CHAPTER 77
Jacob Swann wondered what had happened.
His plans for Nance Laurel had been interrupted by the arrival of an unmarked police car in front of her apartment in Brooklyn – just as Swann had been about to rise and go visit the ADA, to play out his revenge scenario.
The plainclothes detective had whisked her out quickly – so fast that it was clear something significant was going on. Did it relate to the Moreno case, which supposedly was a case no longer? Or something else?
He was now in his Nissan, headed back home. The answer to the mystery arrived in the form of a text from headquarters. Shit. Shreve Metzger had reported that the case was back on but with a curious variation: Barry Shales had been arrested for the killing not of Robert Moreno but of Eduardo de la Rua, the reporter who’d been interviewing him at the time the bullet had blown the hotel window into a million little shards of glass.
Because de la Rua was a U.S. citizen–¡Hola, Puerto Rico! – Ms. Nance Laurel had been reinstated on the case.
Metzger had not been charged but it was possible that he would be soon, accused of at least one or two felony counts; the point of Shales’s arrest, of course, was to pressure the drone pilot to give up his boss.
How easy was it to kill someone in detention? Swann wondered. Not that easy, he suspected, at least not without some inside help, which would be extremely expensive.
Swann was told additional services would be needed. He was to await instructions. Tomorrow promised to be a busy day but since the hour was late he doubted any of those directives would involve his going out again tonight.
This was good.
The little butcher man was hungry and had a taste for some wine. A glass or two of Spanish Albariño beckoned, as did some of the Veronique from last night, carefully wrapped up and tucked into the fridge. There wasn’t a chef in the world – even those whose eateries boasted three Michelin stars – who didn’t appreciate leftovers, whatever they said in public.
VI
SMOKE
FRIDAY, MAY 19
CHAPTER 78
“Captain Shales–”
“I’ve left the military. I’m civilian now.”
The hour was early, Friday morning. Nance Laurel and the drone pilot were in an interview room at the detention center. The same floor, as a matter of fact, where she’d been talking to Amelia Sachs when the State Department delivery boy had so successfully derailed the Moreno homicide case.
“All right, Mr. Shales, you’ve been read your rights, correct?” Laurel put a tape recorder on the scabby table in front of them. She wondered how many invectives, lies, excuses and pleas for mercy this battered rectangle of electronics had heard. Too many to count.
He looked at the device without emotion. “Yes.”
She wasn’t sure how to read him, and reading defendants was a very important part of her job. Would they cave, would they stonewall, would they offer a modicum of helpful comment, would they look for the right moment to leap from the chair and throttle her?
All of those had happened on occasion.
“And you understand you can terminate this conversation at any point?”
“Yes.”
And yet he wasn’t terminating and he wasn’t crying for his lawyer. She sensed that part of him, a small part, wanted to tell her everything, wanted to confess – though some very thick walls surrounded that portion of his heart still.
She noted something else: Yes, Shales was a trained killer, no different, in theory, from Jimmy Bonittollo, who’d put a bullet into the head of Frank Carson because Carson had moved into Bonittollo’s liquor distribution territory. But, practically, there did seem to be a difference. Unlike Bonittollo, Shales had a patina of regret in his blue eyes. And not regret because he’d been caught, which was always there, but regret because he understood that Robert Moreno’s death was wrong.
“I want to explain why I’m here.” Laurel spoke calmly.
“I thought…the case was dropped.”
“The case for the death of Robert Moreno is not going forward. We’re bringing a case for the death of Eduardo de la Rua.”
“The reporter.”
“That’s right.”
His head rose and fell slowly. He said nothing.
“You were ordered by Shreve Metzger to kill Robert Moreno as part of a Special Task Order issued by the National Intelligence and Operations Service.”
“I’m choosing not to answer that question.”
I didn’t ask a question, she reflected. Then continued, “Because you intended to kill Moreno and you did kill him, any deaths that resulted – even if you hoped to avoid them – are murder.”
His head turned and it seemed that he took in a pattern of scuff on the wall. It looked like a lightning bolt to Laurel.
And then she realized: Lord, he looks like David! She’d had the same thought when she’d seen Lincoln Rhyme’s aide, Thom. But Shales’s glance just now had been like an electric shock; the airman was much, much closer in appearance and expression.
Schoolmarm…
Said in the heat of the moment.
Still…
David, her only real boyfriend. Ever.
A deep breath and Laurel, steadied, continued, “Are you aware that Robert Moreno was not, in fact, engaged in a plot to attack the American Petroleum building in Miami? And that the chemicals he imported into the Bahamas were for legitimate agricultural and commercial purposes, to aid his Local Empowerment Movement?”
“I’m choosing not to answer that question, either.”
“We’ve datamined your phone calls, determined your whereabouts, have air traffic control information about the drone, photos of the Ground Control Station in the NIOS parking lot–”
“I’m choosing–” his voice caught. “I’m choosing not to respond.” His eyes could not hold hers.
Like David’s.
There, sorry. I didn’t want to say it. You made me…
Instinct told her to back off now. Immediately. Softer voice. “I want to work with you, Mr. Shales. Can I call you Barry?”
“I guess.”
“I’m Nance. I want to work something out. We believe that you were a victim in this too. That you weren’t given all the information about Robert Moreno that you probably should have been when the STO was issued.”
Now a flicker in his eyes.
Which, fuck it all, are just as blue as David’s.
“In fact, it’s possible,” she continued, “that some of the intelligence was intentionally manipulated to make a stronger case for assassinating Moreno. What do you think about that?”
“Intelligence is hard to analyze. It’s a tricky business.”
Ah, no more name, rank and serial number. No doubt: Shales knows that Metzger fudged the intel and it’s been eating at him.
“I’m sure it is. But it presumably is also easy to manipulate. Isn’t that the case?”
“I guess it can be.” Shales’s face was flushed. She believed that veins in his jaw and temple were more prominent than earlier.
Excellent.
Fear was a good tool for persuasion.
Hope was better.
“Let’s see if we can work something out.”
But his shoulders rose slightly and she measured the level of resistance. Still pretty high.
Laurel had played chess with David. This was one of their Sunday morning things to do, after breakfast and after, well, what often came after breakfast.
She loved those games. He was slightly better than she. That added to the excitement.
Now, she thought. Now’s the time.
“Barry, the stakes are high here. The death of Moreno and the others in the Bahamas are one thing. But the bomb in the coffee shop, the murder of Lydia Foster, that’s–”
“What? ”
“The bomb, the murder of the witnesses.” Laurel appeared perplexed.