The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme Series #10) by Jeffery Deaver, Hardcover | Barnes & Noble
The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme Series #10)

The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme Series #10)

3.9 126
by Jeffery Deaver
     
 

View All Available Formats & Editions

It was a "million-dollar bullet," a sniper shot delivered from over a mile away. Its victim was no ordinary mark: he was a United States citizen, targeted by the United States government, and assassinated in the Bahamas.
The nation's most renowned investigator and forensics expert, Lincoln Rhyme, is drafted to investigate. While his partner, Amelia Sachs,

Overview

It was a "million-dollar bullet," a sniper shot delivered from over a mile away. Its victim was no ordinary mark: he was a United States citizen, targeted by the United States government, and assassinated in the Bahamas.
The nation's most renowned investigator and forensics expert, Lincoln Rhyme, is drafted to investigate. While his partner, Amelia Sachs, traces the victim's steps in Manhattan, Rhyme leaves the city to pursue the sniper himself. As details of the case start to emerge, the pair discovers that not all is what it seems.
When a deadly, knife-wielding assassin begins systematically eliminating all evidence—including the witnesses—Lincoln's investigation turns into a chilling battle of wits against a cold-blooded killer.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
In bestseller Deaver’s extremely timely 10th Lincoln Rhyme novel (after 2010’s The Burning Wire), Rhyme, partner Amelia Sachs, and other regulars conduct a highly irregular investigation that points up the moral ambiguities involved in what are euphemistically called STOs (Special Task Orders). At issue is the killing of a U.S. citizen, Roberto Moreno, who’s been operating as an anti-American crusader in the Bahamas. Shreve Metzger, the director of the National Intelligence and Operations Service (NIOS), a secret government organization, ordered the hit from NIOS headquarters in Manhattan. A.D.A. Nance Laurel is determined to prosecute those responsible for Moreno’s murder. Rhyme and Sachs engage in a continuously exciting game of cat-and-mouse with a host of adversaries, including sadistic killer Jacob Swann, at the same time they face important personal decisions. This is Deaver at his very best and not to be missed by any thriller fan. Agent: Deborah Schneider, Gelfman Schneider Literary Agents. (June)
June 2010 Indie Next List Great Reads list on The Burning Wire
"A taut psychological thriller from a masterful crime writer, proving Deaver just gets better with each new novel."
The Globe and Mail on The Broken Window
"This eighth novel featuring quadriplegic forensic expert Lincoln Rhyme is one of Deaver's best...Deaver has outdone himself."
Entertainment Weekly on The Broken Window
"Deaver's scarily believable depiction of identity theft in a total-surveillance society stokes our paranoia. A -."
New York Times on The Broken Window
"One of the most unnerving of Deaver's eight novels featuring his quadriplegic forensic detective, Lincoln Rhyme."
Booklist on The Broken Window
"Rhyme is one of the mystery genre's most interesting and out-of-the-ordinary series leads...As always, Deaver's dialogue is exceptionally realistic, and his plotting is devilishly intricate. Recommended for fans of the Rhyme novels (naturally) and readers who like their thrillers laced with wit and sharp characterizations."
The Military Press
"The Kill Room is very powerful in its exploration of current issues...This book is a page-turner with nothing as it seems to be, culminating in many surprise endings."
The Huffington Post
"If this contemporary story doesn't get your pulse racing, your head spinning and your adrenaline pumping then nothing will....If you are a person who enjoys a tight, twisted, terrific crime thriller which also has a personal story woven into it then you have to read Jeffery Deaver. He is one of the best writers on the scene today. His talent will knock your socks off."
Associated Press Staff
"Jeffery Deaver has written an ace thriller to keep readers guessing and gasping with his latest Lincoln Rhyme thriller, "The Kill Room." A master magician with words, Deaver misdirects with one tale while what's really going on is just off the reader's radar...The numerous twists and turns in "The Kill Room" are so fast and furious that by the novel's end, the reader will be dizzy - and clamoring for more."
RT Book Reviews
"Deaver delivers a dark tale of espionage, patriotism and egos as his clever detective puts the pieces of an intricately drawn jigsaw together while a killer targets his investigation."
Providence Sunday Journal
"Chillingly effective...Jeffery Deaver's quadriplegic detective has never been better...Equal parts Marathon Man and top-notch political thriller, this is Deaver at the top of his game. Rhyme remains the most original hero in thriller fiction today who may have met his match in Swann. Not to be missed."
The Columbus Dispatch
"Jeffery Deaver makes it all work, with style, in his latest thriller, The Kill Room...well-researched, expertly written and nicely paced."
Kirkus Reviews
Lincoln Rhyme goes geopolitical. A mile away from a high-caliber rifle, anti-American activist Roberto Moreno falls dead in his Bahamas retreat, along with his guard and a reporter who was interviewing him. Nance Laurel, the New York assistant district attorney who's convinced that the assassinations were the work of an undercover government agency, invites quadriplegic criminalist Lincoln Rhyme and his NYPD lover, Amelia Sachs, to investigate. As usual, the case poses special challenges. The murder scene, presumably awash in forensic evidence, is over a thousand miles from Rhyme's wheelchair, and the Bahamian police aren't eager to share their information. The sinister National Intelligence and Operations Service has already issued orders to liquidate its next target in only a week. NIOS hireling Jacob Swann and another unnamed killer are methodically eliminating evidence and witnesses before they can tell their stories. Even when Rhyme improbably decides to fly to the Bahamas and into a far more generic sort of adventure than his usual--getting stonewalled by uncooperative cops, getting waylaid by hired killers, getting suntanned--the rewards are slim, for he finds crime-scene tape gone from the room where Moreno and the others died; it is being cleaned and painted as he watches (a nice touch). And of course, Deaver, who can't resist any opportunity for ingenuity (XO, 2012, etc.), keeps mixing fastballs, curveballs and change-ups. Even though there are so few suspects, and the guilty parties are so obvious, veteran readers won't trust a single fact until it's been triple-checked, and maybe not even then. Deaver's sleight of hand, so effective on the homefront, carries less weight in a world of international counterterrorism in which it's a given that everybody's trying to kill or discredit everybody else. It's still magic, but it's harder to care when everyone is a magician.
From the Publisher
"Not even the brilliant Rhyme can foresee the shocking twists the case will take in this electrically charged thriller."—Publishers Weekly, (Starred Review) on The Burning Wire"

A taut psychological thriller from a masterful crime writer, proving Deaver just gets better with each new novel."—June 2010 Indie Next List Great Reads list on The Burning Wire"

This eighth novel featuring quadriplegic forensic expert Lincoln Rhyme is one of Deaver's best...Deaver has outdone himself."—The Globe and Mail on The Broken Window"

Deaver's scarily believable depiction of identity theft in a total-surveillance society stokes our paranoia. A -."—Entertainment Weekly on The Broken Window"

One of the most unnerving of Deaver's eight novels featuring his quadriplegic forensic detective, Lincoln Rhyme."—New York Times on The Broken Window"

Rhyme is one of the mystery genre's most interesting and out-of-the-ordinary series leads...As always, Deaver's dialogue is exceptionally realistic, and his plotting is devilishly intricate. Recommended for fans of the Rhyme novels (naturally) and readers who like their thrillers laced with wit and sharp characterizations."—Booklist on The Broken Window

Library Journal
Lincoln Rhyme and partner Amelia Sachs investigate a controversial, politically charged case involving the assassination in the Bahamas of a U.S. citizen at the behest of the director of the National Intelligence and Operations Service (NIOS). Although Moreno, a New York City resident, long harbored hatred for the U.S. exploitation of the Central and South American economies, Nance Laurel, the New York assistant district attorney, will not permit the U.S. government to abuse, ignore, and avoid the law; hence, the extensive search for witnesses. However, NIOS director Shreve Metzger learns of the investigation and, in turn, orders his assassin, Jacob Swann, to systematically minimize and/or eliminate anyone aware of his Special Task Order. Using his unique and deadly knife-wielding skills, Swann willingly assumes his task—turning the search into a cold-blooded battle of revenge. Readers may wonder: Who will become Swann's next victim? VERDICT Particularly in this 11th Lincoln Rhyme thriller (after The Burning Wire), fans will appreciate Deaver's customary detailing of each plot sequence, thereby heightening their anticipation of the upcoming clincher. Thriller aficionados will be lining up for this one. [See Prepub Alert, 12/14/12.]—Jerry P. Miller, Cambridge, MA

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781455517060
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Publication date:
06/04/2013
Series:
Lincoln Rhyme Series, #10
Pages:
484
Sales rank:
597,228
Product dimensions:
6.30(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.60(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Kill Room


By Jeffery Deaver

Grand Central Publishing

Copyright © 2013 Jeffery Deaver
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4555-1706-0


CHAPTER 1

The flash of light troubled him.

A glint, white or pale yellow, in the distance.

From the water? From the strip of land across the peaceful turquoise bay?

But here, there could be no danger. Here, he was in a beautiful and isolated resort. Here, he was out of the glare of media and the gaze of enemies.

Roberto Moreno squinted out the window. He was merely in his late thirties but his eyes were not good and he pushed the frames higher on his nose and scanned the vista—the garden outside the suite's window, the narrow white beach, the pulsing blue-green sea. Beautiful, isolated ... and protected. No vessels bobbed within sight. And even if an enemy with a rifle could have learned he was here and made his way unseen through the industrial plants on that spit of land a mile away across the water, the distance and the pollution clouding the view would have made a shot impossible.

No more flashes, no more glints.

You're safe. Of course you are.

But still Moreno remained wary. Like Martin Luther King, like Gandhi, he was always at risk. This was the way of his life. He wasn't afraid of death. But he was afraid of dying before his work was done. And at this young age he still had much to do. For instance, the event he'd just finished organizing an hour or so ago—a significant one, sure to get a lot of people's attention—was merely one of a dozen planned for the next year.

And beyond, an abundant future loomed.

Dressed in a modest tan suit, a white shirt and royal blue tie—oh, so Caribbean—the stocky man now filled two cups from the coffeepot that room service had just delivered and returned to the couch. He handed one to the reporter, who was setting up a tape recorder.

"Señor de la Rua. Some milk? Sugar?"

"No, thank you."

They were speaking in Spanish, in which Moreno was fluent. He hated English and only spoke it when he needed to. He'd never quite shucked the New Jersey accent when he was speaking in his native tongue, "hehr" for "her," "mirrah" for "mirror," "gun" for "gone." The tones of his own voice took him right back to his early days in the States—his father working long hours and living life sober, his mother spending long hours not. Bleak landscapes, bullies from a nearby high school. Until salvation: the family's move to a place far kinder than South Hills, a place where even the language was softer and more elegant.

The reporter said, "But call me Eduardo. Please."

"And I'm Roberto."

The name was really "Robert" but that smacked of lawyers on Wall Street and politicians in Washington and generals on the battlefields sowing foreign ground with the bodies of the locals like cheap seeds.

Hence, Roberto.

"You live in Argentina," Moreno said to the journalist, who was a slight man, balding and dressed in a tie-less blue shirt and threadbare black suit. "Buenos Aires?"

"That's right."

"Do you know about the name of the city?"

De la Rua said no; he wasn't a native.

"The meaning is 'good air,' of course," Moreno said. He read extensively—several books a week, much of it Latin American literature and history. "But the air referred to was in Sardinia, Italy, not Argentina. So called after a settlement on top of a hill in Cagliari. The settlement was above the, let us say, pungent smells of the old city and was accordingly named Buen Ayre. The Spanish explorer who discovered what became Buenos Aires named it after that settlement. Of course that was the first settlement of the city. They were wiped out by the natives, who didn't enjoy the exploitation by Europe."

De la Rua said, "Even your anecdotes have a decidedly anti-colonial flavor."

Moreno laughed. But the humor vanished and he looked quickly out the window again.

That damn glint of light. Still, though, he could see nothing but trees and plants in the garden and that hazy line of land a mile away. The inn was on the largely deserted southwest coast of New Providence, the island in the Bahamas where Nassau was located. The grounds were fenced and guarded. And the garden was reserved for this suite alone and protected by a high fence to the north and south, with the beach to the west.

No one was there. No one could be there.

A bird, perhaps. A flutter of leaf.

Simon had checked the grounds not long ago. Moreno glanced at him now, a large, quiet Brazilian, dark-complected, wearing a nice suit—Moreno's guard dressed better than he did, though not flashy. Simon, in his thirties, looked appropriately dangerous, as one would expect, and want, in this profession but he wasn't a thug. He'd been an officer in the army, before going civilian as a security expert.

He was also very good at his job. Simon's head swiveled; he'd become aware of his boss's gaze and immediately stepped to the window, looking out.

"Just a flash of light," Moreno explained.

The bodyguard suggested drawing the shades.

"I think not."

Moreno had decided that Eduardo de la Rua, who'd flown here coach class at his own expense from the city of good air, deserved to enjoy the beautiful view. He wouldn't get to experience much luxury, as a hardworking journalist known for reporting the truth, rather than producing puff pieces for corporate officials and politicians. Moreno also decided to take the man to a very nice meal at the South Cove Inn's fine restaurant for lunch.

Simon gazed outside once more, returned to his chair and picked up a magazine.

De la Rua clicked on the tape recorder. "Now, may I?"

"Please." Moreno turned his full attention to the journalist.

"Mr. Moreno, your Local Empowerment Movement has just opened an office in Argentina, the first in the country. Could you tell me how you conceived the idea? And what your group does?"

Moreno had given this lecture dozens of times. It varied, based on the particular journalist or audience, but the core was simple: to encourage indigenous people to reject U.S. government and corporate influence by becoming self-sufficient, notably through microlending, microagriculture and microbusiness.

He now told the reporter, "We resist American corporate development. And the government's aid and social programs, whose purpose, after all, is simply to addict us to their values. We are not viewed as human beings; we are viewed as a source of cheap labor and a market for American goods. Do you see the vicious cycle? Our people are exploited in American-owned factories and then seduced into buying products from those same companies."

The journalist said, "I've written much about business investment in Argentina and other South American countries. And I know about your movement, which also makes such investments. One could argue you rail against capitalism yet you embrace it."

Moreno brushed his longish hair, black and prematurely gray. "No, I rail against the misuse of capitalism—the American misuse of capitalism in particular. I am using business as a weapon. Only fools rely on ideology exclusively for change. Ideas are the rudder. Money is the propeller."

The reporter smiled. "I will use that as my lead. Now, some people say, I've read some people say you are a revolutionary."

"Ha, I'm a loudmouth, that's all I am!" The smile faded. "But mark my words, while the world is focusing on the Middle East, everyone has missed the birth of a far more powerful force: Latin America. That's what I represent. The new order. We can't be ignored any longer."

Roberto Moreno rose and stepped to the window.

Crowning the garden was a poisonwood tree, about forty feet tall. He stayed in this suite often and he liked the tree very much. Indeed, he felt a camaraderie with it. Poisonwoods are formidable, resourceful and starkly beautiful. They are also, as the name suggests, toxic. The pollen or smoke from burning the wood and leaves could slip into the lungs, searing with agony. And yet the tree nourishes the beautiful Bahamian swallowtail butterfly, and white-crowned pigeons live off the fruit.

I am like this tree, Moreno thought. A good image for the article perhaps. I'll mention this too—

The glint again.

In a tiny splinter of a second: A flicker of movement disturbed the tree's sparse leaves, and the tall window in front of him exploded. Glass turned to a million crystals of blowing snow, fire blossomed in his chest.

Moreno found himself lying on the couch, which had been five feet behind him.

But ... but what happened here? What is this? I'm fainting, I'm fainting.

I can't breathe.

He stared at the tree, now clearer, so much clearer, without the window glass filtering the view. The branches waved in the sweet wind off the water. Leaves swelling, receding. It was breathing for him. Because he couldn't, not with his chest on fire. Not with the pain.

Shouts, cries for help around him.

Blood, blood everywhere.

Sun setting, sky going darker and darker. But isn't it morning? Moreno had images of his wife, his teenage son and daughter. His thoughts dissolved until he was aware of only one thing: the tree.

Poison and strength, poison and strength.

The fire within him was easing, vanishing. Tearful relief.

Darkness becoming darker.

The poisonwood tree.

Poisonwood ...

Poison ...

Monday, May 15

CHAPTER 2

Is he on his way or not?" Lincoln Rhyme asked, not trying to curb the irritation.

"Something at the hospital," came Thom's voice from the hallway or kitchen or wherever he was. "He'll be delayed. He'll call when he's free."

"'Something.' Well, that's specific. 'Something at the hospital.'"

"That's what he told me."

"He's a doctor. He should be precise. And he should be on time."

"He's a doctor," Thom replied, "which means he has emergencies to deal with."

"But he didn't say 'emergency.' He said, 'something.' The operation is scheduled for May twenty-six. I don't want it delayed. That's too far in the future anyway. I don't see why he couldn't do it sooner."

Rhyme motored his red Storm Arrow wheelchair to a computer monitor. He parked next to the rattan chair in which sat Amelia Sachs, in black jeans and sleeveless black shell. A gold pendant of one diamond and one pearl dangled from a thin chain around her neck. The day was early and spring sunlight fired through the east-facing windows, glancing alluringly off her red hair tied in a bun, tucked carefully up with pewter pins. Rhyme turned his attention back to the screen, scanning a crime scene report for a homicide he'd just helped the NYPD close.

"About done," she said.

They sat in the parlor of his town house on Central Park West in Manhattan. What presumably had once been a subdued, quiet chamber for visitors and suitors in Boss Tweed's day was now a functioning crime scene lab. It was filled with evidence examination gear and instrumentation, computers and wires, everywhere wires, which made the transit of Rhyme's wheelchair forever bumpy, a sensation that he experienced only from his shoulders up.

"The doctor's late," Rhyme muttered to Sachs. Unnecessarily since she'd been ten feet away from his exchange with Thom. But he was still irritated and felt better laying on a bit more censure. He carefully moved his right arm forward to the touchpad and scrolled through the last paragraphs of the report. "Good."

"I'll send it?"

He nodded and she hit a key. The encrypted sixty-five pages headed off into the ether to arrive ultimately six miles away at the NYPD's crime scene facility in Queens, where they would become the backbone of the case of People v. Williams.

"Done."

Done ... except for testifying at the trial of the drug lord, who had sent twelve- and thirteen-year-olds out into the streets of East New York and Harlem to do his killing for him. Rhyme and Sachs had managed to locate and analyze minute bits of trace and impression evidence that led from one of the youngster's shoes to the floor of a storefront in Manhattan to the carpet of a Lexus sedan to a restaurant in Brooklyn and finally to the house of Tye Williams himself.

The gang leader hadn't been present at the murder of the witness, he hadn't touched the gun, there was no record of him ordering the hit and the young shooter was too terrified to testify against him. But those hurdles for the prosecution didn't matter; Rhyme and Sachs had spun a filament of evidence that stretched from the crime scene directly to Williams's crib.

He'd be in jail for the rest of his life.

Sachs now closed her hand on Rhyme's left arm, strapped to the wheelchair, immobile. He could see from the tendons faintly visible beneath her pale skin that she squeezed. The tall woman rose and stretched. They'd been working to finish the report since early morning. She'd awakened at five. He, a bit later.

Rhyme noticed that she winced as she walked to the table where her coffee cup sat. The arthritis in her hip and knee had been bad lately. Rhyme's spinal cord injury, which rendered him a quadriplegic, was described as devastating. Yet it never gave him a moment's pain.

All of our bodies, whoever we are, fail us to some degree, he reflected. Even those who at present were healthy and more or less content were troubled by clouds on the horizon. He pitied the athletes, the beautiful people, the young who were already anticipating decline with dread.

And yet, ironically, the opposite was true for Lincoln Rhyme. From the ninth circle of injury, he had been improving, thanks to new spinal cord surgical techniques and his own take-no-prisoners attitude about exercise and risky experimental procedures.

Which reminded him again that he was irritated the doctor was late for today's assessment appointment, in anticipation of the upcoming surgery.

The two-tone doorbell chime sounded.

"I'll get that," Thom called.

The town house was disability-modified, of course, and Rhyme could have used a computer to view and converse with whoever was at the door and let them in. Or not. (He didn't like folks to come-a-callin' and tended to send them away—sometimes rudely—if Thom didn't act fast.)

"Who is it? Check first."

This couldn't be Dr. Barrington, since he was going to call once he'd disposed of the "something" that had delayed him. Rhyme wasn't in the mood for other visitors.

But whether his caregiver checked first or not didn't matter apparently. Lon Sellitto appeared in the parlor.

"Linc, you're home."

Safe bet.

The squat detective beelined to a tray with coffee and pastry.

"You want fresh?" Thom asked. The slim aide was dressed in a crisp white shirt, floral blue tie and dark slacks. Cuff links today, ebony or onyx.

"Naw, thanks, Thom. Hey, Amelia."

"Hi, Lon. How's Rachel?"

"Good. She's taken up Pilates. That's a weird word. It's exercise or something." Sellitto was decked out in a typically rumpled suit, brown, and a typically rumpled powder-blue shirt. He sported a striped crimson tie that was atypically smooth as a piece of planed wood. A recent present, Rhyme deduced. From girlfriend Rachel? The month was May—no holidays. Maybe it was a birthday present. Rhyme didn't know the date of Sellitto's. Or, for that matter, most other people's.

Sellitto sipped coffee and pestered a Danish, two bites only. He was perpetually dieting.

Rhyme and the detective had worked together years ago, as partners, and it had largely been Lon Sellitto who'd pushed Rhyme back to work after the accident, not by coddling or cajoling but by forcing him to get off his ass and start solving crimes again. (More accurately, in Rhyme's case, to stay on his ass and get back to work.) But despite their history Sellitto never came by just to hang out. The detective first-class was assigned to Major Cases, working out of the Big Building—One Police Plaza—and he was usually the lead detective on the cases for which Rhyme was hired to consult. His presence now was a harbinger.
(Continues...)


Excerpted from The Kill Room by Jeffery Deaver. Copyright © 2013 Jeffery Deaver. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Videos

Meet the Author

Jeffery Deaver is the #1 international bestselling author of more than thirty novels, three collections of short stories, and a nonfiction law book. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into 25 languages. His first novel featuring Lincoln Rhyme, The Bone Collector, was made into a major motion picture starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. He's received or been shortlisted for a number of awards around the world. A former journalist, folksinger, and attorney, he was born outside of Chicago and has a bachelor of journalism degree from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University. You can visit his website at www.JefferyDeaver.com.

Brief Biography

Hometown:
Washington, D.C.
Date of Birth:
May 6, 1950
Place of Birth:
Chicago, Illinois
Education:
B.A., University of Missouri; Juris Doctor, cum laude, Fordham University School of Law
Website:
http://www.jefferydeaver.com/

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network

     

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >