The little butcher man was hungry and had a taste for some wine. A glass or two of Spanish Albariño beckoned, as did some of the Veronique from last night, carefully wrapped up and tucked into the fridge. There wasn’t a chef in the world—even those whose eateries boasted three Michelin stars—who didn’t appreciate leftovers, whatever they said in public.

FRIDAY, MAY 19

VI

SMOKE

Chapter 78

CHAPTER 78

CAPTAIN SHALES—”

“I’ve left the military. I’m civilian now.”

The hour was early, Friday morning. Nance Laurel and the drone pilot were in an interview room at the detention center. The same floor, as a matter of fact, where she’d been talking to Amelia Sachs when the State Department delivery boy had so successfully derailed the Moreno homicide case.

“All right, Mr. Shales, you’ve been read your rights, correct?” Laurel put a tape recorder on the scabby table in front of them. She wondered how many invectives, lies, excuses and pleas for mercy this battered rectangle of electronics had heard. Too many to count.

He looked at the device without emotion. “Yes.”

She wasn’t sure how to read him, and reading defendants was a very important part of her job. Would they cave, would they stonewall, would they offer a modicum of helpful comment, would they look for the right moment to leap from the chair and throttle her?

All of those had happened on occasion.

“And you understand you can terminate this conversation at any point?”

“Yes.”

And yet he wasn’t terminating and he wasn’t crying for his lawyer. She sensed that part of him, a small part, wanted to tell her everything, wanted to confess—though some very thick walls surrounded that portion of his heart still.

She noted something else: Yes, Shales was a trained killer, no different, in theory, from Jimmy Bonittollo, who’d put a bullet into the head of Frank Carson because Carson had moved into Bonittollo’s liquor distribution territory. But, practically, there did seem to be a difference. Unlike Bonittollo, Shales had a patina of regret in his blue eyes. And not regret because he’d been caught, which was always there, but regret because he understood that Robert Moreno’s death was wrong.

“I want to explain why I’m here.” Laurel spoke calmly.

“I thought…the case was dropped.”

“The case for the death of Robert Moreno is not going forward. We’re bringing a case for the death of Eduardo de la Rua.”

“The reporter.”

“That’s right.”

His head rose and fell slowly. He said nothing.

“You were ordered by Shreve Metzger to kill Robert Moreno as part of a Special Task Order issued by the National Intelligence and Operations Service.”

“I’m choosing not to answer that question.”