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"Discovery Channel."
Rhyme laughed and continued, "It also reconciles why Mychal Poitier's divers didn't find any spent brass. It's out to sea. Or maybe the drone retains the spent shells. Good, good. We're moving ahead."
Cooper said, "And he was a lot closer than two thousand yards. That's why the high velocity of the bullet."
Rhyme said, "I'd guess the UAV couldn't've been any more than two or three hundred yards out, to make an accurate shot like that. It'd be easy for people on the ground to miss it. There would have been camouflage--just like with our chameleons. And the engine would've been small--two-stroke, remember. With a muffler you'd never hear it."
"It launched from Walker's airstrip in New Jersey?" Pulaski asked.
Rhyme shook his head. "The airstrip's just for testing the drones, I'm sure. NIOS would launch from a military base and as close to the Bahamas as possible."
Laurel dug through her notes. "There's a NIOS office near Miami." She looked up. "Next to Homestead Air Reserve Base."
Sachs tapped the brochure. "Walker has an office near there. Probably for service and support."
Laurel's crisp voice then added, "And you recall what Lincoln said earlier?" She was speaking to them all.
"Yep," Sellitto said, compulsively stirring his coffee, as if that would make it sweeter; he'd added only half a packet of sugar. "We don't need conspiracy anymore. Barry Shales was in New York City when he pulled the trigger. That means the crime's now murder two. And Metzger's an accessory."
"Very good, Detective, that's correct," Laurel said as if she were a fifth-grade teacher praising a student in class.
CHAPTER 62
SHREVE METZGER TILTED HIS HEAD back so the lower lens of his glasses brought the words on his magic phone better into focus.
Budgetary meetings proceeding apace. Much back-and-forth. Resolution tomorrow. Can't tell which way the wind is blowing.
He thought to the Wizard, And what the hell am I supposed to do with this bit of fucking non-information? Get my resume in order or not? Tell everybody here that they're about to be punished for being patriots and saying no to the evil that wants to destroy the greatest country on earth? Or not?
Sometimes the Smoke could be light, irritating. Sometimes it could be that inky mass of cloud, the sort you see rising from plane crashes and chemical plant explosions.
He digitally shredded the message and stalked downstairs to the coffee shop, bought a latte for himself and a soy-laced mochaccino for Ruth. He returned and set hers on her desk, between pictures of soldier husband one and soldier husband two.
"Thank you," the woman said and turned her stunning blue eyes on him. The corners crinkled with a smile. Even in her advanced decade Ruth was attractive in the broadest sense of the word. Metzger did not believe in souls or spirits but, if he did, that would be the part of Ruth that so appealed.
Maybe you could just say she had a good heart.
And here she is working for someone like me...
He brushed aside the Smokey cynicism.
"The appointment went okay," she told him.
Metzger replied, "I was confident. I knew it would. Could you have Spencer come in, please?"
Stepping into his office, he dropped into his chair, sipped the coffee, angry at what he felt was the excessive heat radiating through the cardboard. This reminded him of another incident: A street vendor selling him coffee had been rude. He still fantasized about finding the man's stand and ramming it with his car. The incident was three years ago.
Can't tell which way the wind is blowing.
He blew on the coffee--Smoke exhaling, he imagined.
Let it go.
He began checking emails, extracted from the rabbit hole of encryption. One was troubling: Some disturbing news about the Moreno investigation, a setback. Curiously this just exhausted him, didn't infuriate.
A knock on the jamb. Spencer Boston entered and sat.
"What've you got on our whistleblower?" Metzger asked without a greeting.
