have made a shot impossible.

No more flashes, no more glints.

You're safe. Of course you are.

But still Moreno remained wary. Like Martin Luther King, like Gandhi, he wasalways at risk. This was the way of his life. He wasn't afraid of death. But hewas afraid of dying before his work was done. And at this young age he still hadmuch to do. For instance, the event he'd just finished organizing an hour or soago—a significant one, sure to get a lot of people's attention—wasmerely one of a dozen planned for the next year.

And beyond, an abundant future loomed.

Dressed in a modest tan suit, a white shirt and royal blue tie—oh, soCaribbean—the stocky man now filled two cups from the coffeepot that roomservice had just delivered and returned to the couch. He handed one to thereporter, who was setting up a tape recorder.

"Señor de la Rua. Some milk? Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

They were speaking in Spanish, in which Moreno was fluent. He hated English andonly spoke it when he needed to. He'd never quite shucked the New Jersey accentwhen he was speaking in his native tongue, "hehr" for "her," "mirrah" for"mirror," "gun" for "gone." The tones of his own voice took him right back tohis early days in the States—his father working long hours and living lifesober, his mother spending long hours not. Bleak landscapes, bullies from anearby high school. Until salvation: the family's move to a place far kinderthan South Hills, a place where even the language was softer and more elegant.

The reporter said, "But call me Eduardo. Please."

"And I'm Roberto."

The name was really "Robert" but that smacked of lawyers on Wall Street andpoliticians in Washington and generals on the battlefields sowing foreign groundwith the bodies of the locals like cheap seeds.

Hence, Roberto.

"You live in Argentina," Moreno said to the journalist, who was a slight man,balding and dressed in a tie-less blue shirt and threadbare black suit. "BuenosAires?"

"That's right."

"Do you know about the name of the city?"

De la Rua said no; he wasn't a native.

"The meaning is 'good air,' of course," Moreno said. He readextensively—several books a week, much of it Latin American literature andhistory. "But the air referred to was in Sardinia, Italy, not Argentina.So called after a settlement on top of a hill in Cagliari. The settlement wasabove the, let us say, pungent smells of the old city and was accordingly namedBuen Ayre. The Spanish explorer who discovered what became Buenos Airesnamed it after that settlement. Of course that was the first settlementof the city. They were wiped out by the natives, who didn't enjoy theexploitation by Europe."

De la Rua said, "Even your anecdotes have a decidedly anti-colonial flavor."

Moreno laughed. But the humor vanished and he looked quickly out the windowagain.

That damn glint of light. Still, though, he could see nothing but trees andplants in the garden and that hazy line of land a mile away. The inn was on thelargely deserted southwest coast of New Providence, the island in the Bahamaswhere Nassau was located. The grounds were fenced and guarded. And the gardenwas reserved for this suite alone and protected by a high fence to the north andsouth, with the beach to the west.

No one was there. No one could be there.

A bird, perhaps. A flutter of leaf.

Simon had checked the grounds not long ago. Moreno glanced at him now, a large,quiet Brazilian, dark-complected, wearing a nice suit—Moreno's guarddressed better than he did, though not flashy. Simon, in his thirties, lookedappropriately dangerous, as one would expect, and want, in this profession buthe wasn't a thug. He'd been an officer in the army, before going civilian as asecurity expert.

He was also very good at his job. Simon's head swiveled; he'd become aware ofhis boss's gaze and immediately stepped to the window, looking out.

"Just a flash of light," Moreno explained.

The bodyguard suggested drawing the shades.

"I think not."

Moreno had decided that Eduardo de la Rua, who'd flown here coach class at hisown expense from the city of good air, deserved to enjoy the beautiful view. Hewouldn't get to experience much luxury, as a hardworking journalist known forreporting the truth, rather than producing puff pieces for corporate officialsand politicians. Moreno also decided to take the man to a very nice meal at theSouth Cove Inn's fine restaurant for lunch.

Simon gazed outside once more, returned to his chair and picked up a magazine.

De la Rua clicked on the tape recorder. "Now, may I?"

"Please." Moreno turned his full attention to the journalist.

"Mr. Moreno, your Local Empowerment Movement has just opened an office inArgentina, the first in the country. Could you tell me how you conceived theidea? And what your group does?"

Moreno had given this lecture dozens of times. It varied, based on theparticular journalist or audience, but the core was simple: to encourageindigenous people to reject U.S. government and corporate influence by becomingself-sufficient, notably through microlending, microagriculture andmicrobusiness.

He now told the reporter, "We resist American corporate development. And thegovernment's aid and social programs, whose purpose, after all, is simply toaddict us to their values. We are not viewed as human beings; we are viewed as asource of cheap labor and a market for American goods. Do you see the viciouscycle? Our people are exploited in American-owned factories and then seducedinto buying products from those same companies."

The journalist said, "I've written much about business investment in Argentinaand other South American countries. And I know about your movement, which alsomakes such investments. One could argue you rail against capitalism yet youembrace it."

Moreno brushed his longish hair, black and prematurely gray. "No, I rail againstthe misuse of capitalism—the American misuse of capitalismin particular. I am using business as a weapon. Only fools rely on ideologyexclusively for change. Ideas are the rudder. Money is the propeller."

The reporter smiled. "I will use that as my lead. Now, some people say, I'veread some people say you are a revolutionary."

"Ha, I'm a loudmouth, that's all I am!" The smile faded. "But mark my words,while the world is focusing on the Middle East, everyone has missed the birth ofa far more powerful force: Latin America. That's what I represent. The neworder. We can't be ignored any longer."

Roberto Moreno rose and stepped to the window.

Crowning the garden was a poisonwood tree, about forty feet tall. He stayed inthis suite often and he liked the tree very much. Indeed, he felt a camaraderiewith it. Poisonwoods are formidable, resourceful and starkly beautiful. They arealso, as the name suggests, toxic. The pollen or smoke from burning the wood andleaves could slip into the lungs, searing with agony. And yet the tree nourishesthe beautiful Bahamian swallowtail butterfly, and white-crowned pigeons live offthe fruit.

I am like this tree, Moreno thought. A good image for the article perhaps. I'llmention this too—

The glint again.

In a tiny splinter of a second: A flicker of movement disturbed the tree'ssparse leaves, and the tall window in front of him exploded. Glass turned to amillion crystals of blowing snow, fire blossomed in his chest.

Moreno found himself lying on the couch, which had been five feet behind him.

But ... but what happened here? What is this? I'm fainting, I'm fainting.

I can't breathe.

He stared at the tree, now clearer, so much clearer, without the window glassfiltering the view. The branches waved in the sweet wind off the water. Leavesswelling, receding. It was breathing for him. Because he couldn't, not with hischest on fire. Not with the pain.

Shouts, cries for help around him.

Blood, blood everywhere.

Sun setting, sky going darker and darker. But isn't it morning? Moreno hadimages of his wife, his teenage son and daughter. His thoughts dissolved untilhe was aware of only one thing: the tree.

Poison and strength, poison and strength.

The fire within him was easing, vanishing. Tearful relief.

Darkness becoming darker.

The poisonwood tree.

Poisonwood ...

Poison ...

Monday, May 15

CHAPTER 2

Is he on his way or not?" Lincoln Rhyme asked, not trying to curb theirritation.

"Something at the hospital," came Thom's voice from the hallway or kitchen orwherever he was. "He'll be delayed. He'll call when he's free."

"'Something.' Well, that's specific. 'Something at the hospital.'"

"That's what he told me."

"He's a doctor. He should be precise. And he should be on time."

"He's a doctor," Thom replied, "which means he has emergencies to deal with."

"But he didn't say 'emergency.' He said, 'something.' The operation is scheduledfor May twenty-six. I don't want it delayed. That's too far in the futureanyway. I don't see why he couldn't do it sooner."

Rhyme motored his red Storm Arrow wheelchair to a computer monitor. He parkednext to the rattan chair in which sat Amelia Sachs, in black jeans andsleeveless black shell. A gold pendant of one diamond and one pearl dangled froma thin chain around her neck. The day was early and spring sunlight firedthrough the east-facing windows, glancing alluringly off her red hair tied in abun, tucked carefully up with pewter pins. Rhyme turned his attention back tothe screen, scanning a crime scene report for a homicide he'd just helped theNYPD close.

"About done," she said.

They sat in the parlor of his town house on Central Park West in Manhattan. Whatpresumably had once been a subdued, quiet chamber for visitors and suitors inBoss Tweed's day was now a functioning crime scene lab. It was filled withevidence examination gear and instrumentation, computers and wires, everywherewires, which made the transit of Rhyme's wheelchair forever bumpy, a sensationthat he experienced only from his shoulders up.

"The doctor's late," Rhyme muttered to Sachs. Unnecessarily since she'd been tenfeet away from his exchange with Thom. But he was still irritated and feltbetter laying on a bit more censure. He carefully moved his right arm forward tothe touchpad and scrolled through the last paragraphs of the report. "Good."

"I'll send it?"

He nodded and she hit a key. The encrypted sixty-five pages headed off into theether to arrive ultimately six miles away at the NYPD's crime scene facility inQueens, where they would become the backbone of the case of People v.Williams.

"Done."

Done ... except for testifying at the trial of the drug lord, who had senttwelve- and thirteen-year-olds out into the streets of East New York and Harlemto do his killing for him. Rhyme and Sachs had managed to locate and analyzeminute bits of trace and impression evidence that led from one of theyoungster's shoes to the floor of a storefront in Manhattan to the carpet of aLexus sedan to a restaurant in Brooklyn and finally to the house of Tye Williamshimself.

The gang leader hadn't been present at the murder of the witness, he hadn'ttouched the gun, there was no record of him ordering the hit and the youngshooter was too terrified to testify against him. But those hurdles for theprosecution didn't matter; Rhyme and Sachs had spun a filament of evidence thatstretched from the crime scene directly to Williams's crib.

He'd be in jail for the rest of his life.

Sachs now closed her hand on Rhyme's left arm, strapped to the wheelchair,immobile. He could see from the tendons faintly visible beneath her pale skinthat she squeezed. The tall woman rose and stretched. They'd been working tofinish the report since early morning. She'd awakened at five. He, a bit later.

Rhyme noticed that she winced as she walked to the table where her coffee cupsat. The arthritis in her hip and knee had been bad lately. Rhyme's spinal cordinjury, which rendered him a quadriplegic, was described as devastating. Yet itnever gave him a moment's pain.

All of our bodies, whoever we are, fail us to some degree, he reflected. Eventhose who at present were healthy and more or less content were troubled byclouds on the horizon. He pitied the athletes, the beautiful people, the youngwho were already anticipating decline with dread.

And yet, ironically, the opposite was true for Lincoln Rhyme. From the ninthcircle of injury, he had been improving, thanks to new spinal cord surgicaltechniques and his own take-no-prisoners attitude about exercise and riskyexperimental procedures.

Which reminded him again that he was irritated the doctor was late for today'sassessment appointment, in anticipation of the upcoming surgery.

The two-tone doorbell chime sounded.

"I'll get that," Thom called.

The town house was disability-modified, of course, and Rhyme could have used acomputer to view and converse with whoever was at the door and let them in. Ornot. (He didn't like folks to come-a-callin' and tended to send themaway—sometimes rudely—if Thom didn't act fast.)

"Who is it? Check first."

This couldn't be Dr. Barrington, since he was going to call once he'd disposedof the "something" that had delayed him. Rhyme wasn't in the mood for othervisitors.

But whether his caregiver checked first or not didn't matter apparently. LonSellitto appeared in the parlor.

"Linc, you're home."

Safe bet.

The squat detective beelined to a tray with coffee and pastry.

"You want fresh?" Thom asked. The slim aide was dressed in a crisp white shirt,floral blue tie and dark slacks. Cuff links today, ebony or onyx.

"Naw, thanks, Thom. Hey, Amelia."

"Hi, Lon. How's Rachel?"

"Good. She's taken up Pilates. That's a weird word. It's exercise or something."Sellitto was decked out in a typically rumpled suit, brown, and a typicallyrumpled powder-blue shirt. He sported a striped crimson tie that was atypicallysmooth as a piece of planed wood. A recent present, Rhyme deduced. Fromgirlfriend Rachel? The month was May—no holidays. Maybe it was a birthdaypresent. Rhyme didn't know the date of Sellitto's. Or, for that matter, mostother people's.

Sellitto sipped coffee and pestered a Danish, two bites only. He was perpetuallydieting.

Rhyme and the detective had worked together years ago, as partners, and it hadlargely been Lon Sellitto who'd pushed Rhyme back to work after the accident,not by coddling or cajoling but by forcing him to get off his ass and startsolving crimes again. (More accurately, in Rhyme's case, to stay on his ass andget back to work.) But despite their history Sellitto never came by just to hangout. The detective first-class was assigned to Major Cases, working out of theBig Building—One Police Plaza—and he was usually the lead detectiveon the cases for which Rhyme was hired to consult. His presence now was aharbinger.
(Continues...)Excerpted fromThe Kill RoombyJeffery Deaver. Copyright © 2013 Jeffery Deaver. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.