The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme 10)

Used an old computer, probably from ten years ago, iBook, either clamshell model, two tone with other bright colors (like green or tangerine). Or could be traditional model, graphite color, but much thicker than today's laptops.

Individual in light-colored sedan following Det. A. Sachs. Make and model not determined.

CHAPTER 25

SHREVE METZGER RETURNED TO the top floor of the NIOS building from the organization's technical department--the snoops--in the basement.

As he strode through the halls, noting some employees avoid his eyes and make sudden turns into restrooms they undoubtedly didn't need to use, he reflected on what he'd just learned about the investigation from his people, who'd been using some very sophisticated techniques for intelligence gathering--particularly impressive since they were, officially, nonexistent. (NIOS had no jurisdiction within the United States and couldn't tap calls or prowl through email or hack computers. But Metzger had two words for that: back door.)

Observing employees dodge out of harm's way, Metzger found his thoughts wandering. He was hearing voices in his head, no, not that kind of voices, more memories or fragments of them.

Come up with an image of your anger. A symbol. A metaphor.

Sure, Doctor. What do you recommend?

It's not for me to say, Shreve. You pick. Some people pick animals, or bad guys from TV shows or hot coals.

Coals? he'd thought. That did it. He'd hit upon an image for the anger beast within him. He'd recalled an incident when he was an adolescent in upstate New York, before losing the weight. He was standing before an autumn bonfire at his middle school, shyly attentive to the girl beside him. Smoke wafted around them. A beautiful night. He'd moved closer to her on the pretense of avoiding the sting of the smoke. He'd smiled and said hello. She'd said don't get close to the flames; you're so fat you'd catch fire. And she walked away.

A story just made for a shrink. Dr. Fischer had loved it, much more than the tale about the anger going away when he ordered somebody's death.

So "Smoke" it is, uppercase S...Good choice, Shreve.

As he approached his office he noticed Ruth inside, standing over his desk. Normally he would have been upset to see somebody in his private space without permission. But she was allowed here under most circumstances. He'd never had a single temper outburst against her, which wasn't true of most other people he worked with at NIOS. He'd snapped or even screamed at them and thrown a report or address book occasionally, though most often not directly at the object of his fury. But never Ruth. Maybe that was because she worked closely with him. Then he decided that this theory didn't work; Lucinda and Katie and Seth had been close yet he'd lost it with his wife and kids plenty of times and had the divorce decree and the memories of the scared eyes and tears to prove it.

Maybe the reason Ruth had escaped was simply that she had never done anything to make him angry.

But, no, that test didn't work either. Metzger could grow infuriated at people simply by imagining they'd offended him, or anticipating that they might. Words still swirled through his mind--a speech he'd prepared if a cop had stopped him en route to the office after Katie's soccer game on Sunday night.

You fucking blue-collar civil servant...Here's my federal government ID. This is a national security matter you're keeping me from. You've just lost your job, my friend...

Ruth nodded at a file, which apparently she'd just put down on his desk. "Some documents from Washington," she reported. "Your eyes only."

Questions about Moreno, of course, and how we fucked up. Goddamn, those pricks were fast, those fucking bureaucratic sharks. In Washington, how easy it was to sit in a cold dark office and speculate and pontificate.

The Wizard and his cronies had no clue what life was like on the front lines.

A breath.

The anger slowly, slowly went away.

"Thanks." He took the documents, decorated with a stark red stripe. Much like the unaccompanied minor envelope containing the forms he'd had to prepare when he'd put Seth on a plane to go to camp in Massachusetts. "You won't be homesick," Metzger had reassured the ten-year-old, who was looking around with uneasy eyes. But then he noticed that, contrary to this worry, the boy seemed somber because he was still in his father's presence. Once released into the company of the flight attendant the kid grew animated, happy.

Anything to be away from his time bomb of a parent.

Metzger ripped open the envelope, lifted his glasses from his breast pocket.

He laughed. He'd been wrong. The information was simply intelligence assessments for some potential STO tasks in the future. That's another thing the Smoke did. You made assumptions.

He scanned the pages, pleased that the intelligence was about the al-Ba

rani Rashid mission, next prioritized in the queue after Moreno.

God, he wanted Rashid. Wanted him so badly.

He set the reports down and glanced at Ruth. He asked, "You have the appointment this afternoon, right?"

"That's right."