The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme 10)

of conscience. He made a lot of enemies. Those fucking drug assholes. Pardon my French. I hope they get the chair or lethal injection or whatever."

"He mentioned cartels or gangs as a threat?"

Cross leaned back and thought for a moment. "You know, not by name. But he said he was being followed."

"Tell me."

Cross ran a finger over a cluster of moles on his neck. "He said there was this guy who was there but not there, you know what I'm saying? Following him on the street."

"Any description?"

"White, a guy. Looked tough. That's it."

She thought immediately of Barry Shales and Unsub 516.

"But there was something else. The airplane. That freaked him out the most."

"Airplane?"

"Roberto traveled a lot. He said he'd noticed this private jet three or four times in different cities he'd been in--places with small airports, where a private jet was more, you know, noticeable. Bermuda, the Bahamas, Caracas, where he lived. Some towns in Mexico. He said it was strange--because the plane always seemed to be there before he arrived. Like somebody knew his travel schedule."

By tapping his phone, for instance? A favorite sport of Metzger, Shales and Unsub 516.

The cigar got chomped. "The reason he recognized it: He said most private jets're white. But this one was blue."

"Markings, designations, numbers?"

A shrug. "No, he never said. But I was thinking, somebody in a jet's following you? What's that all about? Who the hell could it be? Those things cost money."

"Anything else you can remember?"

"Sorry."

Sachs rose and shook his hand, reflecting that the convoluted trail here--starting with the limo driver--had paid off with a solid clue. If a cryptic one.

The blue jet ...

Cross sighed, looking at another picture of himself and Moreno, this one snapped in a jungle. They were surrounded by cheerful workers. More shovels, more hard hats, more mud.

"You know, Detective, we were good friends but I've gotta say I never quite figured him out. He was always down on America, just hated the place. Wouldn't shut up about it. I told him one time, 'Come on, Roberto. Why're you dissing the one country on earth where you can say those things and not get shot in an alley by a truth squad or hauled off to a secret prison in the middle of the night? Ease up.'"

A bitter laugh escaped the fat, damp mouth. "But he just wouldn't listen."

CHAPTER 52

JACOB SWANN BRAKED HIS CAR to a stop a half block from Amelia Sachs's, near Lincoln Rhyme's town house.

He'd followed her downtown, where she'd had a meeting on Chambers Street, and he'd looked for a chance to shoot. But there had been too many people down there. Always a problem in Manhattan. Now she was back, aggressively parallel parking in an illegal spot near the cul-de-sac once again.

He looked up and down the shadowy avenue. Deserted at last. Yes, this would be the place and the time. In his latex-gloved hand Swann gripped the SIG Sauer, adjusted it to be able to draw quickly.

He wasn't going to kill her. He'd decided that would create too much of a stir--too many police, too intense a manhunt, too much press. Instead he'd shoot into her back or legs.

Once she stepped out, he'd double-park, climb out, shoot her and then drive off, pausing a few blocks away to swap plates again.

Sachs got out of the Torino, looking around carefully again, hand near her hip. This keen gaze kept Swann in the front seat of his Nissan, head down. When she started up the street he opened the door of the car but paused. Sachs didn't head for the cul-de-sac leading to Rhyme's town house or toward Central Park West but rather walked across the street--to a Chinese restaurant.

He saw her step inside, laughing as she spoke with the woman at the register. Sachs examined the menu. She was getting an order to go. A glance up and then she was waving at one of the busboys. He smiled back.