The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme) by Jeffery Deaver
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The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme)

by

Jeffery Deaver

(Author)

4.3

-

6,193 ratings


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.

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ISBN-10

1455517089

ISBN-13

978-1455517084

Print length

512 pages

Language

English

Publisher

Grand Central Publishing

Publication date

April 07, 2014

Dimensions

5.25 x 1.5 x 8 inches

Item weight

15 ounces


Product details

ASIN :

1455517089

File size :

1289 KB

Text-to-speech :

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Editorial Reviews

"This is Deaver at his very best and not to be missed by any thriller fan."―Publisher's Weekly (starred review) on The Kill Room - A "Best Summer Book of 2013"

"Deaver, who can't resist any opportunity for ingenuity... keeps mixing fastballs, curveballs and change-ups."―Kirkus Reviews on The Kill Room

"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."―Library Journal on The Kill Room

"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."―Associated Press on The Kill Room

"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

"Deaver's scarily believable depiction of identity theft in a total-surveillance society stokes our paranoia. A -."―Entertainment Weekly 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

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Sample

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 isolatedresort. 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 buthis eyes were not good and he pushed the frames higher on his nose and scannedthe vista—the garden outside the suite's window, the narrow white beach,the pulsing blue-green sea. Beautiful, isolated ... and protected. No vesselsbobbed within sight. And even if an enemy with a rifle could have learned he washere and made his way unseen through the industrial plants on that spit of landa mile away across the water, the distance and the pollution clouding the viewwould 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 wasalways at risk. This was the way of his life. He wasn't afraid of death. But hewas afraid of dying before his work was done. And at this young age he still hadmuch to do. For instance, the event he'd just finished organizing an hour or soago—a significant one, sure to get a lot of people's attention—wasmerely 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, soCaribbean—the stocky man now filled two cups from the coffeepot that roomservice had just delivered and returned to the couch. He handed one to thereporter, 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 andonly spoke it when he needed to. He'd never quite shucked the New Jersey accentwhen 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 tohis early days in the States—his father working long hours and living lifesober, his mother spending long hours not. Bleak landscapes, bullies from anearby high school. Until salvation: the family's move to a place far kinderthan 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 andpoliticians in Washington and generals on the battlefields sowing foreign groundwith 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. "BuenosAires?"

"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 readextensively—several books a week, much of it Latin American literature andhistory. "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 wasabove the, let us say, pungent smells of the old city and was accordingly namedBuen Ayre. The Spanish explorer who discovered what became Buenos Airesnamed it after that settlement. Of course that was the first settlementof the city. They were wiped out by the natives, who didn't enjoy theexploitation 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 windowagain.

That damn glint of light. Still, though, he could see nothing but trees andplants in the garden and that hazy line of land a mile away. The inn was on thelargely deserted southwest coast of New Providence, the island in the Bahamaswhere Nassau was located. The grounds were fenced and guarded. And the gardenwas reserved for this suite alone and protected by a high fence to the north andsouth, 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 guarddressed better than he did, though not flashy. Simon, in his thirties, lookedappropriately dangerous, as one would expect, and want, in this profession buthe wasn't a thug. He'd been an officer in the army, before going civilian as asecurity expert.

He was also very good at his job. Simon's head swiveled; he'd become aware ofhis 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 hisown expense from the city of good air, deserved to enjoy the beautiful view. Hewouldn't get to experience much luxury, as a hardworking journalist known forreporting the truth, rather than producing puff pieces for corporate officialsand politicians. Moreno also decided to take the man to a very nice meal at theSouth 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 inArgentina, the first in the country. Could you tell me how you conceived theidea? And what your group does?"

Moreno had given this lecture dozens of times. It varied, based on theparticular journalist or audience, but the core was simple: to encourageindigenous people to reject U.S. government and corporate influence by becomingself-sufficient, notably through microlending, microagriculture andmicrobusiness.

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

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

Moreno brushed his longish hair, black and prematurely gray. "No, I rail againstthe misuse of capitalism—the American misuse of capitalismin particular. I am using business as a weapon. Only fools rely on ideologyexclusively 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'veread 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 ofa far more powerful force: Latin America. That's what I represent. The neworder. 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 inthis suite often and he liked the tree very much. Indeed, he felt a camaraderiewith it. Poisonwoods are formidable, resourceful and starkly beautiful. They arealso, as the name suggests, toxic. The pollen or smoke from burning the wood andleaves could slip into the lungs, searing with agony. And yet the tree nourishesthe beautiful Bahamian swallowtail butterfly, and white-crowned pigeons live offthe fruit.

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

The glint again.

In a tiny splinter of a second: A flicker of movement disturbed the tree'ssparse leaves, and the tall window in front of him exploded. Glass turned to amillion 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 glassfiltering the view. The branches waved in the sweet wind off the water. Leavesswelling, receding. It was breathing for him. Because he couldn't, not with hischest 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 hadimages of his wife, his teenage son and daughter. His thoughts dissolved untilhe 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 theirritation.

"Something at the hospital," came Thom's voice from the hallway or kitchen orwherever 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 scheduledfor May twenty-six. I don't want it delayed. That's too far in the futureanyway. I don't see why he couldn't do it sooner."

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

"About done," she said.

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

"The doctor's late," Rhyme muttered to Sachs. Unnecessarily since she'd been tenfeet away from his exchange with Thom. But he was still irritated and feltbetter laying on a bit more censure. He carefully moved his right arm forward tothe 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 theether to arrive ultimately six miles away at the NYPD's crime scene facility inQueens, 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 senttwelve- and thirteen-year-olds out into the streets of East New York and Harlemto do his killing for him. Rhyme and Sachs had managed to locate and analyzeminute bits of trace and impression evidence that led from one of theyoungster's shoes to the floor of a storefront in Manhattan to the carpet of aLexus sedan to a restaurant in Brooklyn and finally to the house of Tye Williamshimself.

The gang leader hadn't been present at the murder of the witness, he hadn'ttouched the gun, there was no record of him ordering the hit and the youngshooter was too terrified to testify against him. But those hurdles for theprosecution didn't matter; Rhyme and Sachs had spun a filament of evidence thatstretched 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 skinthat she squeezed. The tall woman rose and stretched. They'd been working tofinish 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 cupsat. The arthritis in her hip and knee had been bad lately. Rhyme's spinal cordinjury, which rendered him a quadriplegic, was described as devastating. Yet itnever gave him a moment's pain.

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

And yet, ironically, the opposite was true for Lincoln Rhyme. From the ninthcircle of injury, he had been improving, thanks to new spinal cord surgicaltechniques and his own take-no-prisoners attitude about exercise and riskyexperimental procedures.

Which reminded him again that he was irritated the doctor was late for today'sassessment 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 acomputer to view and converse with whoever was at the door and let them in. Ornot. (He didn't like folks to come-a-callin' and tended to send themaway—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 disposedof the "something" that had delayed him. Rhyme wasn't in the mood for othervisitors.

But whether his caregiver checked first or not didn't matter apparently. LonSellitto 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 typicallyrumpled powder-blue shirt. He sported a striped crimson tie that was atypicallysmooth as a piece of planed wood. A recent present, Rhyme deduced. Fromgirlfriend Rachel? The month was May—no holidays. Maybe it was a birthdaypresent. Rhyme didn't know the date of Sellitto's. Or, for that matter, mostother people's.

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

Rhyme and the detective had worked together years ago, as partners, and it hadlargely 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 startsolving crimes again. (More accurately, in Rhyme's case, to stay on his ass andget back to work.) But despite their history Sellitto never came by just to hangout. The detective first-class was assigned to Major Cases, working out of theBig Building—One Police Plaza—and he was usually the lead detectiveon the cases for which Rhyme was hired to consult. His presence now was aharbinger.

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About the authors

Jeffery Deaver

Jeffery Deaver

Jeffery Deaver is an international number-one bestselling author. His novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into over twenty-five languages. He has served two terms as president of Mystery Writers of America, and was recently named a Grand Master of MWA, whose ranks include Agatha Christie, Ellery Queen, Mary Higgins Clark and Walter Mosely.

The author of over forty novels, three collections of short stories and a nonfiction law book, and a lyricist of a country-western album, he’s received or been shortlisted for dozens of awards. His "The Bodies Left Behind" was named Novel of the Year by the International Thriller Writers association, and his Lincoln Rhyme thriller "The Broken Window" and a stand-alone, "Edge," were also nominated for that prize. "The Garden of Beasts" won the Steel Dagger from the Crime Writers Association in England. He’s also been nominated for eight Edgar Awards by the MWA.

Deaver has been honored with the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention, the Strand Magazine’s Lifetime Achievement Award and the Raymond Chandler Lifetime Achievement Award in Italy.

His book "A Maiden’s Grave" was made into an HBO movie starring James Garner and Marlee Matlin, and his novel "The Bone Collector" was a feature release from Universal Pictures, starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. Lifetime aired an adaptation of his "The Devil’s Teardrop." NBC television recently aired the nine-episode prime-time series, "Lincoln Rhyme: Hunt for the Bone Collector."

You can find out more about Jeffery on his website www.jefferydeaver.com, Facebook page facebook.com/JefferyDeaver, and follow him on Twitter @JefferyDeaver.

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Reviews

Customer reviews

4.3 out of 5

6,193 global ratings

Paul S. Person

Paul S. Person

5

National Insecurity. With Drones

Reviewed in the United States on April 17, 2024

Verified Purchase

This novel features high-level players, secret agencies using UAVs to kill enemies of the USA, a UAV pilot with a conscience, a hard-driven prosecutor, and, of course, Rhyme and friends. And a nice, twisty plot. Which covers the problems with "intelligence" quite well: it can be manipulated, it can be defective -- and yet it can also be correct because it is incomplete. Very nice!

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D. R. Johnson

D. R. Johnson

5

Possibly Jeffery Deaver’s best novel yet!

Reviewed in the United States on March 6, 2023

Verified Purchase

I’m a huge fan of this author, and, in particular, of his Lincoln Rhyme series. Each novel in this series is just a little bit better than the previous one. But in the case of “The Kill Room,” I think it’s leaps and bounds ahead of the previous novel in this series — and that’s a very high bar! There were so many twists and turns in rapid succession that it almost gave me whiplash! The plot line is so complex and the cast of characters so lengthy that you must pay very close attention & maintain that focus throughout hundreds of pages - this isn’t a novel you can put down & pick up two days later, nor would you want to! Be prepared to sacrifice all your “free time” & spending time with friends & family or even eating meals once you begin reading! But, trust me - it’s well worth it!!

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Book Lover

Book Lover

5

What a story

Reviewed in the United States on July 24, 2024

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I like the Lincoln Rhyme stories. I have read all the stories so far, but this one was a page turner from the very start. How do you investigate a murder when the murder site was in another country and the evidence just keeps disappearing and any witnesses are being erased by the killer. Well that is what Rhyme and his team are facing in this case a lot of dead-ends and a lot of suspects. what just blew me away was how as the evidence mounted in the case the suspects kept changing. The Unsub 516 is a cruel, evil man. This one has me guessing from the very start and like Lincoln Rhyme I was looking at the evidence to find the guilty party. If you like your thrillers to be so fast moving then I have one question for you. When you going to read this book.

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Mr Unhappy

Mr Unhappy

5

I like it!

Reviewed in the United States on March 29, 2023

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I used to read this series in hard back when it started. For some reason I lost track of it as I went to a kindle. However, his stories haven’t lost their bite! He still presents a believable tale and keeps you mentally stimulated. Great book, great series and best of all; great author! Bravo!

Anonymous

Anonymous

5

Deaver does it again

Reviewed in the United States on July 29, 2013

Verified Purchase

I have been a huge fan of Jeffery Deaver since I read the Bone Collector for the first time. Since then I have hunted down every one of his books and I am always preordering the new ones on amazon.com as soon as I can. Needless to say he is my favorite author. When this showed up on amazon.com for preorder I jumped on it and waited anxiously for it to be released. When it arrived I wasn't able to start the day it landed on my doorstep and I was in a reading slump. So starting off I had some mixed emotions with this book.

This book is a bit different from the Lincoln Rhyme books I have read before, because there is a political aspect. I am not one for political Thrillers, there is nothing wrong with them, I'm just saying they aren't for me. So when I began reading this and there wasn't a crime scene for Rhyme and Sacks to investigate. Instead we get a political killing in a different country, a prosecutor who just wants Rhyme and Sachs to find reasons why the victim shouldn't be painted as a terrorist so she can go after the Government office that ordered the hit was not what I was expecting. However, I always give Deaver the benefit of a doubt and kept going. I was so wrong in my initial impressions.

This story is amazing, and once it got going there was plenty of mystery and intrigue, as well as Deaver's classic twists. When I read every one of his books I try to think like him and figure out the next step, or how this is going to end. I thought this time I had him, I knew what pieces went together and we knew who the killer was by name right off the bat. A little over half way through the book Deaver ripped the carpeting out from under me and everything I knew was wrong. I have always wondered how long Deaver can keep these types of twists going in his books before he becomes predictable. Apparently he still has plenty of skills to misdirect and stump even the most observant of readers.

This book may have had a few slower moments and down spots when compared to his other works, but the characters and plot make up for that in a big way. One of the main reasons I read the Rhyme series is for the characters. Each book is its own individual story so they can really be read in any order, but when you read them in the order they were written you get to see the relationship between Rhyme and Sachs grow. I think that the little bit of relationship is just as good as the action itself. They care for each other and are written so well they seem like people you have known for years. You become vested in them as the story progresses. There were a few moments that had me holding my breath as I read. I couldn't believe the situations Rhyme found himself in this time around. I didn't even realize that I had stopped breathing until I got to the end of the action and could feel my lungs burning from lack of oxygen. There is so much I could say about why I loved this book, but I must be honest. If you really want to know why I loved this book so much, go read it. I'm so afraid I will give something away; even if I did Deaver would still find a way to shock each reader in different ways. I loved this book and can't wait to see what he comes up with next. Aside from a bit of a slow start this was a thrilling read.

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