Then of course, hovering over it all, was the Wizard.
He wondered what the “budget conference” was deciding right at the moment.
Metzger realized the sirens had stopped.
And they’d stopped right outside his office.
He rose and looked down. At the gated parking lot, where the Ground Control Station sat.
All over with…
It sure was.
One unmarked car punctuated with flashing blue lights, one NYPD squad car, one van — maybe SWAT. The doors were open. The police were nowhere to be seen.
Shreve Metzger knew where they were, though. No doubt of that, of course.
A detail that was confirmed a moment later when the guard from downstairs called him on the security line and asked in an uncertain voice, “Director?” He cleared his throat and continued, “There are some police officers here to see you.”
CHAPTER 84
Lincoln Rhyme could tell that Shreve Metzger, looking the criminalist up and down, was surprised to see him.
Maybe the fact that he was in a wheelchair had jarred him. But the man would have known that. The master of intelligence surely had been compiling files on everyone involved in the Moreno investigation.
Maybe the surprise, ironically, was due to Rhyme’s being in better shape than the NIOS head. Rhyme noted how benign Metzger looked: thin hair, scrawny physique, thick beige-framed glasses with a smudge on each lens. Rhyme would have thought a man who occasionally killed people for a living would be more grisly and sinister. Metzger had taken in Rhyme’s muscular form, thick hair, square face. He’d blinked, a cryptic expression worthy of Nance Laurel.
The man sat down at his desk and turned a gaze — this one unsurprised—toward Sachs and Sellitto. Only they were here; Laurel wasn’t. This was, Rhyme had explained, a police matter, not prosecutorial. And there was a chance, though slight, it could be dangerous.
He looked around. The office was pretty bland. Few decorations, some books that seemed unread — their spines uncracked — sat on untidy shelves. Some file cabinets with very large combination locks and iris scanners. Functional, mismatched furniture. On the ceiling a red light flashed silently, which meant, Rhyme knew, that visitors without security clearances were on the premises and all classified material should be put away or turned facedown.
Which Metzger had dutifully done.
In a soft voice, a controlled voice, the NIOS director said, “You understand I’m not saying anything to you.”
Lon Sellitto — the senior law enforcer here — started to reply but Rhyme interrupted with a wry: “Invoking the Supremacy Clause, are we?”
“I don’t owe you any answers.”
Breaking his own vow of silence.
Suddenly Metzger’s hands began shaking. His eyes narrowed and his breathing seemed to come more quickly. This happened in an instant. The transformation was alarming. Fast and certain as a snake leaping from quiescence to fang a mouse.
“You think you can goddamn come in here…” He had to stop speaking. His jaw clenched too stridently.
He’s had emotional issues. Anger primarily…
“Hey, chill a bit, all right?” Sellitto said. “If we wanted to arrest you, Metzger, you’d be arrested. Listen to the man. Jesus.”
Rhyme recalled, with affection, the days when they had been partnered — Sellitto’s, not his own, artificial verb. Their technique wasn’t good cop/bad cop. But rather smooth cop/rough cop.
Metzger calmed. “Then what…?” He reached into his drawer.
Rhyme noted Sachs stiffen slightly, hand dipping toward her weapon. But the NIOS head withdrew only nail clippers. Then he set them down without clipping.
Sellitto deferred to Rhyme with a nod.
“Now, we have a situation that needs to be…resolved. Your organization issued a Special Task Order.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please.” Rhyme lifted an impatient hand. “An STO against a man who appears to have been innocent. But that’s between you, your conscience and — presumably — some rather difficult congressional hearings. That’s not our business. We’re here because we need to find somebody who’s been killing witnesses involved in the Moreno situation. And—”
“If you’re suggesting that NIOS—”
“Called in a specialist?” Sachs said.
Metzger flickered again. He’d have to be wondering, How did they know that term? How did they know any of this? He sputtered, “I did not and never have ordered anyone to do that.”
Spoken in bureaucratic euphemism.
To do that…
Sellitto barked, “Look at your wrists, Metzger. Look. You in cuffs? I don’t see any cuffs. You see any cuffs?”
Rhyme continued, “We know it was somebody else. And that’s why we’re here. We need you to help us find him.”
“Help you?” Metzger replied with a momentary smile. “And why on earth should I help people who are trying to bring down an important department of the government? A department that does vital work keeping citizens safe from our enemies?”
Rhyme offered a sardonic gaze and even the NIOS director seemed to realize the rhetoric was over the top.
“Why should you help?” Rhyme echoed. “Two reasons leap into my mind. First, so you don’t go down for obstruction of justice. You mounted a campaign to stop the investigation. You tracked down Moreno’s citizenship renunciation, presumably pulling strings at the State Department. It’d be interesting to see if you followed proper channels for that. We’re sure you had Barry Shales, NIOS staff and contractors that you do business with destroy evidence of the STO drone program, you dug up dirt on the investigators. You hacked phones, intercepted emails, borrowed signal information from your friends in Langley and Fort Meade.”
Sachs said in a gritty voice, “You stole personal medical records.”
She and Rhyme had discussed how Captain Bill Myers had gotten from her orthopedist the files about her condition. They concluded that somebody at NIOS had hacked the records and sent them to Sachs’s superiors.
Metzger looked down. A silent confirmation.
“And the second reason to help us? You and NIOS got set up — to murder somebody. And we’re the only ones who can help you nail the perp.”
Rhyme had Metzger’s full attention now.
“What are you saying happened?”
Rhyme replied, “I’ve heard some people suggest that you’re using this job to kill whoever you think is unpatriotic or anti-American. I don’t think so. I think you really believed Moreno was a threat — because somebody wanted you to think that and leaked phony intelligence to you. So you’d issue an STO and take him out. And that would give the real perp a chance to murder the real intended victim.”
Metzger looked off for a moment. “Sure! Moreno gets shot, the others in the room are stunned, scared. The perp slips inside and kills the man he’s really after. De la Rua, the reporter. He was writing an exposé, corruption or something, and somebody wanted him dead.”
“No, no, no,” Rhyme said, though he then conceded, “All right. I thought the same thing at first. But then I realized that was wrong.” This was delivered as a confession. In fact, he was still irritated he’d jumped to the conclusion about the reporter without considering all the facts.
“Then who…?” Metzger lifted his hands, confused.
Amelia Sachs provided the answer. “Simon Flores, Moreno’s bodyguard. He was the target all along.”
CHAPTER 85
De la Rua was a feature writer for a business publication,” Rhyme explained. “We looked over all his recent articles and found out what he was working on. Human-interest stories, business analysis, economics, investment. No investigative reporting, no exposés. Nothing controversial.”