The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme 10)

So that was it. Laurel had had nothing to do with getting her sidelined. Thank God she hadn't blurted what she'd been thinking earlier. But then: How the hell had Myers gotten her private records? She never made insurance claims through the department. She herself paid for the appointments with her orthopedist--for this very reason: so no one in the Big Building would find out.

"Everything okay?" Laurel asked, nodding at the phone.

"Sure, fine."

At that moment a buzz sounded from the end of the corridor. The door swung open and a man stepped inside, in his thirties, athletic, wearing a dark suit. He blinked in surprise, seeing the women at the end of the hall. Then he started forward, eyes taking in the rest of the hallway and the empty rooms.

Sachs spent a lot of time here. She knew many of the officers and guards. The detectives, of course. But she'd never seen this man before.

Maybe he was the sex pervert's lawyer. But the expression on Laurel's face said that she didn't recognize him either.

Sachs turned back to Laurel. "I do have some news. Before I left we got a lead to the whistleblower."

"Really?" Laurel lifted an eyebrow.

Sachs explained about the tourist's photos of the tea-drinker who liked Splenda and had a bum stomach. His inexpensive, odd-colored suit. His possible connection to the military.

Laurel asked a question but by then Sachs's instinct had kicked in and she wasn't paying attention.

The man who'd been buzzed in was ignoring the interrogation rooms. He seemed purposefully, but warily, making his way toward the women.

"You know that guy?" Sachs whispered.

"No." Laurel seemed troubled by the detective's concern.

A scenario played itself out in Sachs's imagination, honed by instinct: This wasn't Barry Shales--they'd seen his picture--but could it be Unsub 516? Sachs had been careful with the cell phones but who knew what NIOS was capable of. The man could have tracked her here--or followed Laurel. Maybe he'd just killed the guard out front and buzzed himself in.

Sachs looked for options. She had her switchblade but if this was the unsu

b he'd be armed. She recalled the terrible knife wounds on Lydia Foster's body. And he could easily have a gun. She'd have to get him in close before she could use the blade.

But as he approached he slowed and stopped, well out of knife range. She couldn't possibly draw the knife and attack before he opened fire. His smooth face, and cautious eyes, looked from one to the other. "Nance Laurel?"

"That's me. Who are you?"

The man had no interest in answering her question.

With a fast, assessing look at Sachs, he reached into his jacket.

Sachs prepared to launch herself into him, muscles tensing, fingers folding into fists.

Can I get to him in time to grab his hand when it appears, pull my knife out, flick it open?

She crouched and felt a stab of pain. Then got ready to surge forward.

Wondering too if, as before in the alley, her knee would give out again and send her sprawling to the floor, in helpless agony, giving the man all the time he needed to shoot or slash them both to death.

CHAPTER 67

THE MOMENT BEFORE SHE LEAPT, though, Sachs saw that an envelope, not a Glock or a blade, was emerging.

The man noted Sachs's curious pose with a frown then stepped closer and handed the envelope to Laurel.

"Who are you?" Laurel persisted.

Still no response to her query. Instead he said, "I've been asked to give this to you. Before you go any further, you should know."

"'Go any further'?"