As for the reporter’s personal life, well, Pulaski had found nothing that might motivate a killer to take him out. He wasn’t involved in shady business dealings or criminal activities, had no enemies and hadn’t engaged in any personal moral lapses — there was no controversy about whom he was sleeping with (apparently only his wife of twenty-three years).
“So when I didn’t find a motive,” Rhyme continued, “I had to ask what was curious? I went back to the evidence. And a few minutes later something jumped out. Or, I should say, the absence of something jumped out. The bodyguard’s missing watch, which was stolen after the shooting. It was a Rolex. The fact of the theft was unremarkable. But why would a bodyguard be wearing a five-thousand-dollar watch?”
Metzger looked blank.
“His boss, Robert Moreno, wasn’t rich; he was an activist and journalist. He was probably pretty generous with his workers but paying enough of a salary for any of them to buy a Rolex? I didn’t think so. A half hour ago I had our FBI contact profile the guard. Flores had accounts worth six million dollars in banks around the Caribbean. Every month he got fifty thousand cash from an anonymous numbered account in the Caymans.”
Metzger’s eyes flashed. “The guard was blackmailing someone.”
You didn’t get to be head of a group like NIOS without being sharp but this was a particularly good deduction.
Rhyme nodded, with a smile. “I think that’s right. I remembered that the day of the attack at the South Cove Inn, there was another murder in the Nassau. A lawyer. My Bahamian police contact gave me the lawyer’s client list.”
Metzger said, “The guard was one of the lawyer’s clients, of course. The guard — Flores — left the incriminating information with the attorney for safekeeping. But the man being blackmailed got tired of paying or ran out of money and called up a hit man — this specialist — to kill the guard, kill the lawyer and steal the information, destroy it.”
“Exactly. The lawyer’s office was ransacked and looted after he died.”
Sellitto cast a wry glance at Metzger. “He’s good, Linc. He oughta be a spy.”
The director regarded the detective coolly, then continued, “Any ideas on how to find out who was being blackmailed?”
Sachs asked, “Who sent you the fake intel about Moreno, that he was planning the attack on American Petroleum Drilling and Refining?”
Metzger leaned back, eyes sweeping the ceiling. “I can’t tell you specifically. It’s classified. Only that they were intelligence assets in Latin America — ours and another U.S. security organization. Trusted assets.”
Rhyme suggested, “Could somebody have leaked bad intel to them and they sent it to you?”
The doubtful look faded. “Yes, somebody who knew how the intelligence community worked, somebody with contacts.” Metzger’s jaw trembled alarmingly again. How fast he switched from calm to enraged. It was unsettling. “But how do we find him?”
“I’ve been considering that,” Rhyme said. “And I think the key is the whistleblower, the person who leaked the STO.”
Metzger grimaced. “The traitor.”
“What have you been doing to find him?”
“Searching for him day and night,” the man said ruefully. “But no luck. We’ve cleared everybody here with access to the STO. My personal assistant had the last polygraph appointment. She has…” He hesitated. “…reason to be unhappy with the government. But she passed. There are still a few people in Washington we have to check out. Has to have come from there, we’re thinking. Maybe a military base.”
“Homestead?”
A pause. “I can’t say.”
Rhyme asked, “Who was in charge of the internal investigation?”
“My administrations director, Spencer Boston.” A pause, as he regarded Rhyme’s piercing gaze, then looked down briefly. “He’s not a suspect. How could he be? What does he have to gain? Besides, he passed the test.”
Sachs: “Who is he exactly? What’s his background?”
“Spencer’s former military, decorated, former CIA — mostly active in Central America. They called him the ‘regime change expert.’”
Sellitto looked at Rhyme. “Remember why Robert Moreno turned anti-American? The U.S. invasion of Panama. His best friend was killed.”
Rhyme didn’t respond but, his mind’s eye scanning the evidence charts, asked the NIOS director, “So this Boston would have training in beating polygraphs.”
“I suppose technically. But—“
“Does he drink tea? And use Splenda? Oh, and does he have a cheap blue suit that’s a shade lighter than tasteful?”
Metzger stared. After a moment: “He drinks herbal tea because of his ulcers—”
“Ah, stomach problems.” Rhyme glanced at Sachs. She nodded in return.
“With some kind of sweetener, never sugar.”
“And his suits?”
Metzger sighed. “He shops at Sears. And, yes, for some reason he likes this weird shade of blue. I never understood that.”
CHAPTER 86
“Nice house,” Ron Pulaski said.
“Is.” Sachs was looking around, a little distracted.
“So this is what? Glen Cove?”
“Or Oyster Bay. They kind of run together.”
The North Shore of Long Island was a patchwork of small communities, hillier and more tree-filled than the South. Sachs didn’t know the area well. She’d been here on a case involving a Chinese snakehead — a human trafficker — a few years ago. And before that she remembered a police pursuit along some of the winding roads. The chase hadn’t lasted long; sixteen-year-old Amelia had easily evaded the Nassau County police, after they’d broken up an illegal drag race near Garden City (she had won, beating a Dodge hands down).
“You nervous?” Pulaski asked.
“Yeah. Always before a take-down. Always.”
Amelia Sachs felt if you weren’t on edge at a time like that, something was wrong.
On the other hand, ever since the arrest was blessed by Lon Sellitto and, above him, Captain Myers, Sachs hadn’t once worried her flesh, picked at a nail or — this was odd — felt a throb from her hip or knee.
They were dressed quasi-tactically in body armor and black caps but wore just their sidearms.
They were now approaching Spencer Boston’s residence.
An hour ago Shreve Metzger and Rhyme had come up with a plan for the take-down. Metzger had told his Administrations Director Boston that there were going to be hearings about the Moreno STO screwup. He wanted to use a private residence to meet with the NIOS lawyers; could they use Boston’s house and could he send his family off for the day?
Boston had agreed and headed up here immediately.
As Sachs and Pulaski approached the large Colonial they paused, looking around the trim lawns, surrounding woods, molded shrubbery and gardens lovingly, almost compulsively, tended.
The young officer was breathing even more rapidly now.
You nervous?…
Sachs noted that he was absently rubbing a scar on his forehead. It was the legacy of a blow delivered by a perp on the first case they’d worked together, a few years ago. The head injury had been severe and he’d nearly given up policing altogether because of the incident — which would have devastated him; policing was a core part of his psyche and bound him closely to his twin brother, also a cop. But thanks largely to the encouragement and example of Lincoln Rhyme he’d gone through extensive rehab and decided to remain on the force.