Read The Kill Room for Free Online

BORROWED CAR to a cay on the southwest shore of New Providence Island, near the huge Clifton Heritage Park, Jacob Swann heard his phone buzz with a text. The message was an update about the police investigation in New York into Robert Moreno’s death, the conspiracy charges. Swann would be receiving details in the next few hours, including the names of the parties involved.
    Moving quickly. Much more quickly than he’d expected.
    He heard a thump from the trunk of the car, where Annette Bodel, the unfortunate hooker, was crumpled in a ball. But it was a soft thump and there was no one else around to hear, no clusters of roadside scavengers or hangers-out like you often saw in the Bahamas, sipping Sands or Kalik, joking and gossiping and complaining about women and bosses.
    No vehicles either, or boaters in the turquoise water.
    The Caribbean was such a contradiction, Swann reflected as he gazed about: a glitzy playground for the tourists, a threadbare platform for the locals’ lives. The focus was on the fulcrum where dollars and euros met service and entertainment, and much of the rest of the nation just felt exhausted. Like this hot, weedy, trash-strewn patch of sandy earth, near the beach.
    He climbed out and blew into his gloves to cool his sweaty hands. Damn, it was hot . He’d been to this spot before, last week. After a particularly challenging but accurate rifle shot had torn apart the heart of the traitorous Mr. Robert Moreno, Swann had driven here and buried some clothes and other evidence. He’d intended to let them stay forever interred. But having received the odd and troubling word that prosecutors in New York were looking into Moreno’s death, he’d decided it best to retrieve them and dispose of them more efficiently.
    But first, another chore…another task.
    Swann walked to the trunk, opened it and glanced down at Annette, teary, sweaty, in pain.
    Trying to breathe.
    He then stepped to the rear seat, opened his suitcase and removed one of his treasures, his favorite chef’s knife, a Kai Shun Premier slicing model. It was about nine inches long and had the company’s distinctive hammered tsuchime finish, pounded by metalsmiths in the Japanese town of Seki. The blade had a VG-10 steel core with thirty-two layers of Damascus steel. The handle was walnut. This knife cost $250. He had models by the same manufacturer in various shapes and sizes, for different kitchen techniques, but this was his favorite. He loved it like a child. He used it to fillet fish, to slice beef translucent for carpaccio and to motivate human beings.
    Swann traveled with this and other knives in a well-worn Messermeister knife roll, along with two battered cookbooks—one by James Beard and one by the French chef Michel Guérard, the cuisine minceur guru. Customs officials thought very little about a set of professional knives, however deadly, packed in checked luggage beside a cookbook. Besides, on a job away from home, the knives were useful; Jacob Swann would often cook, rather than hang out in bars or go to movies alone.
    Removing the goat meat from the bones last week, for instance, and cubing it for the stew.
    My little butcher man, my dear little butcher…
    He heard another noise, a thud. Annette was starting to kick.
    Swann returned to the trunk and dragged the woman from the car by her hair.
    “Uhn, uhn, uhn…”
    This was probably her version of “no, no, no.”
    He found an indentation in the sand, surrounded by reedy plants and decorated with crushed Kalik cans and Red Stripe bottles, used condoms and decaying cigarette butts. He rolled her over onto her back and sat on her chest.
    A look around. No one. The screams would be much softer, thanks to the blow to the throat, but they wouldn’t be silent.
    “Now. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to have to form the words. I need answers and I need them quickly. Can you form words?”
    “Uhn.”
    “Say,