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His only regret was that her fate would be that bullet he'd just been thinking of; using the Kai Shun on her silken flesh wasn't an option in the present recipe.
CHAPTER 50
MYCHAL POITIER WAS SPEAKING to the manager of the South Cove.
"But, Officer, I thought you knew," said the tall, curly-haired man in a very nice beige suit. He was presently frowning creases deep into his rosily tanned forehead. His accent was mildly British.
"Knew what?" Poitier muttered.
"You told us we could reopen the room and clean it, repair the damage."
"I? I never said any such thing."
"No, no, not you. But someone from your department. They called me and said to release the scene. I don't remember his name."
Rhyme asked, "He called? No one came here in person?"
"No, it was a phone call."
Rhyme sighed. He asked, "When was this?"
"Monday."
Poitier turned and looked at Rhyme with a dismayed gaze. "I gave very strict orders that the scene should have remained sealed. I can't imagine who in the department--"
"It wasn't anybody in your department," Rhyme said. "Our unsub made the call."
And the accomplice, of course, was the manager's fervent desire to eliminate any sign that a murder had been committed here. Crime scene placards in hallways do not make for good public relations.
"I'm sorry, Corporal," the manager said defensively.
Rhyme asked, "Where's the carpet, sofa, the shattered window glass? The other furniture?"
"A rubbish tip somewhere, I should suppose. I have no idea. We used a contractor. Because of the blood, they said they would burn the carpet and couch."
All the trash fires...
Pulaski said, "Right after he killed Annette, our unsub makes one call and, bang, there goes the crime scene. Pretty smart, you think about it. Simple."
It was. Rhyme looked into the immaculate room. The only evidence of the crime was the missing window, over which plastic had been taped.
"If there's anything I can do," the manager said.
When no one said a word, he retreated.
Thom wheeled Rhyme into the suite and, since the Kill Room wasn't wheelchair-accessible, he was helped down two low stairs by Poitier and Pulaski.
The room was pale blue and green--the paint still wet on several walls--and measured about twenty by thirty feet, with two doors leading to what appeared to be bedrooms to the right. These too were empty and were primed for painting. To the left upon entering was a full kitchen.
Rhyme looked out one of the remaining windows. There was a trim garden outside the room, dominated by a smooth-trunked tree that rose about forty feet into the air. He noted that the lower branches had all been trimmed back; the leaves didn't start until about twenty or more feet off the ground. Looking straight over the garden, under the canopy of leaves, he could clearly see the infamous spit of land where Barry Shales had fired from, and where the men in the room now had nearly died.
He squinted up at the tree.
Well, we may just have a crime scene after all.
"Rookie!" Rhyme called.
"Sure, Lincoln."
