Jeffery Deaver

Chapter 1

Saturday, June 20

The man cast his dark eyes approvingly over the bride’s white satin dress.

He thought of it as a blank canvas soon to be painted—with the vermilion hue of blood.

In his thirties and handsome in an action hero sort of way, Damon Garr stood on the back lawn of the Hollywood Crest Inn, facing the 1930s stucco structure, as he studied the newlyweds bidding farewell to the guests at their reception.

The Brock party . . .

The time was close to midnight. The musicians were stowing their instruments after playing the tired repertoire of canned romantic tunes for the five hundredth time this season. And the month was only June. Servers and bus people clattered away the dessert and coffee china.

Concealed by the sumptuous California foliage that blossomed over the property, Damon looked past the waning celebration and watched.

And waited.

His patience finally was rewarded when the couple retreated to a bench in a large, landscaped garden behind the inn to steal some time alone. The brunette bride, around thirty, was a bit older than the blond groom. She appeared slightly tipsy, throwing her head back and laughing too loud at something her brand-new husband said. He himself was not the picture of sobriety either.

But weddings were made for indulgence, were they not?

Damon was dressed for the occasion—dark Italian suit, white shirt, burgundy tie—with perfectly barbered hair and a pear-skin smooth shave.

Inconspicuous, as always, when creating his Tableaux.

No one would have paid him any mind. He seemed like any other guest at the Brock reception, one of the three happening at the venue, which offered unreal views of Los Angeles, far below its perch in the Hollywood Hills. Still, he remained hidden in the vegetation—out of the couple’s sight and, just as important, out of security camera view—and edged close enough to overhear the groom offer to get them each another drink. His bride laughed again, saying she’d already had too much, but he waved away the insincere protest and rose, promising to return shortly with brandies.

Anticipation quickened Damon’s pulse. He’d spent two hours hidden behind plantings, listening to bad music and worse toasts, waiting for an opportunity like this.

Now . . .

He slipped a pair of blue latex gloves from a plastic bag in his back pocket. Snapping them on, he checked the distance between the bench and the bar, calculating how long it would take the groom to reach his destination, via a flagstone path overlooking a large koi pond thirty feet below.

The couple would be separated less than five minutes.

Time to act.

Damon picked up what he’d spotted earlier: a landscaping stone roughly the size of a small cantaloupe. Remaining behind the trees, he swiftly closed the distance to the waiting bride, noting the moonlight glinting off her dark hair. She looked ephemeral, a vision in white.

He clutched the rock tighter.

And walked past her.

The groom’s black tuxedo was hard to see when he moved into the shadows, but his steps were unhurried, and Damon had no trouble catching up to him.

This was the tricky part. Timing, as they say, was everything. Damon darted a glance around the area. No sign of anyone.

He sped up, raised the rock high and brought it down in a sweeping arc onto the top of the groom’s head.

A satisfying snap told him the skull had cracked. The groom crumpled to the ground.

Time for stage two.

After tossing the stone into the koi pond, he squatted to rifle through the unconscious groom’s clothing, found his cell phone and pocketed it.

Still hunkered down, he grasped the groom’s left hand to pull his arm around Damon’s own shoulders. Next, he wrapped his right arm around the groom’s waist and hoisted his limp body upright. Damon trudged with his burden to the iron-pipe railing separating the path from the cliff over the pond. Had he been spotted, it would appear that he was simply helping a drunken reveler too unsteady on his feet to walk.

But another quick look around assured him that there were no witnesses.

He heaved the groom over the guardrail. A moment later, he heard a thud, then a splash. Damon moved to the edge and peered over the precipice. In the moon’s glow, he made out a figure sprawled in the shallow water among the jagged stones.

Luckily the body had landed face down. If the blow and the fall hadn’t killed him, he would soon drown. No extra effort needed on Damon’s part.

Now for the final phase.

He pulled the man’s cell phone from his pocket and checked to see if he’d use plan A or plan B. If it was a model that let you open the camera app without unlocking the unit, he’d take several pictures of the beautiful view, then hit the button to swap lenses, so that it was on selfie mode. If it was locked, he’d leave the phone near the cliff, as if the groom had dropped it and fallen while trying to retrieve it for the selfie.

This was part of the thrill for him. The challenge of planning what he could, but relying on sheer cunning to adapt to unexpected circumstances. He felt it was this skill, constantly honed, that made him successful.

He tapped the screen, which allowed him to access the camera. Plan A then. He got four good pictures, reversed lenses, then tossed the phone over the side. He didn’t throw it hard, making sure it landed on the rocks, not in the water.

Slipping the gloves away, Damon strolled back toward the hotel with unhurried steps.

He didn’t have to wait long—ten minutes—for the sounds of shouting, the pounding of footsteps and the wail of a siren. He joined the throng on the lower-level garden, where the koi pond was located. A shiver of pleasure ran through him when he witnessed the expressions of horror as onlookers watched rescue workers hurry to the body. Within minutes, their urgent movements became methodical. There was no need to rush.

He eavesdropped on two police officers talking nearby. They concluded that the groom had wanted to take a selfie near the edge of the cliff with the moon over the city. The guy clearly had too much to drink and leaned back too far against the guardrail. Such a shame.

Damon stayed long enough to watch the bride, now widow, push past the workers, drop to her knees and embrace the body, blood staining the front of the satin gown precisely as he’d imagined earlier.

Exhilarated, he walked to the parking lot to collect his car, tucked away in a spot not covered by security cameras.

Damon Garr was pleased. If there was any phrase to describe the evening, he decided, it was this: a good start.

–

Read more of The Grave Artist when it is released in September.

“Captivating and intense, The Grave Artist is a suspenseful thriller that grips by the collar and won’t let you breathe until it concludes. Jeffery Deaver and Isabella Maldonado have crafted a second straight banger with great characters, a gripping plot, sinister mystery and emotional attachments.”
– Steve Netter, Best Thriller Books

Listen to an excerpt read by Kaleo Griffith.

“This suspenseful thriller will keep readers off-balance and unsure whom to trust… Perfect for a one-sitting read.”
— Library Journal ★ Starred Review

“…riveting…Deaver’s pacing is characteristically top- notch, and he ratchets up the suspense… This series has plenty of gas in the tank.”
— Publishers Weekly

“Deaver is a first-class storyteller… he takes an interesting, complex character (Colter comes from a survivalist family) and builds an intricate, unpredictable story around them. Readers familiar with Mr. Shaw will thoroughly enjoy this novel. For those who haven’t met him yet, this is a good time to rectify that.”
— Booklist

“Overall, this suspenseful high-stakes thriller is well-written and engaging with great characterization and extraordinary atmosphere. If you enjoy thrillers, then look no further than this novel.”
— MysteryandSuspense.com

“With Deaver, you don’t need to know the premise to know it’s going to be a good book. In the fifth Colter Shaw novel, he once again steps up and serves doses of tension, screaming fast pacing, and intricate mysteries. The pairing of a disaster threat and multiple intertwined mysteries here is irresistible.”
— Murder By The Book

“Could I put the book down? Not a chance. …The Colter Shaw series prioritizes action and the constant possibility of calamity…they all accomplish their mission: thrilling engagement.”
— New York Times

“Jeffrey Deaver continues his unquestioned mastery of the mystery genre with his latest thrilling novel, where the danger and surprises are never far removed. …an intelligent and gripping page-turner that captivates the reader from the beginning.”
— BookTrib

— One of New York Post’s 30 Must-Read New Thrillers
— on the Globe and Mail Bestsellers list – Canada
— USA Today Bestseller

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 isolated resort. 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 but his eyes were not good and he pushed the frames higher on his nose and scanned the vista—the garden outside the suite’s window, the narrow white beach, the pulsing blue-green sea. Beautiful, isolated…and protected. No vessels bobbed within sight. And even if an enemy with a rifle could have learned he was here and made his way unseen through the industrial plants on that spit of land a mile away across the water, the distance and the pollution clouding the view would 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 was always at risk. This was the way of his life. He wasn’t afraid of death. But he was afraid of dying before his work was done. And at this young age he still had much to do. For instance, the event he’d just finished organizing an hour or so ago—a significant one, sure to get a lot of people’s attention—was merely 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, so Caribbean—the stocky man now filled two cups from the coffeepot that room service had just delivered and returned to the couch. He handed one to the reporter, 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 and only spoke it when he needed to. He’d never quite shucked the New Jersey accent when 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 to his early days in the States—his father working long hours and living life sober, his mother spending long hours not. Bleak landscapes, bullies from a nearby high school. Until salvation: the family’s move to a place far kinder than 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 and politicians in Washington and generals on the battlefields sowing foreign ground with 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. “Buenos Aires?”

“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 read extensively—several books a week, much of it Latin American literature and history. “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 was above the, let us say, pungent smells of the old city and was accordingly named Buen Ayre. The Spanish explorer who discovered what became Buenos Aires named it after that settlement. Of course that was the first settlement of the city. They were wiped out by the natives, who didn’t enjoy the exploitation 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 window again.

That damn glint of light. Still, though, he could see nothing but trees and plants in the garden and that hazy line of land a mile away. The inn was on the largely deserted southwest coast of New Providence, the island in the Bahamas where Nassau was located. The grounds were fenced and guarded. And the garden was reserved for this suite alone and protected by a high fence to the north and south, 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 guard dressed better than he did, though not flashy. Simon, in his thirties, looked appropriately dangerous, as one would expect, and want, in this profession but he wasn’t a thug. He’d been an officer in the army, before going civilian as a security expert.

He was also very good at his job. Simon’s head swiveled; he’d become aware of his 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 his own expense from the city of good air, deserved to enjoy the beautiful view. He wouldn’t get to experience much luxury, as a hardworking journalist known for reporting the truth, rather than producing puff pieces for corporate officials and politicians. Moreno also decided to take the man to a very nice meal at the South 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 in Argentina, the first in the country. Could you tell me how you conceived the idea? And what your group does?”

Moreno had given this lecture dozens of times. It varied, based on the particular journalist or audience, but the core was simple: to encourage indigenous people to reject U.S. government and corporate influence by becoming self-sufficient, notably through microlending, microagriculture and microbusiness.

He now told the reporter, “We resist American corporate development. And the government’s aid and social programs, whose purpose, after all, is simply to addict us to their values. We are not viewed as human beings; we are viewed as a source of cheap labor and a market for American goods. Do you see the vicious cycle? Our people are exploited in American-owned factories and then seduced into buying products from those same companies.”

The journalist said, “I’ve written much about business investment in Argentina and other South American countries. And I know about your movement, which also makes such investments. One could argue you rail against capitalism yet you embrace it.”

Moreno brushed his longish hair, black and prematurely gray. “No, I rail against the misuse of capitalism—the American misuse of capitalism in particular. I am using business as a weapon. Only fools rely on ideology exclusively for change. Ideas are the rudder. Money is the propeller.”

The reporter smiled. “I will use that as my lead. Now, I’ve read 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 of a far more powerful force: Latin America. That’s what I represent. The new order. 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 in this suite often and he liked the tree very much. Indeed, he felt a camaraderie with it. Poisonwoods are formidable, resourceful and starkly beautiful. They are also, as the name suggests, toxic. The pollen or smoke from burning the wood and leaves could slip into the lungs, searing with agony. And yet the tree nourishes the beautiful Bahamian swallowtail butterfly, and white-crowned pigeons live off the fruit.

I am like this tree, Moreno thought. A good image for the article perhaps. I’ll mention this too—

The glint again.

In a tiny splinter of a second: A flicker of movement disturbed the tree’s sparse leaves, and the tall window in front of him exploded. Glass turned to a million 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 glass filtering the view. The branches waved in the sweet wind off the water. Leaves swelling, receding. It was breathing for him. Because he couldn’t, not with his chest 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 had images of his wife, his teenage son and daughter. His thoughts dissolved until he 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…

–

 

“This is Deaver at his very best and not to be missed by any thriller fan.”
— Publishers Weekly starred review

“Jeffery Deaver has written an ace thriller to keep readers guessing and gasping with his latest Lincoln Rhyme thriller, “The Kill Room.””
— Associated Press

“Deaver, who can’t resist any opportunity for ingenuity… keeps mixing fastballs, curveballs and change-ups.”
—  Kirkus Reviews

“A crafty Jeffery Deaver thriller with a timely subject”
— Barnes & Noble editorial review

“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

“If this contemporary story doesn’t get your pulse racing, your head spinning and your adrenaline pumping then nothing will.”
—  Huffington Post

“The Kill Room is full of his trademark twists, breathless suspense and ironic humour.  It is a thriller of ‘bits, scraps, observations (and) 180 degree changes in direction’ which never cheats the reader, so that the only response can be sighs of satisfaction and admiration.”
— Evening Standard ( London)

“Deaver delivers a dark tale of espionage, patriotism and egos as his clever detective puts the pieces of an intricately drawn jigsaw together while a killer targets his investigation.”
— RT Book Reviews