The Kill Room

CHAPTER 24

Rhyme wheeled from the front sitting room of his town house into the marble entryway near the front door.

Dr. Vic Barrington, Rhyme’s spinal cord injury specialist, followed him out, and Thom closed the doors to the room and joined them. The idea of physicians’ making house calls was from another era, if not a different dimension, but when the essence of the injury makes it far easier to come to the mountain, that’s what many of the better doctors did.

But Barrington was untraditional in many ways. His black bag was a Nike backpack and he’d bicycled here from the hospital.

“Appreciate your coming in this early,” Rhyme said to the doctor.

The time was six thirty in the morning.

Rhyme liked the man and had decided to give him a pass and resist asking how the “emergency” or the “something” had gone yesterday when he’d had to postpone their appointment. With any other doc he would have grilled.

Barrington had just completed a final set of tests in anticipation of the surgery scheduled for May 26.

“I’ll get the blood work in and look over the results but I don’t have any indication that anything’s changed over the past week. Blood pressure is very good.”

This was the nemesis of severely disabled spinal cord patients; an attack of autonomic dysreflexia could spike the pressure in minutes and lead to a stroke and death if a doctor or caregiver didn’t react instantly.

“Lung capacity gets better every time I see you and I swear you’re stronger than I am.”

Barrington was no-bullshit all the way and when Rhyme asked the next question, he knew he’d get an honest response. “What’re my odds?”

“Of getting your left arm and hand working again? Close to one hundred percent. Tendon grafts and electrodes’re pretty surefire—”

“No, that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about surviving the operation or not having some kind of cataclysmic setback.”

“Ah, that’s a little different. I’ll give you ninety percent on that one.”

Rhyme considered this. Surgery couldn’t do anything about his legs; nothing ever would fix that, at least not for the next five or ten years. But he’d come to believe that with disabilities hands and arms were the key to normal. Nobody pays much attention to people in wheelchairs if they can pick up a knife and fork or shake your hand. When someone has to feed you and wipe your chin, your very presence spreads discomfort like spattered mud.

And those who don’t look away give you those fucking sympathetic glances. Poor you, poor you.

Ninety percent…reasonable for getting a major portion of your life back.

“Let’s do it,” Rhyme said.

“If there’s anything that bothers me about the blood work I’ll let you know but I don’t anticipate that. We’ll keep May twenty-sixth on the calendar. You can start rehab a week after that.”

Rhyme shook the doctor’s hand and then, as he turned toward the front door, the criminalist said, “Oh, one thing. Can I have a drink or two the night before?”

“Lincoln,” Thom said. “You want to be in the best shape you can for the surgery.”

“I want to be in a good mood too,” he muttered.

The doctor appeared thoughtful. “Alcohol isn’t recommended forty-eight hours before a procedure like this…But the hard-and-fast rule is nothing in the stomach after midnight the day of the operation. What goes in before that, I’m not too concerned about.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

After the man had left, Rhyme wheeled into the lab, where he regarded the whiteboards. Sachs was just finishing writing what Mychal Poitier had told him last night. She was editing, using a thicker marker to present the most recent information.

Rhyme stared at the boards for some time. Then he shouted, “Thom!”

“I’m right here.”

“I thought you were in the kitchen.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m here. What do you want?”

“I need you to make some phone calls for me.”

“I’m happy to,” the aide replied. “But I thought you liked making them on your own.” He glanced at Rhyme’s working arm.

“I like making the calls. I dislike being on hold. And I have a feeling that’s what I’d be doing.”

Thom added, “And so I’m going to be your surrogate hold-ee.”

Rhyme thought for a moment. “That’s a good way to put it, though hardly very articulate.”

CHAPTER 25

Shreve Metzger returned to the top floor of the NIOS building from the organization’s technical department — the snoops — in the basement.

As he strode through the halls, noting some employees avoid his eyes and make sudden turns into restrooms they undoubtedly didn’t need to use, he reflected on what he’d just learned about the investigation from his people, who’d been using some very sophisticated techniques for intelligence gathering — particularly impressive since they were, officially, nonexistent. (NIOS had no jurisdiction within the United States and couldn’t tap calls or prowl through email or hack computers. But Metzger had two words for that: back door.)

Observing employees dodge out of harm’s way, Metzger found his thoughts wandering. He was hearing voices in his head, no, not that kind of voices, more memories or fragments of them.

Come up with an image of your anger. A symbol. A metaphor.

Sure, Doctor. What do you recommend?

It’s not for me to say, Shreve. You pick. Some people pick animals, or bad guys from TV shows or hot coals.

Coals? he’d thought. That did it. He’d hit upon an image for the anger beast within him. He’d recalled an incident when he was an adolescent in upstate New York, before losing the weight. He was standing before an autumn bonfire at his middle school, shyly attentive to the girl beside him. Smoke wafted around them. A beautiful night. He’d moved closer to her on the pretense of avoiding the sting of the smoke. He’d smiled and said hello. She’d said don’t get close to the flames; you’re so fat you’d catch fire. And she walked away.

A story just made for a shrink. Dr. Fischer had loved it, much more than the tale about the anger going away when he ordered somebody’s death.

So “Smoke” it is, uppercase S…Good choice, Shreve.

As he approached his office he noticed Ruth inside, standing over his desk. Normally he would have been upset to see somebody in his private space without permission. But she was allowed here under most circumstances. He’d never had a single temper outburst against her, which wasn’t true of most other people he worked with at NIOS. He’d snapped or even screamed at them and thrown a report or address book occasionally, though most often not directly at the object of his fury. But never Ruth. Maybe that was because she worked closely with him. Then he decided that this theory didn’t work; Lucinda and Katie and Seth had been close yet he’d lost it with his wife and kids plenty of times and had the divorce decree and the memories of the scared eyes and tears to prove it.

Maybe the reason Ruth had escaped was simply that she had never done anything to make him angry.

But, no, that test didn’t work either. Metzger could grow infuriated at people simply by imagining they’d offended him, or anticipating that they might. Words still swirled through his mind — a speech he’d prepared if a cop had stopped him en route to the office after Katie’s soccer game on Sunday night.

You fucking blue-collar civil servant…Here’s my federal government ID. This is a national security matter you’re keeping me from. You’ve just lost your job, my friend…

Ruth nodded at a file, which apparently she’d just put down on his desk. “Some documents from Washington,” she reported. “Your eyes only.”

Questions about Moreno, of course, and how we fucked up. Goddamn, those pricks were fast, those fucking bureaucratic sharks. In Washington, how easy it was to sit in a cold dark office and speculate and pontificate.

The Wizard and his cronies had no clue what life was like on the front lines.

A breath.

The anger slowly, slowly went away.

“Thanks.” He took the documents, decorated with a stark red stripe. Much like the unaccompanied minor envelope containing the forms he’d had to prepare when he’d put Seth on a plane to go to camp in Massachusetts. “You won’t be homesick,” Metzger had reassured the ten-year-old, who was looking around with uneasy eyes. But then he noticed that, contrary to this worry, the boy seemed somber because he was still in his father’s presence. Once released into the company of the flight attendant the kid grew animated, happy.

Anything to be away from his time bomb of a parent.

Metzger ripped open the envelope, lifted his glasses from his breast pocket.

He laughed. He’d been wrong. The information was simply intelligence assessments for some potential STO tasks in the future. That’s another thing the Smoke did. You made assumptions.

He scanned the pages, pleased that the intelligence was about the al-Barani Rashid mission, next prioritized in the queue after Moreno.

God, he wanted Rashid. Wanted him so badly.

He set the reports down and glanced at Ruth. He asked, “You have the appointment this afternoon, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sure it’ll go fine.”

“I’m sure it will too.”

Ruth sat at her desk, which was decorated with pictures of her family — her two teen daughters and her second husband. Her first spouse died in the initial Gulf War. Her present one had been a soldier too, wounded and confined to a less-than-pleasant VA hospital for months.

The sacrifice people make for this country and how little they’re appreciated for it…

The Wizard should talk to her, learn what she’d given up for this country — the life of one husband, the health of another.

Metzger sat and read the assessment but found he wasn’t able to concentrate. The Moreno matter roiled.

I’ve made calls. Don Bruns knows about the case, of course. A few others. We’re…handling things…

The efforts were completely illegal, of course, but they were also proceeding well. The Smoke dissipated a bit more. He asked Ruth to summon Spencer Boston. He then read encrypted texts regarding the efforts to derail the investigation.

Boston arrived a few minutes later. He was wearing a suit and tie, as he always did. It was as if the old-school intelligence community had a dress code. The distinguished man instinctively swung the door shut. Metzger saw Ruth’s eyes gazing into the office for a moment before the heavy oak panel closed with a snap.

“What do you have?” Metzger asked.

Spencer Boston sat, removed a fleck of lint from his slacks that turned out to be a pill of cloth. He stopped pulling before a run appeared. Boston didn’t seem to have had much sleep, which, for someone in his sixties, made him seem haggard. And what the hell do I look like? Metzger wondered, brushing his chin to see if he’d remembered to shave. He had.

Despite Metzger’s reputation, Boston never hesitated to give him bad news. Running assets in Central America gives you a fortitude that won’t be scuffed by a younger bureaucrat, however ill-tempered. He said evenly, “Nothing, Shreve. Nothing. I’ve checked every log-in for the kill order files. And all the outgoing email and FTP and upload servers, had our IT security people see if they could find anything. And the security folks at Homestead. Nobody downloaded it except those on the list. That means somebody probably snagged it off a desk here, Washington or in Florida, smuggled it out and copied it or scanned it at home or a Kinko’s.”

At NIOS and its affiliated organizations, all photocopying and logging on were automatically recorded.

“Kinko’s. Jesus.”

The administrations director continued, “And I went back and looked over the vetting assessments here. Not a hint that anybody’d have a problem with STO missions. Hell, most of our people knew what we were up to before they joined.”

NIOS was created after 9/11 largely for the purpose of targeted remedies, along with other extreme operational activities, like kidnappings, bribery and other dirty tricks. Most of the office’s specialists had a history of military service and had taken lives in the course of their careers before joining NIOS. It seemed inconceivable that any of them would have a change of heart and try to bring down his operation. As for the other staff, Boston was right, most applicants knew what the organization was up to before they signed on.

Unless, of course, that was why they joined in the first place. Moles. Despicable.

Metzger: “We’ll have to keep looking. And for God’s sake, there can’t be any more leaks. He already knows too much.”

Wizardly.

Boston’s white eyebrows furrowed. He whispered, “They’re not…This isn’t going to knock us out, is it?”

Metzger was painfully aware that he didn’t have a clue what Washington was thinking, since he hadn’t heard a word from the man after the initial phone call.

It turns out some Intelligence Committee budget discussions have come up. Suddenly. Can’t understand why …

“Jesus, Shreve. They can’t. We’re the best ones suited for this kind of work.”

True. But apparently not the best suited for keeping this kind of work secret.

Which Metzger didn’t say.

Boston asked, “What more do you know about the investigation, the police?”

Now Metzger grew cautious. He said, “Not much. Still circling the wagons. Just to be safe.” And glanced at his magic phone, the red one, which happened to contain an acid capsule that would melt the drive in a matter of seconds. The screen reported no messages.

He exhaled. “Fact is, I don’t think it’s moving very quickly. I got the names of the investigators and’ve checked them out. The cops’re using a skeleton crew to stay under the radar, not standard NYPD. Keeping it quiet. It’s really just Nance Laurel, the prosecutor, and two others and some support staff. The main cop’s a detective named Amelia Sachs and, get this, the other guy is a consultant, Lincoln Rhyme. Retired from the force a while ago. They’re operating out of his apartment on the Upper West Side. A private residence, not police headquarters.”

“Rhyme, wait. I’ve heard of him,” Boston said, frowning. “He’s famous. I saw a show on him. He’s the best forensic scientist in the country.”

Metzger knew this, of course. Rhyme was the “other” investigator gunning for him, the intel memo had reported yesterday. “I know. But he’s a quadriplegic.”

“What does that matter?”

“Spencer, where’s the crime scene?”

“Oh, sure. The Bahamas.”

“What’s he going to do, roll around in the sand looking for shell casings and tire prints?”

CHAPTER 26

“So, this is the Caribbean.”

His hand on the joystick of his candy-apple-red wheelchair, Lincoln Rhyme steered out a door at Lynden Pindling Airport in Nassau into an atmosphere hotter and more dank than he could recall experiencing in years.

“Takes your breath away,” he called. “But I like it.”

“Slow down, Lincoln,” Thom said.

But Rhyme would have none of that. He was a child on Christmas morning. Here he was in a foreign country for the first time in many years. He was excited at the prospect of the trip itself. But also at what it might yield: hard, physical evidence in the Moreno case. He’d decided to come down here because of something he was nearly ashamed to admit: intuition, that fishy crap that Amelia Sachs was always going on and on about. He had a feeling that the only way he was going to get that million-dollar bullet and the rest of the evidence was to wheel right up to Corporal Mychal Poitier and ask him for it. In person.

Rhyme knew the officer was genuinely troubled by the death of Robert Moreno and troubled too that he was a pawn being used by his superiors to marginalize the case.

There wasn’t a single inspection or license I handled that was not completed in a timely, thorough and honest manner…

He didn’t think it would take much to convince the corporal to help them.

And so Thom had thrown himself upon the sword of airline and hotel reservation telephone hold, listening to bad music — the aide announced several times — to arrange the flight and motel, an assignment made complicated by Rhyme’s condition.

But not as complicated as they’d thought.

Certainly some issues had to be contended with when traveling as a quad — special wheelchairs to the seat, particular pillows, concerns about the Storm Arrow in storage, the practical matters of the piss and shit details that might have to be attended to on the flight.

In the end, though, the journey wasn’t bad. We’re all disabled in the eyes of the Transportation Security Administration, all immobile, all objects, all baggage to be shuffled about at whim. Lincoln actually felt that he was better off than most of his fellow travelers, who were used to being mobile and independent.

Outside the baggage claim area, on the ground floor of the airport, Rhyme motored to the edge of the sidewalk filled with tourists and locals bustling for cars and taxis and mini vans. He looked at a small garden of plants, some of whose varieties he’d never seen. He had no interest in horticulture for aesthetics but he found flora extremely helpful in crime scene work.

He’d also heard the rum was particularly good in the Bahamas.

Returning to where Thom was standing, making a phone call, Rhyme phoned Sachs and left a message. “Made it okay. I…” He turned, hearing a caterwauling screech behind him. “Christ, scared the hell out of me. There’s a parrot here. He’s talking!”

The cage had been placed there by a local tourist commission. Inside was an Abaco Bahamian parrot, according to the sign. The noisy bird, gray with a flourish of green on the tail, was saying, “Hello! Hi! ¡Hola!” Rhyme recorded some of the greeting for Sachs.

Another breath of the dank, salty air, tinged with a sour aroma, what he realized was smoke. What was burning? No one else seemed alarmed.

“Got the bags,” came a voice from behind them.

NYPD patrolman Ron Pulaski — young, blond, thin — was wheeling the suitcases on a cart. The trio didn’t expect to be here long but the nature of Rhyme’s condition was such that he required accessories. A lot of them. Medicines, catheters, tubes, disinfectants, air pillows to prevent the sores that could lead to infections.

“What’s that?” Rhyme asked as Thom retrieved a small backpack from one bag and slung it on the back of the wheelchair.

“It’s a portable respirator,” Pulaski answered.

Thom added, “Battery-powered. Double oxygen tank. It’ll last for a couple of hours.”

“What the hell did you bring that for?”

“Flying with cabin pressure at seven thousand feet,” the aide replied as if the answer were obvious. “Stress. There’re a dozen reasons it can’t hurt to have one with us.”

“Do I look stressed?” Rhyme asked petulantly. He had weaned himself off the ventilator years ago, to breathe on his own, one of the proudest achievements possible for a quad. But Thom had apparently forgotten — or disregarded — that accomplishment. “I don’t need it.”

“Let’s hope you don’t. But what can it hurt?”

Rhyme had no answer to that. He glanced at Pulaski. “And it’s not a respirator, by the way. Respiration is the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Ventilation is the introduction of gas into the lungs. Hence, it’s a ventilator.”

Pulaski sighed. “Got it, Lincoln.”

At least the rookie had stopped his irritating habit of calling Rhyme “sir” or “captain.”

The young officer then asked, “Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters,” he snapped. “Precision is the key to everything. Where’s the van?”

Another of Thom’s tasks was getting a disabled-accessible vehicle in the Bahamas.

Still on the phone, he glanced at Rhyme, grimacing. “I’m on hold again.”

The aide finally made contact with somebody and several minutes later the van was pulling up to the curb near the resort mini bus waiting area. The white Ford was battered and stank of old cigarette smoke. The windows greasy. Pulaski loaded the luggage into the back while Thom signed forms and handed them to the lean, dark-skinned man who’d delivered the vehicle. Credit cards and a certain amount of cash were exchanged and the driver disappeared on foot. Rhyme wondered if the van had been stolen. Then decided that this was unfair.

You’re in a different world, not Manhattan anymore. Keep an open mind.

With Thom at the wheel, they drove along the main highway toward Nassau, a two-lane road in good repair. Traffic from the airport was heavy, mostly older American cars and imports from Japan, beat-up trucks, mini vans. Hardly any SUVs, not surprising in a land of expensive gas and no ice, snow or mountains. Curiously, though the driving here was left-sided — the Bahamas was a former British colony — most of the cars had left-hand drive, American-style.

As they poked along east, Rhyme noted along the roadside small businesses without signage to indicate what their products or services were, many unkempt plots of land, vendors selling fruits and vegetables out of the backs of their cars; they seemed uninterested in making sales. The van passed some large, rambling homes behind gates, mostly older construction. A number of smaller houses and shacks seemed abandoned, victims of hurricanes, he guessed. Nearly all the locals had very dark skin. Most of the men were dressed in T-shirts or short-sleeved shirts, untucked, and jeans or slacks or shorts. Women wore similar outfits too but many were in plain dresses of floral patterns or bright solid colors.

“Well,” Thom exclaimed breathlessly, braking hard and managing to avoid the goat while not capsizing their belongings.

“Look at that,” Pulaski said. And captured the animal on his cell phone camera.

Thom obeyed the GPS god and before they came to downtown Nassau itself they turned off the main road, away from dense traffic. They drove past the limestone walls of an old fort. In five minutes the aide pulled the van, rocking on a bad suspension, into the parking lot of a modest but well-kept-up motel. He and Pulaski handed off the luggage to a bellman and the aide went to the front desk to check in and examine the accessible aspects of the motel. He returned to report they were acceptable.

“Part of Fort Charlotte,” Pulaski said, reading a sign beside a path that led from the motel to the fort.

“What?” Rhyme asked.

“Fort Charlotte. After it was built, nobody ever attacked the Bahamas. Well, never attacked New Providence Island. That’s where we are.”

“Ah,” Rhyme offered, without interest.

“Look at this,” Pulaski said, pointing to a lizard standing motionless on the wall next to the front door of the place.

Rhyme said, “A green anole, an American chameleon. She’s gravid.”

“She’s what?”

“Pregnant. Obviously.”

“That’s what ‘gravid’ means?” the young officer asked.

“The technical definition is ‘distended with eggs.’ Ergo, pregnant.”

Pulaski laughed. “You’re joking.”

Rhyme growled, “Joking? What would be funny about an expectant lizard?”

“No. I mean, how’d you know that?”

“Because I was coming to an area I’m not familiar with, and what’s in chapter one of my forensics book, rookie?”

“The rule that you have to know the geography when you run a crime scene.”

“I needed to learn the basic information about geology and flora and fauna that might help me here. The fact that nobody invaded after Fort Charlotte was built is pointless to me, so I didn’t bother to learn that. Lizards and parrots and Kalik beer and mangroves might be relevant. So I read up on them on the flight. What were you reading?”

“Uhm, People.”

Rhyme scoffed.

The lizard blinked and twisted its head but otherwise remained motionless.

Rhyme removed his mobile phone from his shirt pocket. The prior surgery, on his right arm and hand, had been quite successful. The movements were slightly off, compared with those of a non-disabled limb, but they were smooth enough so that an onlooker might not notice they weren’t quite natural. His cell was an iPhone and he’d spent hours practicing the esoteric skills of swiping the screen and calling up apps. He’d had his fill of voice-recognition, because of his condition, so he’d put Siri to sleep. He now used the recent calls feature to dial a number with one touch. A richly accented woman’s voice said, “Police, do you have an emergency?”

“No, no emergency. Could I speak to Corporal Poitier, please?”

“One moment, sir.”

A blessedly short period of hold. “Poitier speaking.”

“Corporal?”

“That’s right. Who is this, please?”

“Lincoln Rhyme.”

Silence for a lengthy moment. “Yes.” The single word contained an abundance of uncertainty and ill ease. Casinos were far safer places for conversations than the man’s office.

Rhyme continued, “I would have given you my own credit card. Or called you back on my line.”

“I couldn’t speak any longer. And I’m quite busy now.”

“The missing student?”

“Indeed,” said the richly inflected baritone.

“Do you have any leads?”

There was a pause. “Not so far. It’s been over twenty-four hours. No word at her school or part-time job. She most recently had been seeing a man from Belgium. He appears to be very distraught but…” He let the lingering words fade to smoke. Then he said, “I’m afraid I’m unable to help you in regard to your case.”

“Corporal, I’d like to meet with you.”

The fattest silence yet. “Meet?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how can that be?”

“I’m in Nassau. I’d suggest someplace other than police headquarters. We can meet wherever you like.”

“But…I…You’re here?”

“Away from the office might be better,” Rhyme repeated.

“No. That’s impossible. I can’t meet you.”

“I really must talk to you,” Rhyme said.

“No. I have to go, Captain.” There was a desperation in his voice.

Rhyme said briskly, “Then we’ll come to your office.”

Poitier repeated, “You’re really here?”

“That’s right. The case’s important. We’re taking it seriously.”

Rhyme knew this reminder — that the Royal Bahamas Police seemed not to be — was blunt. But he was still convinced that Poitier would help him if he pushed hard enough.

“I’m very busy, as I say.”

“Will you see us?”

“No, I can’t.”

There was a click as the corporal hung up.

Rhyme glanced at the lizard, then turned to Thom and laughed. “Here we are in the Caribbean, surrounded by such beautiful water — let’s go make some waves.”

CHAPTER 27

Odd. Just plain odd.

Dressed in black jeans, navy-blue silk tank top and boots, Amelia Sachs walked into the lab and was struck again at how different this case was.

Any other week-old homicide investigation would find the lab in chaos. Mel Cooper, Pulaski, Rhyme and Sachs would be parsing the evidence, jotting facts and conclusions and speculations on the whiteboards, erasing and writing some more.

Now the sense of urgency was no less — the leaked kill order taped up in front of her reminded that Mr. Rashid, and scores of others, were soon to die — but the room was quiet as a mausoleum.

Bad figure of speech, she decided.

But it was apt. Nance Laurel was not here yet and Rhyme was taking his first trip out of the country since his accident. She smiled. Not many criminalists would go to that kind of trouble to search a crime scene, and she was happy he’d decided to, for all kinds of reasons.

But not having him here was disorienting.

Odd…

She hated this sensation, the chill emptiness.

I have a bad feeling about this one, Rhyme…

She passed one of the long evidence examination tables, on which sat racks of surgical instruments and tools, many of them in sterile wrappers, for analyzing the evidence they didn’t have.

At her improvised workstation Sachs sat down and got to work. She called Robert Moreno’s regular driver for Elite Limousines, Vladimir Nikolov. She hoped he might know who the mysterious Lydia, possible escort, possible terrorist, might be. But, according to the company, the driver was out of town on a family emergency. She’d left a message at Elite and one on his personal voice mail too.

She’d follow up later if she didn’t hear back.

She ran a search for suspected terrorist or criminal activities in the vicinity of where Tash Farada had dropped Moreno and Lydia off on May 1, via the consolidated law enforcement database of state and federal investigations. She discovered a few warrants for premises and surveillance in the area but they related, not surprisingly given the locale, to insider trading and investor fraud at banks and brokerage houses. They were all old cases and she could see no connection whatsoever to Robert A. Moreno.

Then, finally, a break.

Her phone rang and, noting the incoming number, she answered fast. “Rodney?” The cybercrimes expert, trying to trace the whistleblower.

Chunka, chunka, chunka, chunka…

Rock in the background. Did he always listen to music? And why couldn’t it be jazz or show tunes?

The volume diminished. Slightly.

Szarnek said, “Amelia, remember: Supercomputers are our friends.”

“I’ll keep it in mind. What do you have?” Her eyes were on the empty parlor, in which dust motes ambled through a shaft of morning sun like hot-air balloons seen from miles away. Again, she was painfully aware of Rhyme’s absence.

“I’ve got the location where he sent the email from. I won’t bore you with nodes and networks but suffice it to say that your whistleblower sent the email and the STO attachment from Java Hut near Mott and Hester. Think about it: A Portland, Oregon, coffee chain setting up shop in the heart of Little Italy. What would the Godfather say?”

She glanced at the header on the copy of the whistleblower’s messages taped to the board. “Is the date on the email accurate? Could he have faked it?”

“No, that’s when it was sent. He could write whatever date he wanted in the email itself but routers don’t lie.”

So their man was in the coffee shop at 1:02 p.m., May 11.

The cybercrimes detective continued, “I’ve checked. You can log onto Wi-Fi there without any identifying information. All you have to do is agree to the three-page terms of service. Which everybody does and not a single soul in the history of the world has ever read.”

Sachs thanked the tech cop and disconnected. She called the coffee shop and got the manager, explaining that she was trying to identify someone who had sent important documents via the Wi-Fi on May 11 and she wanted to come in and talk to him about that. She added, “You have a security camera?”

“We do, yeah. They’re in all the Java franchises. In case we get stuck up, you know.”

Without expecting much, she asked, “How often does the video loop?” She was sure new footage would overwrite the old every few hours.

“Oh, we’ve got a five-terabyte drive. It’s got about three weeks of video on it. The quality’s pretty crappy and it’s black and white. But you can make out a face if you need to.”

A ping of excitement. “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

Sachs pulled on a black linen jacket and rubber-banded her hair back in a ponytail. She took her holstered Glock from the cabinet, checked it as she always did, a matter of routine, and clipped it to her jeans belt. The double-mag holster went on her left hip. She was slinging her large purse over her shoulder when her mobile buzzed. She wondered if the caller was Rhyme. She knew he’d landed safely in the Bahamas but she was concerned that the trip might have taken a toll on his health.

But, no, the caller was Lon Sellitto.

“Hey.”

“Amelia. The Special Services canvass team is about halfway through the building where Moreno and the driver picked up Lydia. Nothing yet. They’re running into a lot of Lydias — who’da thought? — but none of ’em are the one. You know, how hard is it to name your kid Tiara or Estanzia? They’d be a fuck of a lot easier to track down.”

She told him about the lead to the coffee shop and that she was on her way there now.

“Good. A security cam, excellent. Hey, Linc’s really down in the Caribbean?”

“Yep, landed safe. I don’t know how he’s going to be treated. Interloper, you know.”

“Bet he can handle it.”

There was silence.

Something’s up. Lon Sellitto brooded some but it was usually noisy brooding.

“What?” she asked.

“Okay, you didn’t hear this.”

“Go on.”

The senior detective said, “Bill came by my office.”

“Bill Myers, the captain?”

So how does it feel to be repurposed into a granular-level player…

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Sellitto said, “He asked about you. Wanted to know if you were okay. Physically.”

Shit.

“Because I was limping?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Anyway, s’what he said. Listen, a fat old fart like me, you can get away with some bad days, hobbling around. But you’re a kid, Amelia. And skinny. He checked your reports and the ten-seventeens. Saw you volunteered for a lot of tactical work, first through the door on the lead teams sometimes. He just asked if you’d had any problems in the field or if anybody’d said they weren’t comfortable with you on take-downs or rescues. I told him no, absolutely not. You were prime.”

“Thanks, Lon,” she whispered. “Is he thinking of ordering a physical?”

“The subject didn’t come up. But that doesn’t mean no.”

To become an NYPD officer an applicant has to take a medical exam but once on the force — unlike firefighters or emergency medical techs — he or she never has to again, unless a supervisor orders one in specific cases or the officers want to earn promotion credit. Aside from that first checkup, years ago, Sachs had never had a department physical. The only record of her arthritis was on file with her private orthopedists. Myers wouldn’t have access to that but if he ordered a physical, the extent of her condition would be revealed.

And that would be a disaster.

“Thanks, Lon.”

They disconnected and she stood motionless for a moment, reflecting: Why was it that only part of this case seemed to involve worrying about the perps? Just as critical, you had to guard against your allies too, it seemed.

Sachs checked her weapon once more and walked toward the door, defiantly refusing to give in to the nearly overwhelming urge to limp.

CHAPTER 28

Amelia Sachs had a 3G mobile phone, Jacob Swann had discovered.

And this was good news. Cracking the encryption and listening to her conversations were harder than with phones running GPRS — general packet radio service, or 2G — but, at least, it was feasible because 3G featured good old-fashioned A5/1 voice encryption.

Not that his tech department was allowed to do such a thing, of course.

Yet there must have been a screwup somewhere, because just ten minutes after discussing the matter casually — and, of course, purely theoretically — with the director of Technical Services and Support, Swann found himself enraptured by Sachs’s low, and rather sexy, voice, coming to him over the airwaves.

He already had a lot of interesting facts. Some specific to the Moreno investigation. Some more general, though equally helpful: for instance, that this Detective Amelia Sachs had some physical problems. He’d filed that away for future reference.

He’d also learned some troubling information: that the other investigator on the case, Lincoln Rhyme, was in the Bahamas. Now, this was potentially a real problem. Upon learning it, Swann had immediately called contacts down there — a few of the Sands and Kalik drinkers on the dock — and made arrangements.

But he couldn’t concentrate on that at the moment. He was occupied. Crouching in an unpleasantly aromatic alleyway, picking the lock of the service door to a Starbucks wannabe. A place called Java Hut. He was wearing thin latex gloves — flesh-colored so that at fast glance his hands would appear unclad.

The morning was warm and the gloves and concealing windbreaker made him warmer yet. He was sweating. Not as bad as with Annette in the Bahamas. But still…

And that god-awful stench. New York City alleys. Couldn’t somebody blast them with bleach from time to time?

Finally the lock clicked. Swann cracked the door a bit and looked inside. From here he could see an office, which was empty, a kitchen in which a skinny Latino labored away with dishes and, beyond that, part of the restaurant itself. The place wasn’t very crowded and he guessed that since this was a tourist area — what was left of Little Italy — most of the business would be on weekends.

He now slipped inside, eased the door mostly closed and stepped into the office, pulling aside his jacket and making sure his knife was easily accessible.

Ah, there was the computer monitor, showing what the security camera was seeing on the restaurant floor at the moment. The camera scanned slowly back and forth, in hypnotic black and white. He’d have a good image of the leaker, the whistleblower, when he scrolled back to May 11, the date the prick had uploaded the STO kill order to the District Attorney’s Office.

He then noticed a switch on the side of the monitor: 1–2–3–4.

He clicked the last and the screen divided into quadrants.

Oh, hell…

The store had four cameras. And one was presently recording Swann himself, crouching down in front of the machine. Only his back was being shot but this in itself was still very troubling.

He quickly studied the computer and was even more troubled to see that dismantling it and stealing the hard drive, as he’d planned, was impossible. The large computer was fixed to the floor with straps of metal and large bolts.

Right, as if somebody would steal a five-year-old piece of crap, with Windows XP as the operating system. He equated a machine like this to a plastic Sears hand mixer, versus what he had: a six-hundred-dollar KitchenAid, with a bread kneading hook and fresh pasta maker.

Then Swann froze. He heard voices, a giddy young woman’s and then a Latino man’s. He reached for the Kai Shun.

Their words faded, though, and the hallway remained empty. He turned back to his task. He tested the bolts and straps. They weren’t giving way. And he didn’t have the right tools to undo them. Of course he could hardly blame himself for that. He had a basic tool set with him but this would require an electric hacksaw.

A sigh.

The next best thing, he decided, was to make sure that the police didn’t get the drive either.

Too bad, it wasn’t his first choice, but he had no other options.

Now voices from the front of the restaurant again. He believed a woman was saying, “I’m looking for Jerry, please?”

Could it be? Yes. The tone was familiar.

Good old-fashioned A5/1 voice encryption…

“I’m Jerry. Are you the detective who called?”

“That’s right. I’m Amelia Sachs.”

She’d gotten here faster than Swann had expected.

Hunching forward to hide what he was doing from the camera, he reached into his backpack and removed an improvised explosive device, an anti-personnel model that would not only destroy the computer but send a hundred bits of jagged shrapnel throughout the back half of the coffee shop. He debated a moment. He could have set the timer for a minute. But Swann decided it would be best to set the detonator for a bit longer. That would give Ms. Sachs enough time to come into the office and start scrolling through the tapes before it blew.

Hitting the arm button and then the trigger, Swann slipped the box behind the computer itself.

He then rose slowly and backed out of the office, careful not to display his face to the camera.

CHAPTER 29

The air in Java Hut was rich with a dozen different scents — vanilla, chocolate, cinnamon, berry, chamomile, nutmeg…and even coffee.

Jerry, the manager, was a lanky young man with more extensive tats on his arms than a manager for a national franchise coffee shop probably should have. Even one headquartered in Portland. He shook her hand firmly, snuck a glance toward her hips. Men often did this — not checking out the body; he wanted a glimpse of her gun.

The dozen people here were all busy — typing on or examining some electronic device or another. A few were reading from paper. Only one, an elderly woman, was sitting quietly, looking out the window and doing nothing but leisurely enjoying a cup of coffee.

Jerry asked, “Would you like something? On the house?”

She declined. She wanted to get to the one lead in the case that had the potential to pay off.

“Just like to check out the security videos.”

“Sure,” he said, trying for another look at her weapon. She was glad she’d kept the jacket buttoned. She knew he’d want to ask her if she’d used it recently. And talk calibers.

Men. Sex or guns.

“Now, we’ve got one camera there.” He pointed above the cash register. “Everybody who comes in’ll get photographed at least once, pretty up close. What did this guy upload? Like insider information?”

“Like that, yes.”

“Bankers. Man, don’t you just hate ’em? And two other cameras.” Pointing.

One was mounted on a side wall and it scanned back and forth slowly like a lawn sprinkler. The tables were arranged perpendicularly to the camera, which meant that while patrons might not be visible head-on, it was likely she would get a clear profile shot of the whistleblower.

Good.

The other camera scanned a small alcove to the left of the main door, with only four tables inside. This too would get good side images of the patrons and was closer to those tables than the first camera was to those in the main room.

“Let’s see the video,” she said.

“It’s in the office. After you.” He extended his arm, covered with a multicolored tattoo of some Chinese writing, hundreds of characters long.

Sachs couldn’t help but think, What could it possibly say that was worth the pain?

Not to mention how he’s going to explain it to his grandkids.

CHAPTER 30

Man, the alley on a warm afternoon.

Gross.

New York City alleys had a kind of charm, you looked at it one way: They were sort of like history moved into the present day, like in a museum. The fronts of the apartments and — here in Little Italy — the shops changed every generation but the alleys were pretty much what they would’ve been a century ago. Decorated with faded metal and wooden signs giving delivery directions and warnings. Use Chocks for Your WAGON! The walls, brick and stone, were unpainted, unwashed, shabby. Uneven, improvised doors, loading docks, pipes that led nowhere and wires that you didn’t dare touch.

And the air stank.

On hot days like this the kitchen helper hated taking the trash down to the Dumpster, shared with a couple of other restaurants, because the sushi place next door had dumped their garbage last night. No need to guess what this afternoon’s atmosphere was like.

Fish.

Still, one thing he liked about the alley: the building above Java Hut. It had apparently been the home of somebody famous. The waiter Sanchez had told him it was some American writer. Mark Twin, he thought. The helper could read English okay and had told Sanchez he was going to find something that this Twin had written but he never got around to it.

He now made the drop, holding his breath, of course, and then turned back toward his deli. He noticed a car parked in the alley here, close to Java Hut, in fact. A reddish Ford Torino Cobra.

Sweet.

But gonna get towed.

The kitchen helper realized he was holding his breath still. He exhaled and then inhaled, wrinkling his nose. The smell actually stung.

Old fish. Warm fish.

He wondered if he was going to puke. But he headed to the car to check it out. He liked cars. His brother-in-law had been arrested for stealing a very nice BMW M3, one of the new ones. That took some doing. Anybody could steal an Accord. But only a man with balls could boost an M3. Not necessarily brains, however. Ramon was arrested exactly two hours and twenty minutes later. But you had to give him credit.

Oh, hey, check it out! This one had an NYPD placard on the dash. What kinda cop’d drive a car like this? Maybe—

At that moment a ball of flame and smoke erupted from the back door of Java Hut and the helper found himself flying backward. He tumbled into a stack of cardboard cartons outside the back of the Hair Cuttery. The helper rolled off the boxes and lay stunned on the oily, wet cobbles.

Jesus…

Smoke and fire flowed from the coffee shop.

The helper unholstered his mobile and forcibly pinched tears away.

He squinted to make out the keypad. But then he realized what would happen if he called, even anonymously.

Sir, what’s your name, address, phone number and by the way do you have a driver’s license or passport?

Or maybe a birth certificate? A green card?

Sir, we have your mobile number here…

He put the phone away.

Didn’t matter anyway, he decided. Other people would have called by now. Besides, the explosion was so strong, there was no doubt there’d be no survivors inside and Mr. Mark Twin’s town house would be a pile of smoldering rubble in a matter of minutes.

CHAPTER 31

The van drove along Bay Street, then through downtown Nassau, past wood-clad stores and residences painted soft pink, yellow and green, the shades of the mint candy disks Lincoln Rhyme remembered from the Christmases of his youth.

The city was mostly flat; what dominated the skyline were the ocean liners, docked or easing through the water to their left. Rhyme had never seen one up close. They were massive, soaring hundreds of feet into the air. Downtown was clean and ordered, much more so than the areas around the airport. Unlike in New York City, trees were everywhere, blossoming heavily, roots buckling sidewalks and streets. This area was a mix of serious business — lawyers and accountants and insurance agents — and stores that sold any object whatsoever that might conceivably separate cruise ship tourists from their money.

Pirate gear was a popular way to do this. Every other child on the sidewalk carried a plastic saber and wore a black skull-and-crossbones hat.

They drove past some houses of government. Parliament Square, Rhyme noted. In front was a statue of seated and sceptered Queen Victoria, gazing off into the distance as if her mind was on more important, or perhaps more troublesome, colonies.

The accessible van fit right in here; much of the transportation was via similar vehicles and mini buses, different only in the absence of a motorized ramp. As earlier, the pace of traffic here was leisurely, irritating. Rhyme decided that this was not lazy driving. There were simply too many wheels on too few streets and roads.

Scooters too. They were everywhere.

“Is this the best route?” he muttered.

“Yes,” his aide replied, turning right onto East Street.

“It’s taking a longer time than I would have thought.”

Thom didn’t reply. The area grew scruffier as they headed south. More hurricane damage, more shacks, more goats and chickens.

They passed a sign:

Protect Ya Things!

Use a Rubber EVERYTIME

Rhyme had had to make several calls to find exactly where Mychal Poitier was located — naturally without calling the corporal himself. Nassau had a separate Central Detective Unit, not attached to headquarters. Poitier had implied he was working with the CDU but the receptionist there said that while she believed he was assigned to the unit he wasn’t based there. She wasn’t sure where his office was.

Finally he’d called the main number and learned Poitier was at the RBPF headquarters on East Street.

When they arrived Rhyme looked around the facility through the spattered glass of the van’s windows. Headquarters was a complex of mismatched structures — with the main building modern and light-colored, in the shape of a cross laid flat. Ancillary buildings were scattered randomly around the grounds. One seemed to be a lockup (a nearby side street was named Prison Lane). The grounds were a mix of grass — some patches trim, some shaggy — and parking lots dusted with pebbles and sand.

Functional law enforcement.

They got out of the van. Again, the piquant smell of smoke was in the air. Ah, yes. With a glance at a nearby private residence’s backyard, Rhyme realized the source: trash fires. They must be everywhere.

“Look, Lincoln, we need one of those,” Pulaski said. He was pointing toward the front of the main building.

“What?” Rhyme snapped. “A building, a radio antenna, a doorknob, a jail?”

“A crest.”

The RBPF did have a rather impressive logo, promising the citizens of the islands courage, integrity and loyalty. Where on earth could you find all three of these in one tidy package?

“I’ll buy you a T-shirt for a souvenir, rookie.” Rhyme motored his way up the sidewalk and brashly into the lobby, an unimpressive place, scuffed and dinged. Ants crawled and flies strafed. There seemed to be no plainclothes cops; everyone was in uniform. Most commonly these were white jackets and black trousers with subdued red stripes on the side; the few women officers wore such jackets and striped skirts. Much of the personnel — who were all black — had headgear, traditional police hats or white sun helmets.

Colonial…

A dozen locals and tourists waited on benches or in line to speak to officers, presumably to report a crime. Mostly they seemed put out, rather than traumatized. Rhyme assumed the bulk of cases here would be pickpocketing, missing passports, groping, stolen cameras and cars.

He was aware of the attention he and his small entourage were drawing. A middle-aged couple, American or Canadian, was in line ahead of him. “No, sir, please, you go first.” The wife was speaking as if to a five-year-old. “We insist.”

Rhyme resented their condescension and Thom, sensing this, stiffened, probably expecting a tirade, but the criminalist smiled and thanked them. The waves he intended to make would be reserved for the RBPF itself.

A tall man presently at the head of the queue in front of Rhyme had gleaming black skin and wore jeans and an untucked shirt. He was complaining to an attractive and attentive desk officer about a stolen goat.

“It might have walked off,” the woman said.

“No, no, the rope was cut. I took a picture. Do you want to see? It was cut with a knife. I have pictures! My neighbor. I know my neighbor did this.”

Tool mark evidence could link the cut pattern on the rope to the neighbor’s blade. Hemp fibers are particularly adhesive; there would have been some evidentiary transfer. There’d been a recent rain. Footprints surely still existed.

Easy case, Rhyme reflected, smiling to himself. He wished Sachs were here so he could share the story with her.

Goats…

The man was persuaded to search a bit longer.

Then Rhyme moved forward. The desk officer rose slightly and peered down at him. He asked for Mychal Poitier.

“Yes, I’ll call him. You are, please?”

“Lincoln Rhyme.”

She placed the call. “Corporal, it’s Constable Bethel, at the desk. A Lincoln Rhyme and some other people are here to see you.” She stared down at her beige, old-fashioned phone, growing tenser as she listened. “Well, yes, Corporal. He’s here, as I was saying…Well, he’s right in front of me.”

Had Poitier told her to pretend he was out?

Rhyme said, “If he’s busy, tell him I’m happy to wait. For as long as necessary.”

Her eyes flicked uncertainly to Rhyme’s. She said into the phone, “He said…” But apparently Poitier had heard. “Yes, Corporal.” She set the receiver down. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

They turned away and moved to an unoccupied portion of the waiting room.

“God bless you,” said the woman who had given up her space in line for the pathetic figure.

Rhyme felt Thom’s hand on his shoulder but, once again, he merely smiled.

Thom and Pulaski sat on a bench beside Rhyme, under dozens of painted and photo portraits of senior commissioners and commanders of the Royal Bahamas Police Force, going back many years. He scanned the gallery. This was like walls of service everywhere: faces unrevealing and, like Queen Victoria’s, looking off into the distance, not directly at the painter or camera. Unemotional, yet oh what those eyes would have seen in the collective hundreds of years of duty as law enforcers.

Rhyme was debating how long Poitier was going to stall when a young officer appeared from a hallway and approached the desk. He was in those ubiquitous black slacks, red-striped, and an open-collar, short-sleeved blue shirt. A chain from the top button disappeared into his left breast pocket. A whistle? Rhyme wondered. The dark-skinned man, who was armed with a semiautomatic pistol, was bareheaded and had thick but short-trimmed hair. His round face was not happy.

Constable Bethel pointed Rhyme out to the officer. The young man turned and blinked in stark surprise. Though he tried to stop himself he stared immediately down at the wheelchair and at Rhyme’s legs. He blinked again and seemed to swell with discomfort.

Rhyme knew that it was more than his presence upsetting the officer.

Forget murder, forget geopolitics. I have to deal with a cripple?

Poitier delayed a moment more, perhaps wondering if he’d been spotted. Could he still escape? Then, composing himself, he broke away reluctantly from the desk and approached them.

“Captain Rhyme, well.” He said this with a casual, almost cheerful tone. Identical to the woman tourist’s a moment ago. Poitier’s hand was half extended as if he didn’t want to shake but thought it would be a moral lapse not to make the effort. Rhyme lifted his hand and the officer quickly, very quickly, gripped and let go.

Quadriplegia is not contagious, Rhyme thought sourly.

“Corporal, this is Officer Pulaski with the NYPD. And my caregiver, Thom Reston.”

Hands were shaken, this time with less uncertainty. But Poitier looked Thom up and down. Perhaps the concept of “caregiver” was new to him.

The corporal gazed about him and found several fellow officers frozen in different attitudes, like children playing the game of statue, as they stared.

Mychal Poitier’s attention returned at once to the wheelchair and Rhyme’s insensate legs. The slow movements of the right arm seemed to rivet him the most, though. Finally, Poitier, using all his willpower, forced himself to stare into Rhyme’s eyes.

The criminalist found himself at first irritated at this reaction but then he felt a sensation he hadn’t experienced for some time: He was ashamed. Actually ashamed of his condition. He’d hoped the sense would morph into anger but it didn’t. He felt diminished, weakened.

Poitier’s dismayed look had burned him.

Ashamed…

He tried to push aside the prickly feeling and said evenly, “I need to discuss the case with you, Corporal.”

Poitier looked around again. “I’m afraid I’ve told you all I can.”

“I want to see the evidence reports. I want to see the crime scene itself.”

“That’s not practical. The scene is sealed.”

“You seal crime scenes from the public, not from forensics officers.”

“But you’re…” A hesitation; Poitier managed not to look at his legs. “You’re not an officer here, Captain Rhyme. Here you are a civilian. I’m sorry.”

Pulaski said, “Let us help you with the case.”

“My time is very occupied.” He was happy to glance toward Pulaski, someone who was on his feet. Someone who was normal. “Occupied,” Poitier repeated, turning now to a bulletin board on which was pinned a flyer: The headline was MISSING. Beneath that stark word was a picture of a smiling blonde, downloaded from Facebook, it seemed.

Rhyme said, “The student you were mentioning.”

“Yes. The one you…”

The corporal had been going to add: the one you don’t care about. Rhyme was sure of this.

But he’d refrained.

Because, of course, Rhyme wasn’t fair game. He was weak. A snide word might shatter him beyond repair.

His face flushed.

Pulaski said, “Corporal, could we just see copies of the evidence report, the autopsies? We could look at them right here. We won’t take them off the premises.”

Good approach, Rhyme thought.

“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Officer Pulaski.” He endured another look at Rhyme.

“Then let us have a fast look at the scene.”

Poitier coughed or cleared his throat. “I have to leave it intact, depending on what we hear from the Venezuelan authorities.”

Rhyme played along. “And I will make sure the scene remains uncontaminated for them.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

“Our case for Moreno’s death is different from yours — you pointed that out the other day. But we still need certain forensics from here.”

Otherwise the risk you took in calling me from the casino that night will be wasted. This was the implicit message.

Rhyme was careful not to mention any U.S. security agencies or snipers. If the Bahamians wanted Venezuelan drug runners he wasn’t going to interfere with that. But he needed the goddamn evidence.

He glanced at the poster of the missing student.

She was quite attractive, her smile innocent and wide.

The reward for information was only five hundred dollars.

He whispered to Poitier, “You have a firearms tracing unit. I saw the reference on your website. At the very least, can I see their report on the bullet?”

“The unit has yet to get to the matter.”

“They’re waiting for the Venezuelan authorities.”

“That’s right.”

Rhyme inhaled deeply, trying to remain calm. “Please—”

“Corporal Poitier.” A voice cut through the lobby.

A man in a khaki uniform stood in an open doorway, a dim corridor beyond. His dark face — both in complexion and expression — was staring toward the four men beside the wall of service.

“Corporal Poitier,” he repeated in a stern voice.

The officer turned. He blinked. “Yes, sir.”

A pause. “When you have finished your business there, I need your presence in my office.”

Rhyme deduced: The stern man would be the RBPF’s version of Captain Bill Myers.

“Yes, sir.”

The young officer turned back, shaken. “That’s Assistant Commissioner McPherson. He is in charge of all of New Providence. Come, you must leave now. I will see you to your car.”

As he escorted them out, Poitier paused awkwardly to open the door for Rhyme and, once again, avoided looking at the disturbing sight of a man immobile.

Rhyme motored outside. Thom and Pulaski were in the rear. They headed back to the van.

Poitier whispered, “Captain, I went to a great risk to give you the information I did — about the phone call, about the man at the South Cove Inn. I had hoped you’d follow up on it in the United States. Not here.”

“And I appreciate what you told me. But it wasn’t enough. We need the evidence.”

“That’s not possible. I asked you not to come. I’m sorry. I can’t help.” The slim young officer looked away, back toward the front lobby door, as if his boss was still observing. Poitier was furious, Rhyme could see. He wanted to rage. But the officer’s only reaction was a figurative pat on the head.

God bless you…

“There is nothing for you here, sir. Enjoy a day or two, some restaurants. I don’t imagine you get out…” He braked his words to a halt. Then changed tack. “You are probably so busy at your job you don’t get a chance to enjoy yourself. There are some good restaurants down by the docks. For the tourists.”

Where the facilities are disabled-accessible because of the elderly passengers from the cruise ships.

Rhyme persisted, “I offered to meet you elsewhere. But you declined.”

“I didn’t think you would actually come.”

Rhyme stopped. He said to Thom and Pulaski. “I’d like a word with the corporal in private.”

The two men wandered back toward the van.

Poitier’s eyes swept the criminalist’s legs and body once more. He began, “I wish—”

“Corporal,” Rhyme spat out, “don’t play these fucking games with me.” The shame had finally solidified into the ice of anger.

The officer blinked in shock.

“You gave me a couple of leads that don’t mean shit without the forensics to back them up. They’re useless. You might as well’ve saved your goddamn phone card money.”

“I was trying to help you,” he said evenly.

“You were trying to purge your guilt.”

“My—?”

“You didn’t call me up to help the case. You called me so you could feel better about doing a lousy job as a cop. Hand off some useless tidbits to me and you go back to quote waiting for the Venezuelan authorities like you’d been told.”

“You don’t understand,” Poitier fired back, his own anger freed as well. Sweat covered his face and his eyes were focused and fierce. “You make your salary in America — ten times what we make here — and if that doesn’t work you go take another job and make just as much money or more. We don’t have those options, Captain. I’ve already risked too much. I tell you in confidence certain things and then…” He was sputtering. “And then here you are. And now my commissioner knows! I have a wife and two children I am supporting. I love them very much. What right do you have to put my job at stake?”

Rhyme spat out, “Your job? Your job is to find out what happened on May ninth at the South Cove Inn, who fired that bullet, who took a human life in your jurisdiction. That’s your job, not hiding behind your superior’s fairy tales.”

“You do not understand! I—”

“I understand that if you claim you want to be a cop, then be one. If not, go back to Inspections and Licensing, Corporal.”

Rhyme spun around and aimed toward the van, where Pulaski and Thom were staring his way with troubled, confused faces. He noticed too a man in one of the nearby windows, peering their way. Rhyme was sure it was the assistant commissioner.

CHAPTER 32

After leaving the RBPF headquarters, Thom steered the van north and west through the narrow, poorly paved streets of Nassau.

“Okay, rookie, you’ve got a job. I need you to do some canvassing at the South Cove Inn.”

“We’re not leaving?”

“Of course we’re not leaving. Do you want your assignment or do you want to keep interrupting?” Without waiting for an answer, Rhyme reminded the young officer about the information that Corporal Poitier had provided via phone the other night in New York: the call from an American inquiring about Moreno’s reservation, and the man at the hotel the day before the shooting asking a maid about Moreno — Don Bruns, their talented sniper.

“Thirties, American, athletic, small build, short brown hair.” Pulaski had remembered this from the chart.

“Good. Now, I can’t go myself,” the criminalist said. “I’d make too much of a stir. We’ll park in the lot and wait for you. Walk up to the main desk, flash your badge and find out what the number was of the person who called from America and anything else about the guy asking about Moreno. Don’t explain too much. Just say you’re a police officer looking into the incident.”

“I’ll say I just came from RBPF headquarters.”

“Hm. I like that. Suitably authoritarian and yet vague at the same time. If you get the number—when you get the number — we’ll call Rodney Szarnek and have him talk to the cell or landline provider. You clear on all of that?”

“You bet, Lincoln.”

“What does that mean, ‘You bet’?”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“Mouth filler, expressions like that.” He was still hurt and angry about what he considered Poitier’s betrayal — which was only partly his refusal to help.

As they bobbed along the streets of Nassau an idea occurred to Rhyme. “And when you’re at the inn, see if Eduardo de la Rua, the reporter who died, left anything there. Luggage, notebook, computer. And do what you can to get your hands on it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I want any notes or recordings that de la Rua made. The police haven’t been very diligent about collecting evidence. Maybe there’s still something at the inn.”

“Maybe he recorded Moreno talking about somebody surveilling him.”

“That,” Rhyme said acerbically, “or somebody conducting surveillance, since what you said may be correct but is a shamless example of verbing a perfectly fine noun.” And he couldn’t resist a smile at his own irony.

Pulaski sighed. Thom smiled.

The young officer thought for a moment. “De la Rua was a reporter. What about his camera? Maybe he took some pictures in the room or on the grounds before the shooting.”

“Didn’t think of that. Good. Yes. Maybe he got some pictures of a surveiller.” Then he grew angry again. “The Venezuelan authorities. Bullshit.”

Rhyme’s mobile buzzed. He looked at the caller ID.

Well, what’s this?

He hit answer. “Corporal?”

Had Poitier been fired? Had he called to apologize for losing his temper, while reiterating that there was nothing he could do to help?

The officer’s voice was a low, angry whisper: “I eat a late lunch every day.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because of my shift,” Poitier continued harshly. “I eat lunch at three p.m. And do you wish to know where I eat lunch?”

“Do I…?”

“It’s a simple question, Captain Rhyme!” the corporal snapped. “Do you wish to know where I eat my lunch every day?”

“I do, yes,” was all that Rhyme could muster, thoroughly confused.

“I have lunch at Hurricane’s on Baillou Hill Road. Near West Street. That is where I have lunch!”

The line went silent. There was no sound other than a soft click but Rhyme imagined the corporal had angrily slammed his thumb onto the disconnect button.

“Well.” He told the others about the exchange. “Sounds like he might be willing to help us out after all.”

Pulaski said, “Or he’s going to arrest us.”

Rhyme started to protest but decided the young officer had a point. He said, “In case you’re right, rookie, change of plans. Thom and I are going to have lunch and/or get arrested. Possibly both. You’re going to canvass at the South Cove Inn. We’ll rent you a car. Thom, didn’t we pass a rental place somewhere?”

“Avis. Do you want me to go there?”

“Obviously. I wasn’t asking for curiosity’s sake.”

“Don’t you get tired of being in a good mood all the time, Lincoln?”

“Rental car. Please. Now.”

Rhyme noticed that he’d had a call from Lon Sellitto. He’d missed it in the “discussion” he’d had with Poitier. There was no message. Rhyme called him back but voice mail replied. He left a phone-tag message and slipped the mobile away.

Thom found the Avis office via GPS and steered in that direction. Just a few minutes later, though, he said uncertainly, “Lincoln.”

“What?”

“Somebody’s following us. I’m sure of it.”

“Don’t look back, rookie!” Rhyme didn’t spend much time in the field any longer, for obvious reasons, but when he’d been active he had frequently worked “hot” crime scenes — those where the perp might still be lingering, for the purposes of learning which cops were on the case and what leads they were finding, or sometimes even trying to kill the officers right then. The instincts he’d honed over the years of working scenes like that were still active. And rule one was don’t let anybody know you’re on to them.

Thom continued, “A car was oncoming but as soon as we passed, it made a U. I didn’t think much of it at first but we’ve been taking a pretty winding path and it’s still there.”

“Describe it.”

“Gold Mercury, black vinyl top. Ten years or older, I’d guess.”

The age of many cars here.

The aide glanced in the mirror. “Two, no, three people inside. Black males. Late twenties or thirties. T-shirts, one gray, one green, short-sleeved. One sleeveless yellow. Can’t make out their faces.”

“You sound just like a patrol officer, Thom.” Rhyme shrugged. “Just police keeping an eye on us. That commissioner — McPherson — isn’t very happy we strangers’ve come to town.”

Thom squinted into the rearview mirror. “I don’t think they’re cops, Lincoln.”

“Why not?”

“The driver’s got earrings and the guy next to him’s in dreads.”

“Undercover.”

“And they’re passing a joint back and forth.”

“Okay. Probably not.”

CHAPTER 33

Few things are more repulsive than the chemical smoke aftermath of an IED plastic explosive detonation.

Amelia Sachs could smell it, taste it. She shivered from the cloying assault.

And then there was the ringing in her ears.

Sachs was standing in front of what remained of Java Hut, waiting — impatiently — for the Bomb Squad officers to make their rounds. She would run the crime scene search herself but the explosives experts from the Sixth Precinct in Greenwich Village always did the first post-blast sweep to check for secondary, delayed devices, intended to take out rescue workers. This was a common technique, at least in countries where bombs were just another means of making a political statement. Maybe Don Bruns had learned his skills abroad.

Sachs snapped her fingers next to each ear and was pleased to find that over the tinnitus ring she could hear pretty well.

What had saved her life and those of the coffee drinkers had at first made her laugh.

She and Jerry, the inked manager of Java Hut, had gone into the small, dimly lit office, where the store’s computer was located. They’d pulled up chairs and he’d bent forward, entering a passcode on the old Windows system.

“Here’s the program for the security video.” Jerry had loaded it and then showed her the commands for reviewing the.mpg files, how to rewind and fast-forward, how to capture stills and write clips to separate files for uploading or copying to a flash drive.

“Got it, thanks.”

She’d scooted forward and looked closely at the screen, which was divided into quadrants, one scene for each camera: two were of the floor of the shop, one of the cash register, one of the office.

She had just started scrolling back in time from today to May 11—the date the whistleblower had leaked the STO from here — when she noticed a scene of a man in the office where they now sat, walking forward.

Wait. Something was odd. She’d paused the video.

What was off about this?

Oh, sure, that was it. She’d laughed. In all the other scenes, because she was scrolling in reverse, people were moving backward. But on the office video, the man was moving forward, which meant that in real time he had been backing out of the office.

Why would anyone do that?

She’d pointed it out to the manager, who hadn’t, however, shared her smile. “Look at the time stamp. That was just ten minutes ago. And I don’t know who he is. He doesn’t work here.”

The man was trim, with short hair, it seemed, under a baseball cap. He wore a windbreaker-style jacket and carried a small backpack.

Jerry had risen and walked to the back door. He’d tried it. “It’s open. Hell, we’ve been broken into!”

Sachs scrolled back farther, then played the video forward. They saw the man come into the office, try to log on to the computer several times and then struggle to pick it up, only to be stymied by the steel bars securing it to the floor. Then he’d glanced at the monitor and must have noticed that he was being filmed. Rather than turn and face the security camera, he’d backed out of the office.

She knew it had to be the sniper.

Somehow he too had learned about the whistleblower and had come here to see if he could find the man’s identity. He must’ve heard her and Jerry approach. Sachs had run the tape again, noting this time that before he left he seemed to place a small object behind the computer. What—?

Oh, hell, no!

He’d left an IED—that’s what he’d planted behind the computer. He couldn’t steal it; so he’d destroy the Dell. Try to disarm or not? No, he’d have set it to detonate at any minute. “Out, everybody out!” she’d cried. “Bomb. There’s a bomb! Clear the place. Everybody out!”

“But that’s—”

Sachs had grabbed Jerry by his ideogramed arm and dragged him into the restaurant, calling for the baristas, dishwasher and customers to flee. She’d held up her badge. “NYPD, evacuate now! There’s a gas leak!”

Too complicated to explain about bombs.

The device had blown just as she’d shoved the last customer out the door, a contrary young student whining that he hadn’t gotten his refill yet.

Sachs had still been inside when she’d felt the detonation in her chest and ears and, through the floor, her feet. Two plate-glass windows had shattered and much of the interior flew into pieces. Instantly the place had been enveloped by that vile, greasy smoke. She’d leapt through the door but stayed upright, sure that if she’d dived to the concrete—à la that clichéd scene in thriller movies — her knee would never forgive her.

Now the Bomb Squad officers made their way through the front door. “It’s clear,” she heard, though it sounded like the lieutenant was speaking through cotton. The bomb had really been quite loud. Plastic explosives detonate at around twenty-five thousand feet per second.

“What was it?” she said and when he smiled she knew she’d been shouting.

“Can’t tell for sure until we send off details to the bureau and ATF. But my guess? Military — we found some camouflaged shrapnel. It’s primarily anti-personnel. But it works real good for blowing up anything nearby.”

“Like computers.”

“What?” the officer asked.

Thanks to her haywire hearing, she’d spoken too softly this time. “And computers.”

“Works real good against computers,” the Bomb Squad officer said. “Hard drive’s in a million pieces and most of them’re melted. Humpty Dumpty’s fucked.”

She thanked him. A crime scene team from Queens arrived in the RRV, a van filled with evidence collection equipment. She knew the two officers, an Asian American woman and a round young man from Georgia. He waved a greeting. They’d back her up but she’d walk the grid alone, per Lincoln Rhyme’s rule.

Sachs surveyed the smoky remains of Java Hut, hands on her hips.

Brother…

Not only is there nothing so distinctive as the smell of an IED but nothing contaminates a scene like one.

She donned the Tyvek coveralls — the deluxe version from Evident, which protect the wearer from dangerous materials as much as they protect the crime scene itself from the searchers. And because of the fumes she wore sealed goggles and a filtering mask.

Her first thought was: How is Lincoln going to hear me through the mask?

But then she remembered that she wasn’t going to be online with him, as she usually was, via radio or video hookup. She was alone.

That same chill, hollow sense from earlier wafted through her.

Forget it, she told herself angrily. Get to work.

And with evidence collection bags and equipment in one hand, she began to walk the grid.

Moving through the shambles of the place, Sachs concentrated on collecting what she could of the bomb itself, which, as the officer had warned, wasn’t very much. She was particularly dismayed that the suspect hadn’t used simply a demolition charge but one meant to kill.

Sachs concentrated on the entrance/exit route, the back doorway, where Bruns would have paused before he broke in and where the blast damage was minimal. She took dozens of samplars: trace from the alleyway and doorjamb, enough to draw a profile of substances common to this area of the city. Anything that was unique might represent evidence the perp had left and lead to his home or office.

How helpful this would be, she wasn’t sure. Here, as in any New York City alleyway, there were so many instances of trace evidence that it would be hard to isolate the relevant ones. Too much evidence is often as much of a problem as too little.

After she finished walking the grid she stripped off the overalls quickly — not because she was worried about contamination but because she was by nature claustrophobic and the confining plastic made her edgy.

Breathing deeply, closing her eyes momentarily, she let the feeling settle, then fade.

The whistleblower…How the hell to find him now that the security video was gone?

It seemed hopeless. Anybody who used a complicated email proxy system to hide his tracks would have been smart about the mechanics of finding a place to upload the documents. He wouldn’t be a regular here and wouldn’t have used a credit card. But an idea occurred: what about other customers? She could track down at least some of those who’d been here around 1 p.m. on May 11. They might have noticed the whistleblower’s unusual computer, the iBook. Or maybe tourists had taken some cell phone shots of each other and possibly captured an image of the whistleblower accidentally.

She walked up to Jerry, the now very shaken manager of the late store, and asked him about credit card records. When he tore himself away from his mournful gaze at his shop he called Java Hut central operations. In ten minutes she had the names of a dozen customers who were here at the time in question. She thanked him and had the file uploaded to Lon Sellitto. Then she followed up with a call to the detective.

She asked if he could get some of Bill Myers’s Special Services officers to contact them and see if anyone had taken pictures in Java Hut on the day in question or remembered anybody with an odd-looking, older computer.

Sellitto replied, “Yeah, sure, Amelia. I’ll order it.” He grunted. “This takes the case to a whole new level. An IED? You think it was Bruns, or whatever his real name is?”

“Had to be him, I’d think. It was hard to see in the video but he roughly fit the description from the maid at the South Cove Inn. So he’s cleaning up after the assignment — probably on Metzger’s orders.” She gave a sour laugh. “And Java Hut’s about as clean as it can be.”

“Jesus — Metzger and Bruns’ve gone off the deep end. It’s that important to them, to keep this kill order program going that they’re taking out innocents.”

“Listen, Lon. I want to keep this quiet.”

He gave a gruff laugh. “Oh, sure. A fucking IED in Manhattan?”

“Can we play up the story it was a gas leak, still being investigated. Just keep the lid on for a few days?”

“I’ll do what I can. But you know the fucking media.”

“That’s all I’m asking, a day or two.”

He muttered, “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyway, listen, I’m glad you called. Myers’s canvassing boys tracked down the woman that Moreno drove around the city with on May 1, Lydia. They’ll have her address and phone number in a few minutes.”

“The hooker.”

He chuckled. “When you speak to her? I don’t think I’d say that.”

CHAPTER 34

His right hand rose slowly to his mouth and Lincoln Rhyme fed himself a conch fritter — crisp outside and tender within — dabbed with homemade hot sauce. He then picked up and sipped from a can of Kalik beer.

Hurricane’s restaurant — curious name, given the local weather — was austere, located on a weedy side street in downtown Nassau. Bright blue and red walls, a warped wooden floor, a few flyblown photographs of the local beaches — or maybe Goa or the Jersey Shore. You couldn’t tell. Several overhead fans revolved slowly and did nothing to ease the heat. Their only effect was to piss off the flies.

The place, though, boasted some of the best food Rhyme had ever had.

Though he decided that any meal you can spear with a fork yourself, and not have to be fed, is by definition very, very good.

“Conch,” Rhyme mused. “Never had any univalve tissue evidence in a case. Oyster shells once. Very flavorful. Could you cook it at home?”

Thom, sitting across from Rhyme, rose and asked the chef for the recipe. The formidible woman in a red bandanna, looking like a Marxist revolutionary, wrote it down for him, cautioning to get fresh conch. “Never canned. Ever.”

The time was nearly three and Rhyme was beginning to wonder if the corporal had given him the tantalizing invitation just to keep him occupied while, as Pulaski suggested, he was preparing an arrest team.

That is where I have lunch!..

Rhyme decided not to worry about it and had more conch and beer.

At their feet a black-and-gray dog begged for scraps. Rhyme ignored the small, muscular animal but Thom fed it some bits of conch crust and bread. He was about two feet high and had floppy ears and a long face.

“He’ll never leave you alone now,” Rhyme muttered. “You know that.”

“He’s cute.”

The server, a slimmer, younger version of the chef, daughter probably, said, “He’s a potcake dog. You only see them in the Islands here. The name comes from what we feed stray dogs — rice and green peas, potcake.”

“And they hang out in restaurants?” Rhyme asked sardonically.

“Oh, yes. Customers love them.”

Rhyme grunted and stared at the door, through which he expected momentarily to see either Mychal Poitier or a couple of armed, uniformed RBPF officers with an arrest warrant.

His phone buzzed and he lifted it. “Rookie, what do you have?”

“I’m at the South Cove Inn. I got it. The number of the man who called about Moreno’s reservation. It’s a mobile exchange from Manhattan.”

“Excellent. Now, it’ll be a prepaid, untraceable. But Rodney can narrow down the call to a fairly small area. Maybe an office or gym or a Starbucks where our sniper enjoys his lattes. It won’t take—”

“But—”

“No, it’s easy. He can work backward from the cell base stations and then interpolate the signal data from adjacent towers. The sniper will’ve thrown the phone out by now but the records should be able to—”

“Lincoln.”

“What?”

“It’s not prepaid and it’s still active.”

Rhyme was speechless for a moment. This was unbelievably good luck.

“And are you ready for this?”

Words returned. “Rookie! Get to the point!”

“It’s registered in the name of Don Bruns.”

“Our sniper.”

“Exactly. He used a Social Security number on the phone account and gave an address.”

“Where?”

“PO box in Brooklyn. Set up by a shell corporation in Delaware. And the social’s fake.”

“But we’ve got the phone. Start Rodney scanning for usage and location. We can’t get a Title Three at this point, but see if Lon or somebody can charm a magistrate into approving a five-second listen-in for a voiceprint.”

This would allow them to compare the vocal pattern with the.wav file the whistleblower had sent and confirm that it was, in fact, the sniper, who was presently using the phone.

“And have Fred Dellray look into who’s behind the company.”

“I will. Now, a couple other things.”

Couple of other things. But Rhyme refrained. He’d beaten the kid up enough for one day.

“The reporter, de la Rua? He didn’t leave anything here at the inn. He came to the interview with a bag or briefcase but they’re sure the police took it with them, along with the bodies.”

He wondered if Poitier — if he actually showed up and was in a cooperative mood — would give them access to those items.

“I’m still waiting to talk to the maid about the American who was here the day before the shooting. She gets in in a half hour.”

“A competent job, Pulaski. Now, are you being cautious? Any sign of that Mercury with our dope-smoking surveillers?”

“No, and I’ve been looking. How about with you?…Oh, wait. If you asked me, that means you gave ’em the slip.”

Rhyme smiled. The kid was learning.

CHAPTER 35

“So Lydia’s not a prostitute,” Amelia Sachs said.

“Nope,” Lon Sellitto replied, “she’s an interpreter.”

“Translating wasn’t a cover for being a call girl? You’re sure?”

“Positive. She’s legit. Been a commercial interpreter for ten years, works for big companies and law firms. And, I still checked: no rap sheet — city, state or FBI, NCIC. Looks like Moreno had used her before.”

Sachs gave a brief, cynical laugh. “I was making assumptions. Escort service, terrorist. Brother. If she’s legitimate, Moreno wouldn’t have used her at any illegal meetings but odds are she’ll know something helpful. Probably she’d have a lot of information about him.”

“She’d have to,” Sellitto agreed.

And what exactly did Lydia know? Jacob Swann wondered, sitting forward in the front seat of his Nissan, parked in Midtown, listening to this conversation in real time, having tapped once again into Amelia Sachs’s 3G, easily tappable phone. He was now pleased she hadn’t been blown to nothingness by the IED in Java Hut. This lead was golden.

“What languages?” Sachs was asking. Swann had the other caller’s mobile identification number. Lon Sellitto, another NYPD cop, the Tech Services people had told him.

“Russian, German, Arabic, Spanish and Portuguese.”

Interesting. Now, more than ever, Swann wanted her surname and address. If you please.

“I’ll go interview her now.”

Well, that would be particularly convenient: Detective Sachs and a witness, together in a private apartment. Along with Jacob Swann and the Kai Shun knife.

“Got a pen?”

“I’m ready.”

So am I, thought Jacob Swann.

Sellitto said, “Her full name’s Lydia—”

“Wait!” Sachs shouted.

Swann winced at the volume and held his mobile away from his ear.

“What?”

“Something’s wrong, Lon. It just occurred to me: How did our perp know about Java Hut?”

“Whatta you mean?”

“He didn’t follow me there. He got there first. How did he find out about the place?”

“Fuck. You think he’s got a tap on your phone?”

“Could be.”

Oh, hell. Swann sighed.

Sachs continued, “I’ll find a different phone, a landline, and give you a call through the main number at headquarters.”

“Sure.”

“I’m dumping my mobile. You do the same.”

The line disconnected, leaving Jacob Swann listening to pure silence.

CHAPTER 36

AT FIRST, AMELIA SACHS WAS CONTENT to pull the battery out of her phone.

But then paranoia seeped in like water in the badly grouted basement of her Brooklyn town house and she pitched the unit into a sewer grate outside the smoking cave of Java Hut.

She found a Patrol officer and swapped her smallest bill, a ten, for four bucks’ worth of change and called Police Plaza from a nearby pay phone, then was transferred.

“Sellitto.”

“Lon.”

“You think he was really listening?” he asked.

“I’m not taking any chances.”

“Okay, fine with me. But it pisses me off. That was a new Android. Fucker. Now are you ready?”

She had pen in hand and a notepad balanced on the stained shelf under the phone. “Go ahead.”

“The interpreter’s name is Lydia Foster.” He gave Sachs her address on Third Avenue. Her phone number too.

“How’d the canvassers find her?”

“Legwork,” Sellitto explained. “Started at the top floor of that office building where Moreno picked her up and worked their way down twenty-nine stories. Naturally, they didn’t get a hit till floor three, took ’em forever. She was working freelance, translating for a bank.”

“I’m going to call her now.” She added, “How the hell did he tap our lines, Lon? It isn’t just anybody who can do that.”

The older detective muttered, “This guy is too fucking connected.”

“And he knows your number too now,” she pointed out. “Watch your back.”

He gave a gruff laugh. “That’s a cliché Linc definitely wouldn’t approve of.”

His words made her miss Rhyme all the more.

“I’ll let you know what I find,” she said.

A few minutes later Sachs was speaking with Lydia Foster, explaining the purpose for the call.

“Ah, Mr. Moreno. Yes, I was very sad to hear that. I interpreted for him three times over the last year.”

“Each time in New York?”

“That’s right. The people he met with spoke pretty good English but he wanted to speak through me in their native languages. He thought he could get a better feel for them. I was supposed to tell him what I thought their attitudes were, in addition to the words.”

“I talked to the driver who took you two around the city on May first. He said you had some general conversations with Mr. Moreno too.”

“That’s right. He was very social.”

Sachs found her heart pounding a bit faster. The woman could be a well of information.

“You and he met how many people on the latest trip?”

“Four, I think. Some nonprofit organizations, run by Russians and some people out of Dubai, and at the Brazilian consulate. He also met somebody by himself. That man he was meeting spoke English and Spanish. He didn’t need me so I waited at Starbucks downstairs in the office building.”

Or maybe he didn’t want you to hear the substance of that meeting.

“I’d like to come over and talk to you.”

“Yes, anything I can do to help. I’m home for the day. I’ll find all my transcripts for the job and organize them.”

“You keep copies of everything?”

“Every word. You’d be surprised how many times clients lose what I send them or don’t back them up.”

Even better.

Just then her phone hummed with an incoming text, marked urgent. “Hold on a second, please,” she told Lydia Foster. And read the message.

She said, “Ms. Foster, I’ve got to follow up on something but I’ll be there soon.”

CHAPTER 37

Rhyme had just finished his Kalik Beer at Hurricane’s restaurant when he heard a voice behind him.

“Hello.”

Mychal Poitier.

The corporal’s blue shirt was Rorschached with sweat and his dark slacks, with the regal red stripe, sandy and dotted with mud. He carried a backpack. He waved to the server and she smiled, surprised when he took a seat with the disabled man from America. She put in an order without asking him what he wanted and brought him a coconut soft drink.

“I am late because, I’m sorry to say, we have found the student. She died in a swimming accident. Excuse me for a moment. I will upload my report.” He took an iPad in a battered leather case from the bag and booted it up. He typed some words and then hit the send button.

“This will buy me a little time with you. I’ll tell them I’m following up on several other issues regarding the loss.” He nodded at the iPad. “Unfortunate situation,” he said and his face was grave. It occurred to Rhyme that Traffic, his first assignment, and then Business Inspections and Licensing had probably not provided much opportunity to experience firsthand the tragedies that fundamentally change law enforcement officers — that either temper or weaken them. “She drowned in an area of water that generally isn’t dangerous but she’d been drinking, it seems. We found rum and Coke in her car. Ah, students. They believe they are immortal.”

“May I see?” Rhyme asked.

Poitier turned the device and Rhyme studied the pictures that slowly slideshowed past. The body of the victim was starkly white from loss of blood, and water-wrinkled. Fish or other creatures had eaten away much of her face and neck. Hard to guess her age. Rhyme couldn’t recall from the poster. He asked.

“Twenty-three.”

“What was she studying?”

“Latin American literature for the semester at Nassau College. And working part time — and, of course, partying.” He sighed. “Apparently to excess. Now, I’ve called her family in America. They’re coming to claim the body.” His voice faded. “I have never made a call like that before. It was very difficult.”

She had a trim figure, athletic, a modest tat on her shoulder — a starburst — and she favored gold jewelry, though a silver necklace of small leaves surrounded her neck, now stripped of skin.

“A shark attack?”

“No, barracuda probably. We rarely get shark attacks here. And the barracuda were just feeding, after she died. They’ll occasionally bite a swimmer but the injuries are minor. She probably got caught in the riptide and drowned. Then the fish went to work.”

Rhyme noted the worst damage was around the neck. Stubby tubes of the carotid were visible through tatters of flesh. Much of the skull was exposed. With his fork Rhyme speared and then ate some more conch.

Then he slid the iPad back to the officer. “I assume, Corporal, that you are not here to arrest us.”

He laughed. “It did occur to me. I was quite angry. But, no, I’ve come here to help you again.”

“Thank you, Corporal. And now in fairness I’ll share with you everything that I know.” And he explained about NIOS, about Metzger, about the sniper.

“Kill Room. What a cold way to put it.”

Now that he knew Poitier was, more or less, on his side, Rhyme told him that Pulaski was waiting to speak to the maid at the South Cove Inn to learn more about the sniper’s reconnaissance mission the day before he shot Moreno.

Poitier grimaced. “An officer from New York is forced to do my job for me. What a state of things, thanks to politics.”

The server brought the food — a hot stew of vegetables and shreds of dark meat, chicken or goat, Rhyme guessed. Some fried bread too. Poitier tore a piece off the bread and fed it to the potcake dog. He then pulled his plate toward him, tucked his napkin into his shirt, just where the chain that led to his breast pocket was affixed to a collar button. He keyboarded on the iPad then looked up. “I will eat now and while I eat I can tell Thom about the Bahamas, the history, the culture. If he’d like.”

“I would, yes.”

Poitier pushed the iPad close to Rhyme. “And you, Captain, might wish to look at some pictures in the photo gallery of our beautiful scenery here.”

As the corporal turned to Thom and they struck up a conversation Rhyme began scrolling through the gallery.

A picture of the Poitier family, presumably, at the beach. A lovely wife and laughing children. Then they were at a barbecue with a dozen other people.

A picture of the sunset.

A picture of a grade school music recital.

A picture of the first page of the Robert Moreno homicide report.

Like a spy, Poitier had photographed it with the camera in the iPad.

Rhyme looked up at the corporal but the cop ignored him, continuing to share with Thom the history of the colony, and with the potcake dog more lunch.

First, there was an itinerary of Moreno’s last days on earth, as the corporal could piece it together.

The man and his guard, Simon Flores, had arrived in Nassau late Sunday, May 7. They had spent Monday out of the inn, presumably at meetings; Moreno did not seem like the sort to swim with the dolphins or go Jet Skiing. The next day beginning at nine he had several other visitors. Shortly after they left, about ten thirty, the reporter Eduardo de la Rua arrived. The shooting was around eleven fifteen.

Poitier had identified and interviewed Moreno’s other visitors. They were local businessmen involved in agriculture and transport companies. Moreno planned to form a joint venture with them when he opened the Bahamian branch of his Local Empowerment Movement. They were legitimate and had been respected members of the Nassau business community for years.

No witnesses reported that Moreno had been under surveillance or that anyone had shown any unusual interest in him — other than the phone call before he arrived and the brown-haired American.

Then Rhyme turned to the pages of the scene itself. He was disappointed. The RBPF crime scene team had found forty-seven fingerprints — other than the victims’—but had analyzed only half of them. Of those identified, all were attributed to the hotel staff. A note reported that the remaining lifted prints were missing.

Little effort had been made to collect trace from the victims themselves. Generally, in a sniper killing, such information about the spot where the victim is shot wouldn’t be that helpful, of course, since the shooter was a distance away. In this case, though, the sniper had been in the hotel, albeit a day earlier, and might even have snuck into the Kill Room to see about vista and shooting angles. He could easily have left some trace, even if he didn’t leave any prints. But virtually no trace had been collected from the room, only some candy wrappers and a few cigarette butts beside an ashtray near the guard’s body.

However, the next pages on the iPad, photos of the Kill Room itself, were illuminating. Moreno had been shot in the living room of the suite. Everything and everyone in the room was covered with shards of glass. Moreno lay sprawled on a couch, head back, mouth open, a bloodstain on his shirt, in the center of which was a large black dot, the entrance wound. The upholstery behind him was covered in dark blood and gore, from what would have been a massive exit wound caused by the sniper’s bullet.

The other victims lay on their backs near the couch, one a large Latino, identified in the photo as Simon Flores, Moreno’s guard, the other a dapper bearded balding man in his fifties, de la Rua, the reporter. They were covered with broken glass and blood, their skin torn and slashed in dozens of places.

The bullet itself was photographed lying on the floor next to a small sandwich board evidence location card bearing the number 14. It was lodged in the carpet a few feet behind the couch.

Rhyme flipped the page, expecting to see more.

But the next image was of the corporal with his wife again, sitting in beach chairs.

Without looking his way, Poitier said, “That’s all there is.”

“Not the autopsy?”

“One has been done. We don’t have the results.”

Rhyme asked, “The victims’ clothing?”

Now he regarded the criminalist. “At the morgue.”

“I asked my associate at the South Cove to track down de la Rua’s camera, tape recorder and anything else he had with him. He said they went to the morgue. I’d love to see them.”

Poitier gave a skeptical laugh. “I would have too.”

“Would have?”

“Yes, you caught that, Captain. By the time I inquired about them they were missing, along with the victims’ more valuable personal effects.”

Rhyme had noticed in the picture of the bodies that the guard wore a Rolex watch, and a pair of Oakley sunglasses protruded from his pocket. Near the reporter lay a gold pen.

Poitier added, “Apparently you must be fast here securing evidence when you run a scene. I’m learning that. The lawyer I was mentioning?”

“The prominent lawyer.”

“Yes,” Poitier said. “After he was killed and before our detectives got there, half the office was looted.”

Rhyme said, “You have the bullet, though.”

“Yes. In our evidence locker. But that meeting with Assistant Commissioner McPherson after you left headquarters? It was to order me to deliver to him all the evidence in the Moreno case. He has taken custody and sealed the locker. No one else can have access. Oh, he also ordered me to have no contact whatsoever with you.”

Rhyme sighed. “They really don’t want this case to go forward, do they?”

With a bitterness Rhyme had not heard before, he said, “Ah, but the case has gone forward. Indeed, it is concluded. The cartels have murdered the victim out of retribution for one thing or another. Who can tell, with those inscrutable cartels?” The man grimaced. Then his voice lowered. “Now, Captain Rhyme, I couldn’t get you your physical evidence, as I’d hoped. But I can play tour guide.”

“Tour guide?”

“Indeed. We have a wonderful tourist attraction on the southwest coast of New Providence Island. A spit of land a half mile long, ravaged by hurricanes, composed mostly of rock and beaches with tainted sand. The highlights are a trash tip, a metal fabrication plant cited frequently for polluting and a company that shreds tires for recycling.”

“Sounds charming,” Thom said.

“It’s quite popular. At least it was for one American tourist. He visited it on the ninth of May. At around eleven fifteen in the morning. One of the more attractive sights he enjoyed was of the South Cove Inn. An unobstructed view, exactly two thousand one hundred and ten yards away. I thought that you, as a tourist to our country, might enjoy the sights as well. Am I right?”

“You are indeed, Corporal.”

“Then we should go. I will not have a career as a tour guide for much longer.”

CHAPTER 38

As she sped downtown, Amelia Sachs disconnected the call from Rodney Szarnek, with the Computer Crimes Unit. She’d used a prepaid mobile — paid for out of her own pocket, with cash, of course — and was confident that the conversation hadn’t been intercepted by the man they were now in the process of tracking down.

Szarnek had told her that the NIOS sniper was presently having a conversation near the Wall Street area of the city while on foot.

The cybercrimes cop had given Sachs the general location of the man and she was speeding there now. When she arrived she’d call back and Rodney’d try to pinpoint the exact coordinates.

She slammed the clutch of her Torino Cobra to the floor and downshifted hard, rev-matched and then sped up, leaving a twin-stripe signature in rubber on the concrete.

She wove through traffic until a jam loomed. “Come on, come on.” She detoured onto a crosstown street east, skidding into what would have been a U-turn, except to avoid a sudden jaywalker she had to make it a Q. She tried again and was soon bolting through side streets, making her way east and south, toward downtown.

“Hell,” Sachs muttered, faced with another jam, and decided to conscript the closest cross street, which was more or less clear, though it happened to be one-way, against her. The maneuver threw drivers into panic and raised a symphony of off-pitch horns. Some single fingers too. Then she zipped past a yellow cab just before the driver sought the sidewalk and she was on Broadway, heading south. She paused for most of the red lights.

There’s a lot of controversy about cell phone companies’ giving law officers details about phone use and location. Generally in an emergency, the providers will cooperate without a warrant. Otherwise, most will require a court order. Rodney Szarnek didn’t want to take any chances and so after learning the sniper’s number from Pulaski in the Bahamas he’d contacted a magistrate and gotten paper issued — both for a five-second listen-in, to snag the voiceprint, and to track the location.

Szarnek had learned that the phone was in use around the corner of Broadway and Warren Street, using basic triangulation for that information, which gave rough estimates. He was presently working on interpolating signal data from the nearby network antennas. Searching in urban areas was much easier because many more towers were erected there than in rural areas. The downside, of course, was that there were many more users in any given area of a city, so it was harder to isolate your particular suspect than, say, in farmland.

Szarnek was hoping to nail down GPS data, which was the gold standard of tracking and would give the location of the sniper to within a few feet.

Finally Sachs arrived in the general vicinity, took a turn at forty, missing both a bus and a hot dog stand by inches, and skidded to a stop on a side street off Broadway. The aroma of baking tires rose, a smell nostalgic and comforting.

She looked around at the hundreds of passersby, about 10 percent of them on their phones. Was the shooter one of the people she was peering at right now? The lean young man with the crew cut, wearing khaki slacks and a work shirt? He looked military. Or the sullen, dark-complected man who was in a badly fitting suit and looking around suspiciously from behind darkly tinted sunglasses? He looked like a hit man but might have been an accountant.

How long would Bruns stay on the line? she wondered. If he disconnected they could still follow him, unless he pulled the battery out. But it was easier to spot someone actually using a phone.

She reminded herself too: This could be a trap. She recalled all too clearly the explosion at Java Hut. The sniper knew about the investigation. He clearly knew about her; Sachs’s phone was the one he’d tapped to learn about the coffee shop. A trickle of electric fear down her spine once more.

Her own mobile trilled.

“Sachs.”

“Got him on GPS,” Rodney Szarnek called excitedly, like a teenager (he’d once said being a cop was nearly as much fun as playing Grand Theft Auto). “We’re in real time, on the provider’s server. He’s walking on the west side of the street, Broadway. Just at Vesey now.”

“I’m on the move.” Sachs started in the direction he’d indicated, feeling the pain in her left hip; the knee alone wasn’t torment enough apparently. She dug into her back pocket — felt past the switchblade and pulled out a blister pack of Advil. Ripped it open with her teeth, swallowed the pills fast and littered the wrapper away.

She closed in on her target as quickly as she could.

Szarnek: “He’s stopped. Maybe for a light.”

Dodging through pedestrian traffic the same way she’d woven through vehicular moments ago, Sachs got closer to the intersection where a red light stopped southbound traffic and pedestrians.

“Still there,” Szarnek said. There was no rock music pumping into his office at the moment.

She could see, about forty feet away, the red light yield to green. Those waiting at the curb surged across the street.

“He’s moving.” One block later, Szarnek said unemotionally, “He’s disconnected.”

Shit.

Sachs sped up to see if she could spot anybody holstering a phone. No one. And she couldn’t help but think that maybe the most recent call was the last he’d make with the tainted phone. Their sniper was, after all, a pro. He must know there was some liability in mobiles. Maybe he’d even spotted her and was about to send his cell into the same sewer system graveyard she just had.

At Dey Street the light changed to red. She had to stop. Surrounded by a crowd of perhaps twenty people — businessmen and — women, construction workers, students, tourists. Quite the ethnic mix, of course, Anglo, Asian, Latino, black and all combinations.

“Amelia?” Rodney Szarnek was on the line.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“He’s getting an incoming call. Should be ringing now.”

Just as the phone in the pocket of the man inches to Sachs’s right began to buzz.

They were literally shoulder-to-shoulder.

He fit the rough description of the man in the South Cove Inn, according to Corporal Mychal Poitier, the Bahamian cop: white male, athletic figure, compact. He wore slacks, shirt and a windbreaker. A baseball cap too. She couldn’t tell if he had brown hair; it seemed more dark blond, but a witness could easily have described that as brown. The cut was short, like their sniper’s. His laced shoes were polished to a shine.

Military.

She said cheerfully into her phone, “Sure. That’s interesting.”

Szarnek asked, “You’re next to him?”

“That’s exactly right.” Don’t overdo the playacting, she told herself.

The light changed and she let him step away first.

Sachs wondered if there was anything she could do to get the man’s identity. She and Rhyme had worked a case a few years ago in which they’d sought the help of a young woman illusionist and sleight-of-hand artist, whose skills included pickpocketing — for theatrical entertainment only, she’d laughingly assured them — Sachs could have used her now. Was there any way she herself might slip her fingers into the man’s jacket pocket to boost a wallet or receipt?

Impossible, she decided. Even if she’d had this skill, the man seemed far too vigilant, looking around frequently.

They crossed the street and continued down Broadway, leaving Liberty behind. Then the sniper turned right suddenly and cut through Zuccotti Park, presently unoccupied, just as Szarnek said, “He’s heading west through Zuccotti.”

“You’re right about that.” Keeping up the act even though her target probably couldn’t hear her.

She followed him diagonally through the park. On the west end he headed south on Trinity.

Szarnek asked, “How’re you going to handle it, Amelia? Want me to call in backup?”

She debated. They couldn’t collar him; there wasn’t enough evidence for that. “I’ll stay with him as long as I can, try to get a picture,” she said, risking speaking for real to Szarnek; the sniper was well out of hearing range now. “If I’m lucky he’s going to his car and I’ll pick up the tag. If not, maybe I’ll be taking a subway ride to Far Rockaway. I’ll call you back.”

Pretending to continue the call, Sachs sped up and walked past the sniper, then paused at the next red light. She turned, as if lost in her conversation, aiming the lens of her phone toward him, and pressed the shutter a half dozen times. When the light changed, she let the sniper cross the street before her. He was lost in his own conversation and didn’t seem to notice Sachs.

She resumed the tail and called Szarnek back. The tech cop said, “Okay, he’s disconnected now.”

Sachs watched the man slip his phone into his pocket. He was making for a ten- or twelve-story building on the gloomy canyon of Rector Street. Rather than entering through the front door of the structure, though, he walked around the side into an alleyway. Halfway down that narrow avenue, he turned and, slipping an ID card lanyard over his neck, walked through a gate into what seemed to be a parking lot, bejeweled with serious razor wire.

Staying to the shadows, Sachs had Szarnek transfer her to Sellitto. She told the detective that she’d found the shooter and needed a surveillance team to keep on him.

“Good, Amelia. I’ll get somebody from Special Services on it right away.”

“I’ll upload some pictures of him. Have them contact Rodney. He can keep tracing the phone and let them know when he’s on the move again. I’ll stay here with him until they show up. Then I’ll go interview Lydia Foster.”

“Where are you exactly?” Sellitto asked.

“Eighty-Five Rector. He went through a gate at the side of the building, a parking lot. Or maybe a courtyard. I didn’t want to get too close.”

“Sure. What’s the building?”

Sachs gave a laugh. She’d just noticed a subtle sign.

National Intelligence and Operations Service.

She told Sellitto, “It’s his office.”

CHAPTER 39

Terrible news: that nice Mr. Moreno was dead.

In her apartment on Third Avenue, Lydia Foster now made a cup of Keurig coffee, picking hazelnut flavored from the hundreds of capsules, and returned to the living room, wondering when that policewoman was going to be here.

Lydia had liked him quite a bit. Smart, courteous. And quite the gentleman. She knew she was pretty well built and had been described as attractive, but unlike some men using her services as an interpreter, Mr. Moreno hadn’t flirted once. On the first translating job for him, several months ago, he’d shown her pictures of his children — adorable! Which men do sometimes as a prelude to trying to pick you up, which Lydia found incredibly tacky, even for the single dads. But Mr. Moreno had followed the pictures of the bambinos with a picture of his wife and announced that he was looking forward to their wedding anniversary.

What a nice man. Polite — holding the car door for her, even though they had a chauffeur. Moreno had been charming. And talkative. They had some engaging conversations. They were, for instance, both fascinated with language. He was a writer for blogs and magazines and a radio host, while she made her living interpreting other people’s words. They’d spoken about similarities between languages and even technical aspects: nominative and dative and possessive cases, as well as verb conjugations. He told her he disliked English intensely, though it was his mother tongue, which she found curious. One may not like the tonal quality of a tongue for being too harsh — German or Xhosa, for instance — or be dismayed at the difficulty of achieving fluency, like Japanese, but to dislike a language in general was something Lydia had never heard of.

He characterized it as random and lazy (all the irregular constructions), confusing and inelegant. It turned out that his real objection was a bit different. “And it’s rammed down the throats of people throughout the world, like it or not. Just another way to make other nations dependent on the U.S.”

But Mr. Moreno had been opinionated about a lot of things. Once he’d started lecturing about politics, you couldn’t dislodge him. She found herself steering away from those subjects.

She’d have to tell the detective that Mr. Moreno had seemed concerned for his safety. He’d looked around quite a bit as they’d driven through the city and walked to their meetings. Once, they’d left one meeting and were on their way to another when Mr. Moreno had stopped suddenly.

“That man? Haven’t we seen him before, outside the other office? Is he following us?” The person he noted was a young, somber-faced white guy, looking through a magazine. That alone struck Lydia as odd, something out of an old-time detective film, where a PI pretends to read a newspaper on the street while spying on a suspect. Nobody lounges on the streets of New York, browsing through reading material; they check iPhones or BlackBerrys.

Lydia would be sure to tell the police officer about the incident; maybe that man had something to do with Mr. Moreno’s death.

Digging through Redweld folders, she assembled her notes from the assignments she’d had with Mr. Moreno over the past few months. She’d saved everything. As an interpreter, she worked with the police and court system from time to time. She had gotten into the habit of being very conscientious about retaining all her files in such cases because a mistaken phrasing of a detective’s question or a suspect’s answer could easily result in an innocent man being convicted or a guilty one going free. This diligence carried over into her commercial interpreting assignments too.

The police would get nearly a thousand pages of translated material by and about the late Mr. Moreno.

The intercom buzzer rang and she answered. “Yes?”

“Ms. Foster, I’m with the NYPD,” a male voice said. “Detective Sachs spoke to you earlier? She’s been delayed and asked me to come by and ask you a few questions about Robert Moreno.”

“Sure, come on up. Twelve B.”

“Thank you.”

A few minutes later a knock on the door. She looked out through the peephole, to see a pleasant-looking man in his thirties, wearing a suit. He was holding up a leather wallet containing a gold badge.

“Come on in,” she said, unbolting and unchaining.

He nodded a greeting and stepped inside.

As soon as she closed the door she noted that there was something wrong with his hands. They were wrinkled. No, he was wearing flesh-colored gloves.

She frowned. “Wait—”

Before she could scream he struck her hard in the throat with an open hand.

Gurgling, crying, she dropped to the floor.

CHAPTER 40

He sometimes wondered about people, Jacob Swann did.

Either you were conscientious or you weren’t. Either you scrubbed every bit of scorch off your copper-bottomed, stainless-steel sauté pan or you didn’t. Either you went the distance with the soufflé, and saw it rise five inches over the top of the ramekin, or you said to hell with it and for dessert served Häagen-Dazs, spelled in faux Scandinavian but made in the U.S. of A.

Standing over a crumpled, gasping Lydia Foster, he was thinking of Amelia Sachs.

She’d been smart enough to destroy her cell phone (and it was destroyed, not simply castrated, his tech people had learned). But then she’d made the mistake of calling Detective Sellitto back from a pay phone only about twenty-five feet from Java Hut. By the time she called, those same tech gurus at headquarters had rammed a tap on this phone — and several others nearby.

(While of course officially claiming they didn’t know how to do it and, even if they had known, never would.)

Sometimes your Miele oven conks out — just before you’re ready to slip the lamb roast in, natch — and you have to improvise.

Sure enough, Sachs had delivered to Lon Sellitto — and inadvertently to Jacob Swann — the vitals about Lydia Foster.

He now moved through the apartment quietly, verifying that they were alone. He probably didn’t have a lot of time. Sachs had said she’d be delayed but presumably she’d call or arrive soon. Should he wait for her? He’d have to consider that. She might not show up alone, of course. There was that and while he did have a pistol, shooting, as opposed to cutting, was the sloppiest (and least enjoyable) way of solving problems.

But if Sachs was alone? Several options presented themselves.

Slipping the knife away, he now returned to the interpreter, grabbed her by the hair and collar of her blouse and dumped her in a heavy dining room chair. He tied her to this with lamp wire, cut with a cheap utility knife he carried—not the Kai Shun, of course. He never even used the blade to slice string for tying beef roulade, one of his favorite recipes.

Tears streamed down her face and, gasping from the throat-punch, Lydia Foster shivered and kicked.

Jacob Swann reached into his breast pocket and removed his Kai Shun from the wooden scabbard. Her reaction, the terror, didn’t deepen. We are dismayed only by the unexpected. She would have seen this coming.

My little butcher man…

He crouched beside her as she sat making ungodly sounds and shaking madly.

“Be still,” he whispered into her ear.

He thought of the Bahamas, yesterday, of Annette uhn-uhn-uhning in a clearing near the beach, surrounded by silver palm and buttonwood trees strangling to death from orange love vines.

The interpreter didn’t comply exactly but she calmed enough.

“I have a few questions. I’m going to need all the material about your assignments for Robert Moreno. What you talked about. And who you met. But first of all, how many officers have you talked to about Robert Moreno?” He was concerned that somebody had called her after Amelia Sachs.

She shook her head.

Jacob Swann rested his left hand on the back of hers, tied tightly down. “That’s not a number. How many officers?”

She made more bizarre sounds and then, when he brushed the knife against her fingers, she whispered, “No one.”

She glanced toward the door. It meant she believed she could save herself if she stalled, to give the police time to arrive.

Jacob Swann curled the fingers of his left hand and rested the side of the Kai Shun blade, pounded with indentations, against his knuckles. The razor edge lowered to her middle and ring fingers. This was the way all serious chefs wielded their knives when they sliced food, fingertips of the guide hand curved below and away from the dangerous blade. You had to be very careful when you cut. He’d sliced through his own fingertips on several occasions. The pain was indescribable; fingers contain more nerve endings than any other part of the body.

He whispered, “Now, I’m going to ask you once more.”

CHAPTER 41

The drive to the sniper’s nest on the outcropping of land near the South Cove Inn took considerably longer than it otherwise might have.

Mychal Poitier gave Thom a complicated route to get to the main highway that led them to their destination — SW Road. The point of this evasion was to see if the gold Mercury was following them. Poitier assured him that the car did not contain officers of the Royal Bahamas Police Force conducting surveillance. The tail might have to do with Moreno or something else entirely. A well-dressed and vulnerable American in a wheelchair might simply have aroused the interest of thieves.

Rhyme called Pulaski, who was still at the inn, and told him where they’d be. The young officer continued to wait for the maid who might have more information about the sniper’s intelligence gathering at the inn the day before the shooting.

Once past the airport the traffic thinned and Thom sped up, piloting the van along SW Road and its gentle arc around the island, past manicured gated communities, past shacks decorated with laundry on lines and goats in pens, past swamps and then an endless mass of forest and greenery — Clifton Heritage Park.

“Here, turn here,” Poitier said.

They had arrived at a dirt road, which veered right and led through a wide, rusting gate, which was open. The road followed a narrow outcropping of land that extended a half mile into Clifton Bay. The spit was a few feet above sea level, dotted with trees and brush and scruffy bare spots, lined with a shore that was rocky in some places, sandy in others. The road was bordered with Do Not Swim signs. No explanation was given but the water was noxious, sickly green and singularly unappealing.

Thom followed the road, which skirted the north edge of the spit, past the several commercial facilities Poitier had alluded to in the restaurant earlier. The first they passed, at the intersection of the unnamed drive and SW Road, was the public trash yard where several fires burned and a dozen people wandered about, picking for anything of value. Next was the tire recycling operation and finally the metal fabricating plant composed of several low shacks so unsubstantial that it looked as if a gentle breeze, forget a hurricane, could have blown them down. The businesses were identified by hand-painted signs. Fences were topped with barbed wire and tense dogs prowled the grounds, squat and broad-chested — very different from the potcake they’d shared lunch with.

Clouds of smoke, yellow and gray, lingered defiantly, as if too heavy to be moved by the breezes.

As Thom picked his way along the pitted road, the view to the right suddenly opened up and they were looking at the bay of azure water beneath a stunning blue sky and white clouds dense as wads of cotton. About a mile away was the low beige line of land and buildings that was the South Cove Inn and surrounding grounds. Somewhere along this north edge of the spit from here to the end, about a hundred yards away, the sniper would have set up his nest.

“Anywhere here,” Rhyme said. Thom drove a short distance to a pull-off and parked. He shut the engine off and two sounds filled the van — some harsh rhythmic pounding from the metal factory and the faint crash of waves on the rocks that lined the shore.

“One thing first,” Poitier said. He reached into his backpack and extracted something then offered it to Rhyme. “Do you want this?”

It was a pistol. A Glock. Very much like Amelia Sachs’s. Poitier verified it was loaded and pulled the slide to chamber a round. With a Glock there is no safety catch, you simply have to pull the trigger to fire it.

Rhyme stared at the pistol, glanced at Thom and then took the weapon in his right hand. He had never cared for firearms. The opportunity to use them — in his specialty of forensics, at least — was next to never, and he was always worried that he’d have to draw and use his gun. The reluctance stemmed not from fear of killing an attacker but from what even a single shot could do to contaminate a crime scene. Smoke, blast pressure, gunshot residue, vapors…

That was no less true here but curiously he was now struck by the sense of power the weapon gave him.

In contrast with the utter helplessness that had enwrapped his life since the accident.

“Yes,” he said.

Though he couldn’t feel it in his fingers, the Glock seemed to burn its way into his skin, to become a part of his new arm. He aimed it carefully out the window at the water, recalling his firearms training. Assume every weapon is loaded and ready to fire, never point a weapon at anything you aren’t prepared to send a bullet into, never shoot unless you see exactly what is behind your target, never put your finger on the trigger until you’re prepared to shoot.

A scientist, Rhyme was actually a pretty good shot, using physics in calculating how to get the bullet to its desired destination.

“Yes,” he said again and slipped the gun into the inside pocket of his jacket.

They got out of the van and surveyed the area: pipes and gutters directing runoff into the ocean, dozens of piles of sludge rising like huge ant hills and cinder blocks and car parts and appliances and rusted industrial machinery littering the ground.

No Swimming…

No kidding.

Thom said, “The haze is bad and the inn’s so far away. How could he see well enough to get a clear target?”

Poitier said, “A special scope, I decided. Adaptive optics, lasers.”

Rhyme was amused. Apparently the corporal had done more research about the case than he’d let on — or than Assistant Commissioner McPherson would have been happy with.

“Could have been a clearer day too.”

“Never very clear here,” Poitier said, waving his arm at a low chimney rising above the tire plant. It spewed bile-green and beige smoke.

Then, surrounded by the nauseating smell of rotten eggs and hot rubber from the pollution, they made their way closer to the shore. Rhyme studied the ground for the best place to set up a sniper’s nest — good cover and an indentation that would allow support on which to rest the rifle. A half dozen sites would have worked.

No one interfered with the search; they were largely alone. A pickup eased up and parked just across the road. The driver, in a sweat-stained gray shirt, speaking into his cell phone, walked to the back of his truck and began tossing trash bags into a ditch beside the road. The concept of littering as a crime seemed not to exist in the Bahamas. Rhyme could also hear some laughing and shouts from the other side of the fence surrounding the metal fabrication plant but otherwise they had the place to themselves.

Looking for the nest, Thom, Poitier and Rhyme walked, and wheeled, through the weeds and patches of dirt and sand, the Storm Arrow doing a fair job of finding purchase in the uneven terrain. Poitier and Thom could get closer to the edge and he told them what to look for: cut-back brush, indentations, foot or boot prints leading to a flat area. “And look at the patches of sand.” Even a spent cartridge leaves a distinctive mark.

“He’s got to be a pro,” Rhyme explained. “He’d’ve had a tripod or sandbags to rest the gun on but he might’ve used rocks too and left them set up. Look for stones out of place, maybe one balanced on another. At that distance, the rifle would have to be absolutely steady.”

Rhyme squinted — the pollution and the wind stung his eyes. “I would love some brass,” he said. But he doubted the sniper would have left any empty cartridges behind; pros always collected them because they contained a wealth of information about the weapon and the shooter. He peered into the water, though, wondering if a spent shell had been ejected there. The sea was black and he assumed very deep.

“A diver’d be good.”

“Our official divers wouldn’t be available, Captain,” Poitier said regretfully. “Since this, of course, isn’t even an investigation.”

“Just an island tour.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Rhyme wheeled close to the edge and looked down.

“Careful there,” Thom called.

“But,” Poitier said, “I dive. I could come back and see if there is anything down there. Borrow some of the underwater lights from our waterside station.”

“You would do that, Corporal?”

He too peered into the water. “Yes. Tomorrow, I—”

What happened next happened fast.

Finger-snap fast.

At the sound of clattering suspension and a hissing, badly firing engine, Rhyme, Thom and Poitier turned to look at the dirt road they’d just driven down. They saw the gold Mercury bounding directly toward them, now with only two occupants in it.

And Rhyme understood. He glanced back, seeing the man in the gray T-shirt, the litterer from the pickup truck, race across the narrow road and tackle Poitier as he was drawing his gun. The weapon went flying. The assailant rose fast and kicked the gasping corporal in the side and head, hard.

“No!” Rhyme cried.

The Mercury squealed to a stop and two of the men they’d seen following earlier leapt out — the one with the dreads in the sleeveless yellow shirt and his partner, shorter, wearing the green T. The man in green ripped Thom’s phone from his hand and doubled him over with a blow to the belly.

“Don’t!” Rhyme shouted — a cry as involuntary as it was pointless.

The man in the gray T-shirt said to his partners, “Okay, you see anyone else?”

“No.”

Of course, that’s why he was on the phone. He hadn’t come here to pitch out trash at all. He’d followed them and used the phone to let the others know their victims had arrived at the killing site.

Poitier gasped for breath, clutching his side.

Rhyme said firmly, “We’re police officers from the United States. We work with the FBI. Don’t make this worse on yourself. Just leave now.”

It was as if he hadn’t spoken.

The man in gray walked toward Poitier’s pistol, lying in the dust ten feet away.

“Stop,” Rhyme commanded.

The man did. He blinked at the criminalist. The other attackers froze. They were looking at the Glock in Rhyme’s hand. The pistol was unsteady, for sure, but from this distance he could easily send a bullet into the torso of the assailant.

The man lifted his hands slightly, rising. Eyes on the pistol. Back to Rhyme. “Okay, okay, mister. Don’t do with that.”

“All of you, step back and lie down on the ground, facedown.”

The two who’d been in the car turned their eyes on the man in gray.

Nobody moved.

“I’m not going to tell you again.” Rhyme wondered what the recoil would do to his hand. He supposed there might be some damage to the tendons. But all he needed after the shot was to keep the weapon in his grip. The others would flee after he’d killed their leader.

Thinking of the Special Task Order. No due process, no trial. Self-defense. Taking a life before your enemy did.

“You gonna shoot me, sir?” The man was studying him, suddenly defiant.

Rhyme rarely had a chance to meet adversaries face-to-face. They were usually long gone from the crime scene by the time he saw them, which was usually in court where he was an expert witness for the prosecution. Still, he had no trouble staring down the man in gray.

His partner, the one in yellow, the one with the impressive muscles, stepped forward but stopped fast when Rhyme spun the gun toward him.

“Hokay, easy, mon, easy.” Hands raised.

Rhyme aimed again at the leader, whose eyes were fixed on the weapon, his hands up. He smiled. “Are you? Are you going to shoot me, sir? I’m not so sure you are.” He stepped forward a few feet. Paused. And then walked directly toward Rhyme.

There was nothing more to say.

Rhyme tensed, hoping the recoil wouldn’t damage the results of the delicate surgery, hoping he could keep the weapon in his hand. He sent the command to close his index finger.

But nothing happened.

Glocks — dependable, Austrian-made pistols — have a trigger pull of only a few pounds pressure.

Yet Rhyme couldn’t muster that, couldn’t deliver enough strength to save the life of his aide and the police officer who’d risked his job to help him.

The man in gray continued forward, perhaps assuming Rhyme lacked the fortitude to shoot, even as he tried desperately to pull the trigger. Even more insulting, the man didn’t approach from the side, he kept on a steady path toward the muzzle that hovered in his direction.

The man closed his muscular hand around the gun and easily yanked it from Rhyme’s.

“You know, you a freak, mon.” He braced himself, put his foot in the middle of Rhyme’s chest and pushed hard.

The Storm Arrow rolled back two feet and went off the rocky edge. With a huge splash, Rhyme and the chair tumbled into the water. He took a deep breath and went under.

The water was not as deep as he’d thought, the darkness was due to the pollution, the chemicals and waste. The chair dropped ten feet or so and came to rest on the bottom.

Head throbbing, lungs in agony as his breath depleted, Rhyme twisted his head as far as he could and with his mouth gripped the strap of the canvas bag hanging from the back of the chair. He tugged this forward and it floated to just within his reach. He managed to wrap his arm around it for stability and undid the zipper with his teeth, then lowered his head and fished for the portable ventilator’s mouthpiece. He gripped it hard and worked it between his lips.

His eyes were on fire, stinging from the pollutants in the water, and he squinted but kept them open as he searched for the switch to the ventilator.

Finally, there. That’s it.

He clicked it on.

Lights glowed. The machine hummed and he inhaled a bit of wonderful, sweet oxygen.

Another.

But there was no third. Apparently the water had worked its way through the housing and short-circuited the unit.

The ventilator went dark. The air stopped.

At that moment he heard another sound, muffled through the water, but distinct: Two sounds, actually.

Gunshots.

Spelling the deaths of his friends: one he’d known seemingly forever and one he’d grown close to in just the past few hours.

Rhyme’s next breath was of water.

He thought of Amelia Sachs and his body relaxed.

CHAPTER 42

No.

Oh, no.

At close to 5 p.m. she parked in front of Lydia Foster’s apartment building on Third Avenue.

Sachs couldn’t get too close; police cars and ambulances blocked the street.

Logic told her that the reason for the vehicles couldn’t be the death of the interpreter. Sachs had been following the sniper for the past hour and a half. He was still in his office downtown. She hadn’t left until Myers’s Special Services surveillance team showed up. Besides, how could the sniper have learned the interpreter’s name and address? She’d been careful to call from landlines and prepaid mobiles.

That’s what logic reported.

Yet instinct told her something very different, that Lydia was dead and Sachs was to blame. Because she’d never considered what she realized was the truth: They had two perps. One was the man she’d been following through the streets of downtown New York — the sniper, she knew, because of the voiceprint match — and the other, Lydia Foster’s killer, an unsub, unidentified subject. He was somebody else altogether, maybe the shooter’s partner, a spotter, as many snipers used. Or a separate contractor, a specialist, hired by Shreve Metzger to clean up after the assassination.

She parked fast, tossed the NYPD placard on the dash and stepped out of the car, hurrying toward the nondescript apartment building, the pale façade marred by off-white water stains as if the air-conditioning units had been crying.

Ducking under the police tape, she hurried up to a detective, who was prepping a canvass team. The slim African American recognized her, though she didn’t know him, and he nodded a greeting. “Detective.”

“Was it Lydia Foster?” Wondering why she bothered to ask.

“Right. This involves a case you’re running?”

“Yeah. Lon Sellitto’s the lead, Bill Myers’s overseeing it. I’m doing the legwork.”

“It’s all yours, then.”

“What happened?”

She noticed the man was shaken up, eyes twitching away from hers as he fiddled with a pen.

He swallowed and said, “Scene was pretty bad, I gotta tell you. She was tortured. Then he stabbed her. Never seen anything like that.”

“Torture?” she asked in a whisper.

“Sliced the skin off her fingers. Slow.”

Jesus…

“How did he get in?”

“Some reason, she let him in. No signs of break-in.”

Dismayed, Sachs now understood. The unsub had tapped a line — probably the landline she’d used near Java Hut — and learned about the interpreter. He’d fronted he was a cop, flashing a fake badge, saying he worked with Sachs; he’d know her name by now.

That conversation between Sachs and Sellitto was Lydia Foster’s own personal Special Task Order.

She felt a burst of breathtaking anger toward the killer. What he’d done to Lydia — the pain he’d inflicted — had been unnecessary. To get information from a civilian you needed only to threaten. Physical torture was always pointless.

Unless you enjoyed it.

Unless you got pleasure in wielding a knife, slicing precisely, skillfully.

“Why’d you get the call?” she asked.

“Fucker cut her so much, she bled through the ceiling. Neighbors downstairs saw blood on the wall. Called nine one one.” The detective continued, “The place was ransacked. I don’t know what he was looking for but he went through everything she had. There wasn’t a single drawer untouched. No computer or cell phone either. He took it all.”

The files on the Moreno interpreting assignment, probably already shredded or burned.

“CS on the way?”

“I called a team from Queens. They’ll be here any minute.”

Sachs had a set of basic crime scene gear in the trunk of the Torino. She returned to the vehicle and began to pull on the powder-blue overalls and booties and shower cap. She’d get started now. Every minute that passed degraded evidence.

And every minute that passed let the monster who’d done this get farther and farther away.

Walking the grid.

Garbed like a surgeon, Amelia Sachs was moving through Lydia Foster’s apartment in the classic crime scene search pattern, the grid: one pace at a time from wall to wall, turn, step aside slightly and return. And when that was done you covered the same ground in the same way, only perpendicular to your earlier search.

This was the most time-consuming method of searching a scene but also the most thorough. This was how Rhyme had searched his scenes and it was the way he insisted those working for him did too.

The search is perhaps the most important part of a crime scene investigation. Photos and videos and sketches are important. Entrance and exit routes, locations of shell casings, fingerprints, smears of semen, blood spatter. But finding crucial trace is what crime scene work is all about. Merci, M. Locard. When you walk the grid you need to open up your whole body to the place, smelling, listening, touching and, of course, looking. Scanning relentlessly.

This is what Amelia Sachs now did.

She didn’t think she was a natural at forensic analysis. She was no scientist. Her mind didn’t make those breathtaking deductions that came so quickly to Rhyme. But one thing that did work to her advantage was her empathy.

When they’d first started working together, Rhyme had apparently spotted within her a skill he himself did not have: the ability to get into the mind of the perpetrator. When she walked the grid she found she was actually able to mentally become the killer or rapist or kidnapper or thief. This could be a harrowing, exhausting endeavor. But when it worked, the process meant she would think of places in the scene to examine that a typical searcher might not, hiding places, improbable entrance and escape routes, vantage points.

It was there that she would discover evidence that would otherwise have remained hidden forever.

The techs from Crime Scene in Queens arrived. But, as before, she was handling the preliminary work alone. You’d think more people made for a better search but that was true only in an expansive area like those involving mass shootings. In a typical scene a single searcher is less distracted — and is also aware that there’s no one else to catch what he misses, so he concentrates that much harder.

And one truth about crime scene work: You’ve only got one chance to find the critical clue; you can’t go back and try again.

As she walked through the apartment where Lydia Foster’s corpse sat, head back and bloody, tied to a chair, Sachs felt an urge to speak to Rhyme to tell him what she was seeing and smelling and thinking. And once again, as when walking the grid at Java Hut, the emptiness at being unable to hear his voice chilled her heart. Rhyme was only a thousand miles away but she felt as if he’d ceased to exist.

Involuntarily she thought again of the surgery scheduled for later in the month. Didn’t want to consider it, but couldn’t help herself.

What if he didn’t survive?

Both Sachs and Rhyme lived on the edge — her lifestyle of speed and danger, his physical condition. Possibly, probably, this element of risk made life together more intense, their connection closer. And she accepted this most of the time. But now, with him away and her searching a particularly difficult scene involving a perp all too aware of her, she couldn’t help but think that they were always just a gunshot or heartbeat away from being alone forever.

Forget this, Sachs thought harshly. Possibly said it aloud. She didn’t know. Get to work.

She found, though, that her empathy wasn’t kicking in, not on this scene. As she moved through the rooms, she felt blocked. Maybe like a writer or artist who couldn’t quite channel a muse. The ideas wouldn’t come. For one thing, she didn’t know who the hell the killer was. The latest information was confusing. The man who’d done this wasn’t the sniper, but, most likely, another of Metzger’s specialists. Yet who?

The other reason she wasn’t connecting was that she didn’t understand the unsub’s motive. If he wanted to eliminate witnesses and hamper the investigation, then why the horrific torture, the precise knife cuts? The slashes where he flayed off skin, leisurely, it seemed? Sachs found herself distracted as she stared at the strips of flesh on the floor below the chair where Lydia was tied. The blood.

What did he want?

Maybe if Rhyme had been speaking into her ear, working the scene with her via radio or video, it might be different, insights might leap out.

But he wasn’t, and the killer’s psyche eluded her.

The search itself didn’t take long. Whatever his motive, Lydia Foster’s killer had been careful — wearing rubber gloves. She could tell this from the wrinkles in some of the blood smears, where he’d touched her body while slicing her skin. He’d been careful to avoid stepping in the blood and so there were no obvious shoe prints, and an electrostatic wand sweep of the non-carpeted floor revealed no latents. She collected trace, a few receipts and Post-it notes, stuffed into the pockets of jeans hung on the bathroom door. But this was all the documentary evidence Sachs could track down. She processed the body, noting again the appalling wounds, small but precise, as the unsub had flayed the skin from the woman’s fingers. The single, fatal stab wound through the chest. There seemed to be bruises around the site of the incision, as if he had firmly palpated her flesh to find an entrance to her heart free of bones.

Why was that?

Sachs then radioed down to her colleagues to let them know they could come upstairs for the videos and stills.

At the door she paused, glancing back for one last look at Lydia Foster’s body.

I’m sorry, Lydia. I didn’t think!

I should have considered that he’d tap the landlines near Java Hut. I should have thought there might be two perps.

Sachs had another thought too: She regretted being too late to get the information that the woman would have provided. The details the interpreter had known and the records she had were clearly crucial. Otherwise, why interrogate her?

And she apologized to Lydia Foster a second time, for having this selfish thought.

Outside, she stripped off the overalls and deposited them in a burn bag; they were streaked with Lydia’s blood. She used cleanser on her hands. Checked her Glock. Scanned the area for any threats. All she saw were a hundred black windows, dim cul-de-sacs, paused cars. Each a perfect vantage point for the unsub to be standing to target her.

Sachs was about to hook her phone holster into place too but she paused. Thinking: I really want to talk to Rhyme.

She hit speed dial on her most recent prepaid mobile; it was his number. But the call went right to voice mail. Sachs thought about leaving a message but hung up. She found she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say.

Maybe just that she missed him.

CHAPTER 43

Lincoln Rhyme blinked. His eyes stung like hell and in his mouth were conflicting tastes, the sweetness of oil and the sourness of chemicals.

He’d just come back to consciousness and was, to his surprise, not coughing as much as he thought he ought to be. An oxygen mask was over his mouth and nose and he was breathing deeply. His throat hurt, though, and he guessed he had been coughing plenty earlier, when he’d been dead to the world.

He looked around, noting that he was in the back of an ambulance, excessively hot, parked on the spit of land where the attack had taken place; he could see the South Cove Inn in the distance, over the choppy blue-and-green bay. A stocky medic with a round black face was leaning forward, manning a flashlight, examining his eyes. He removed the oxygen mask to study Rhyme’s mouth and nose.

The man’s own face, very dark, gave away nothing. Finally he said in an American inflection, not British: “That water. Very bad. Runoff. Chemicals. All kinds of things. But it doesn’t look too bad. Irritation. It hurts?”

“Stings. Bad. Yes.”

As if the medic’s staccato syntax were contagious.

Rhyme inhaled deeply. “But please, you have to tell me! The two men who were with me? What—?”

“How’re his lungs?”

The question was from Thom Reston, who was approaching the back of the ambulance. The aide coughed once then twice, hard.

Rhyme squelched his own cough and muttered in astonishment, “You’re…you’re all right?”

Thom pointed to his eyes, which were bright red. “Nothing serious. Just a lot of crap in that water.”

Very bad. Runoff…

His clothes were soaking, Rhyme noted, and that answered several questions. First, that the aide had been the one who’d rescued him.

And, second, that the two shots he’d heard had been meant for Mychal Poitier.

I have a wife and two children I am supporting. I love them very much…

Rhyme was heartsick at the man’s death. After the corporal had been killed Thom must have dived into the water to save Rhyme as the attackers fled.

The medic listened to his chest again. “Surprising. They’re good, your lungs. I see the scar, the ventilator, but it’s an old scar. You’ve done well. You work out. And your right arm, the prosthetic system. I’ve read about that. Very impressive.”

Except not impressive enough to save Mychal Poitier.

The paramedic rose and said, “I would rinse them, your eyes and mouth. Water. Nothing else. Bottled. Three, four times a day. And see your own doctor. When you get home. I’ll be back in a moment.” He turned and stepped away, his feet crunching on the sand and gravel.

Rhyme said, “Thank you, Thom. Thank you. Saved my life yet again and not with clonidine.” The medicine to bring down blood pressure after an attack of autonomic dysreflexia. “I tried the ventilator.”

“I know. It was tangled around your neck. I had to pull it off. Wish I’d had Amelia’s switchblade.”

Rhyme sighed. “But Mychal. It’s terrible…”

Thom lifted a sphygmomanometer from a rack in the ambulance. He took Rhyme’s blood pressure himself. As he did this, he shrugged. “It’s not that serious.”

“The blood pressure?”

“No, I mean Poitier. Quiet. I need to hear the pulse.”

Rhyme was sure he’d misheard; his ears were still clogged with water. “But—”

“Shhh.” The aide was holding a purloined stethoscope to Rhyme’s arm.

“You said—”

“Quiet!” A moment later he nodded. “Pressure’s fine.” A glance in the direction in which the medic had disappeared. “Not that I didn’t trust him but I wanted to see for—”

“What do you mean it isn’t that serious, about Mychal?”

“Well, you saw: He got kicked and hit. But nothing too bad.”

“He was shot!”

“Shot? No, he wasn’t.”

“I heard two gunshots.”

“Oh, that.”

Rhyme snapped, “What do you mean, ‘Oh, that’?”

Thom explained, “The guy who kicked you into the water, in the gray shirt? He was shooting at Ron.”

“Pulaski? Jesus, he all right?”

“He’s fine too.”

“What the fuck happened?” Rhyme blurted.

Thom laughed. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“What. Happened?”

“Ron finished up at the South Cove and came over here. You told him that’s where we’d be. He drove up in the rental just after you went for your swim. He saw what was going on and drove right toward the one with the gun, really floored it. The guy shot at the car twice but must’ve figured Ron was the first of the reinforcements and since there was only one way out they jumped in the Mercury and the pickup and beat it.”

“Mychal’s all right?”

“That’s what I said.”

The relief was immeasurable. Rhyme said nothing for a moment as his eyes took in the choppy water nearby, an arc of spray in the sunlight, low to the west. “The wheelchair?”

Thom shook his head. “That’s not so all right.”

“Pricks,” Rhyme muttered. He had no sentimental feelings about hardware, either professional or personal. But he’d grown quite attached to the Storm Arrow as a practical matter because it was such a fine piece of machinery and he’d worked hard to master it. Operating a wheelchair is a true skill. He was furious at the thugs.

The aide continued, “I’m borrowing one of theirs.” A glance at the medical team. “Non-motorized. Well, motorized by yours truly.”

Another figure appeared.

“Well, the rookie saves the day.”

“You don’t look too bad,” Pulaski said. “Damp. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you damp, Lincoln.”

“What’d you find at the inn?”

“Not much else. The maid confirmed pretty much what Corporal Poitier told us. A tough-looking American was asking about Moreno and suite twelve hundred. He said he was a friend and was thinking of throwing a party for him. Wanted to know who was with him, what his schedule was, who was his friend — I assume that was his guard.”

“Party,” Rhyme grunted and looked around the ambulance. The medic returned with burly assistants, one of whom was pushing a battered wheelchair. Rhyme asked, “You have any brandy or anything?”

“Brandy?”

“Medicinal brandy.”

“Medicinal brandy?” The man’s large face drew into a frown. “Let me think. I suppose doctors down here do administer that some — being a third-world island, of course. I’m afraid I missed that course when I got my emergency health services degree at the University of Maryland.”

Touché.

But the doctor was clearly amused, not offended, and gestured to the assistants, who got Rhyme into the battered chair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in one that didn’t have a battery and motor, and he didn’t like the sensation of helplessness. It took him back to the days just after the accident.

“I want to see Mychal,” he said. Instinctively he reached for the chair’s controller before recalling it wasn’t there. He didn’t bother to go for the handgrip on the wheel to propel himself forward. If he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger of a gun he wasn’t going to be able to move his own deadweight over broken asphalt and sand with one hand.

Thom wheeled him the thirty feet to where Poitier sat on a creosote-soaked eight-by-eight beam, beside the two RBPF officers who’d responded to the emergency call.

Poitier rose. “Ah, Captain. I heard you were safe. Good, good. You look none the worse for wear.”

“Damp,” Pulaski repeated. Drawing a smile from Thom and scowl from Rhyme.

“And you?”

“Fine. Little groggy. They gave me some pain medicine. My first fight in five years on the force and I didn’t do very well. Blindsided. I was blindsided.”

“Did anyone see tag numbers?” Rhyme asked.

“There were none, no number plates. And it won’t do any good to look up gold-and-black Mercurys or white pickup trucks. I’m sure they were stolen. I will look at mug shots back in the station but that will be useless too. Still we have to go through the motions.”

Suddenly a plume of dust rose from the direction of the SW Road. A car, no, two cars were moving in fast.

The RBPF officers who were standing nearby stiffened uneasily.

Not because these cars represented a physical threat. Rhyme could see that the unmarked Ford sported red grille lights, which flashed dramatically. He wasn’t surprised that the man in the backseat was Assistant Commissioner McPherson. A second car, a marked RBPF cruiser, was behind.

They both skidded to a stop near the ambulance and McPherson climbed angrily from the car, slammed the door.

Storming toward Poitier, he said, “What has happened here?”

Rhyme explained, shouldering the blame.

The assistant commissioner glared at him then turned and raged in a low growl at his corporal, “I will not have this insubordination. You should have told me.”

Rhyme expected the young man would roll over. But he stared into his boss’s eyes.

“Sir, with all respect. I was given the Moreno homicide to handle.”

“It was your case to handle according to proper procedures. And that doesn’t include bringing an interloper into the field with you.”

“This was a lead. The sniper was here. I should have searched last week.”

“We have to see what the—”

Poitier interjected, “Venezuelan authorities have to say.”

“Do not interrupt me again, Corporal. And do not take that attitude with me.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Rhyme said, “This is an important case, Commissioner, with implications for both our countries.”

“And you, Captain Rhyme, you. Do you understand you nearly got a policeman on my force killed?”

The criminalist fell silent.

His voice flinty he added, “And yourself too. We don’t need any more dead Americans in the Bahamas. We’ve had our share.” A cool glance to his side. “You’re suspended, Corporal. There will be an inquiry that may result in your termination. At the very least, you’ll be reassigned back to Traffic.”

Dismay flooded Poitier’s face. “But—”

“And you, Captain Rhyme, you are leaving the Bahamas immediately. My officers here will escort you to the airport, along with your associates. Your belongings will be collected from your motel and given to you there. We have already called the airline. You have seats on a flight that leaves in two hours. You’ll be in custody until then. And you, Corporal, you will surrender your weapon and your identification at headquarters.”

“Yes, sir.”

But suddenly Ron Pulaski strode forward and confronted the assistant commissioner, who was easily twice his weight and several inches taller. “No,” the young patrolman said.

“I beg your pardon?”

The young officer said firmly, “We’re going to spend the night at our motel. Leave in the morning.”

“What?” McPherson blinked.

“We are not leaving tonight.”

“That’s not acceptable, Officer Pulaski.”

“Lincoln nearly died. He’s not getting on an airplane until he’s had some rest.”

“You’ve committed crimes—”

Pulaski unholstered his phone. “Should we call the embassy and discuss the matter with them? Of course, I’d have to mention what we’re doing down here, the specific crime we’re investigating.”

Silence, except for the clang of the mysterious machinery in the factory behind them and the lapping of the shimmering waves.

The brass glowered. “All right,” McPherson muttered. “But you take the first flight in the morning. You’ll be escorted to your motel and confined to your room until then.”

Rhyme said, “Thank you, Commissioner. I appreciate it. I apologize for any difficulties I’ve caused your force. Good luck with this case. And with the murder investigation of the American student.” He looked at Poitier. “And again, I’m sorry to you too, Corporal.”

Five minutes later Rhyme, Thom and Pulaski were in the Ford van, leaving the spit, with a police escort behind them to make sure they arrived — and stayed put — at their motel. The two large officers in the squad car were unsmiling and wary. Rhyme in fact didn’t mind their presence; after all, the trio from the gold Mercury was still at large.

“Goddamn good job, rookie.”

“Better than competent?”

“You exceeded competence.”

The young officer laughed. “I had a hunch you needed to buy some time.”

“That’s exactly right. I liked the embassy part, by the way.”

“Improvising. So what do we do next?”

“We let the bread bake,” Rhyme said cryptically. “And see if we can’t rustle up some of this Bahamian rum I’ve been hearing about.”

CHAPTER 44

Into the parlor of the town house, the laboratory, Amelia Sachs carted a milk crate containing the evidence from the Lydia Foster crime scene.

“Did Lincoln call?” she asked Mel Cooper, who eyed the crate with interest.

“Nope, not a word.”

Cooper, the expert lab man, was now officially on board, thanks to a call by Lon Sellitto and Captain Myers, to arrange for his reassignment to the Rhyme Precinct. Cooper, an NYPD detective, was balding and diminutive and wore thick Harry Potter glasses that never seemed to remain exactly perched where they should be. You would think his off-hours life would be filled with math puzzles and Scientific American but his leisure time was largely taken with ballroom dancing competitions, with his stunningly gorgeous Scandinavian girlfriend, a mathematics professor at Columbia University.

Nance Laurel was at her desk. The woman glanced blankly at the physical evidence, then back to the policewoman, and Sachs didn’t know if this was a greeting or a symptom of one of the pauses before she spoke.

Sachs offered grimly, “I got it wrong. There’re two perps.” She explained about her erroneous assumption. “I was following the sniper. The man who killed Lydia Foster’s somebody else.”

“Who do you think?” Cooper asked.

“Bruns’s backup.”

“Or a specialist hired by Metzger to clean up,” Laurel said. It seemed to Sachs that her voice brightened at this. Good news for the case, good news for the jury — that their primary suspect would order one of his officers to do something so heartless. Not a word of sympathy for the victim, not a frown of concern.

Sachs truly hated the woman at this moment.

She continued, pointedly speaking only to Mel Cooper, “Lon’s agreed to keep it a motive-unknown case for the time being — like the IED at the Java Hut’s still officially a gas main explosion. I thought it was better not to let Metzger know how the investigation’s going.”

Laurel was nodding. “Good.”

Sachs stared at the whiteboards then began to revise them in light of what they’d learned. “Let’s give Lydia Foster’s killer the title Unsub Five Sixteen. After today’s date.”

Laurel asked, “Anything more about the ID of the shooter, the man you followed to NIOS?”

“No. Lon’s got a surveillance team on him. They’ll call as soon as they make an ID.”

Another pause. Laurel said, “I’m just curious: Did you think about getting his fingerprints?”

“His—”

“When you were following the sniper downtown? The reason I’m asking is I was working a case once and an undercover detective dropped a glossy magazine. The subject picked it up for her. We got his prints.”

“Well,” Sachs said evenly, “I didn’t.”

Because if I had done that we’d have his fucking ID by now. Which we don’t.

An impenetrably cryptic nod from Laurel.

Just curious…

That was as irritating as “if you don’t mind.”

Sachs turned away from her, wincing slightly, and handed off the evidence from the Lydia Foster crime scene to Mel Cooper, who regarded the slim pickings with the same dismay that Sachs felt.

“That’s it?”

“Afraid so. Unsub Five Sixteen knows what he’s doing.” Sachs was looking at the photos of Lydia Foster’s bloody corpse, which she was downloading from the crime scene team in Queens and printing out.

Lips tight, she stepped to one of the whiteboards and taped the pictures up.

“He tortured her,” Laurel said softly but with no other reaction.

“And took everything Lydia had about the assignment for Moreno.”

“What could she have known?” the ADA wondered. “If he had a commercial interpreter with him on the business trip, he obviously wasn’t taking her to meet criminals. She’d be a good witness to testify that Moreno wasn’t a terrorist.” She added, “That is, would have been a good witness.”

Sachs felt a burst of anger that the woman’s reaction was less about Lydia Foster’s death than that she’d lost a brick in the prosecution against Shreve Metzger. Then recalled her own dismay at seeing the body, part of which stemmed from her being too late to get solid information from the interpreter.

The policewoman said, “I had a brief conversation with her earlier. I know she had meetings with Russian and Emirates charities and the Brazilian consulate. That’s all.”

I never got the chance to find out more, she reflected. Still furious with herself. If Rhyme had been here, he would have speculated that there might be two perps. Shit.

Forget it, she sternly thought. Get on with the case.

She looked at Cooper. “Let’s see if we can make some connections. I want to know whether it was Bruns or the unsub who set the IED. You found anything from the Java Hut scene, Mel?”

Cooper explained that there’d been very few clues but he had in fact made some discoveries. The Bomb Squad had delivered the information that the IED was an off-the-shelf anti-personnel device, loaded with Semtex, the Czech plastic explosive. “They’re available on the arms market, pretty easily if you have the right connections,” Cooper explained. “Most purchasers are military users, both government and mercenaries.”

Cooper had run the latent prints Sachs had been able to lift at the coffeehouse and had sent them to IAFIS. They’d come back negative.

The tech said, “You got me a lot of good samplars from the Java Hut but there wasn’t a lot of trace that could reasonably be attributed to the perp. Two things were unique, though, which means they might’ve come from our bomber. The first was eroded limestone, coral and very small bits of shell — sand, in other words, and it’s sand from a tropical location. I also found organic crustacean waste.”

“What’s that?” Laurel asked.

“Crab shit,” Sachs answered.

“Exactly,” Cooper confirmed. “Though, to be accurate, it could be from lobsters, crayfish, shrimp, krill and barnacles too. There are over sixty-five thousand crustacean species. What I can tell you, though, is that it’s typical of beaches in the Caribbean. And the trace includes residue consistent with evaporated seawater.”

Sachs frowned. “So he might’ve been the man in the South Cove Inn just before Moreno was shot. Would sand still cling after a week?”

“These were fine grains. Yes, it’s possible. They can be very adhesive.”

“What else did you catch, Mel?”

“Something I’ve never found at a crime scene—1,5-dicaffeoylquinic acid.”

“Which is?”

“Cynarine,” Cooper said, reading from a computer database of chemical substances. “Most commonly it’s the biologically active component of artichokes. It gives them the sweet flavor.”

“And our perp left traces of that?”

“Can’t say for sure but I found some on the doorstep of Java Hut, on the knob and on a fragment of the IED.”

Sachs nodded. Artichokes. Curious but that’s how crime scene work went. Many pieces to the puzzle.

“Nothing else.”

“That’s it for the Java Hut?”

“Yep.”

“So we still don’t know who planted the bomb.”

Then she and Cooper turned to the Lydia Foster scene.

“First,” the tech said, nodding at the photos of her body, “the knife wounds. They look unusual, very narrow. But there’s no database to let us know.”

The United States, home of the National Rifle Association, was the gunshot capital of the world. Death by knife was common in the United Kingdom and other countries with strict gun control laws but in America, with the ubiquity of guns, knives were relatively rare weapons in homicides. So no law enforcement agency had compiled a knife wound computer image database, at least none that Sachs and Rhyme knew about.

Even though she was sure he’d worn gloves, Sachs had still lifted prints from around — and on — Lydia Foster’s corpse. You never knew if a perp might have taken his gloves off at some point. But as with Java Hut, these came back from the automated database negative.

“Didn’t expect anything different,” she muttered. “But I found a hair that didn’t match the samplars. There, in the envelope.” Sachs handed it to the tech. “Brown and short. Might be the perp’s. Remember Corporal Poitier said the man checking out Moreno’s suite the day before the killing had short brown hair. Oh, the follicle’s attached.”

“Good. I’ll get it to CODIS.”

The nationwide DNA database was expanding at an exponential rate. Whoever the hair belonged to might be in the system; if so, they’d have his identity and, possibly, his present whereabouts soon.

Sachs began looking through the rest of the evidence. Though the killer had taken every single document, computer and media storage device that might have mentioned Robert Moreno, she had found something that might be relevant. A Starbucks receipt. The date and time printed at the top indicated the afternoon of May 1. Sachs recalled that this was probably when Moreno had his private meeting, the one Lydia had not attended. It might be possible to identify the office where the activist went.

Tomorrow she’d go to the location — a building on Chambers Street.

Sachs and Cooper went through the rest of the trace from Lydia’s apartment but weren’t able to isolate very much. Cooper ran a sample through the gas chromatograph and looked up toward the women. “Got something here. A plant. It’s Glycyrrhiza glabra—a legume, sort of like a bean or pea. Basically, it’s licorice.”

Sachs said, “Anise or fennel?”

“No, no relation, though the tastes are similar.”

Nance Laurel looked mystified. “You didn’t look anything up. Cynarine, Glycyrrhiza…I’m sorry, but how do you know all this?”

Cooper shoved his black glasses higher on his nose and said, as if it were obvious, “I work for Lincoln Rhyme.”

CHAPTER 45

Finally a break: They caught the shooter’s real name.

Captain Myers’s Special Services surveillance team had followed the sniper from NIOS headquarters to his home. He’d gotten off in Carroll Gardens and walked to a house that was owned by Barry and Margaret Shales. A motor vehicle search had returned a picture of Shales. It was clearly the same man whom Sachs had been following that afternoon and taken a picture of with her mobile phone’s camera.

Barry Shales was thirty-nine. Former military — retiring as a captain in the air force and decorated several times. The man was now working civilian as an “intelligence specialist” with NIOS. He and his wife — a teacher — had two children, boys in elementary school. Shales was active in his Presbyterian church and volunteered at the boys’ schools, a reading tutor.

Learning this bio, Sachs was troubled. Most of the perps she and Rhyme pursued were hardened criminals, serial offenders, organized crime bosses, psychotics, terrorists. But this case was different. Shales was probably a devoted civil servant, probably a decent husband and father. Just doing his duty, even if it happened to involve shooting terrorists in cold blood. Upon his arrest and conviction, a family would be destroyed. Metzger might have been using NIOS for his own delusional approach in safeguarding the country and using a specialist for clean-up. But Shales? He might have been just following orders.

Still, even if he hadn’t been the one who’d tortured and killed Lydia Foster, he was part of the organization that possibly had.

Sachs called Lon Sellitto and told him of their discovery. Then she placed a call to Information Services, requesting every fact they could dig up on Barry Shales — most important where he’d been and what he was doing on May 9, the day of the shooting.

The lab phone rang and Sachs, noting the caller ID, hit speaker. “Fred.”

She wasn’t worried that Unsub 516 was tapping this particular phone line; Rodney Szarnek had sent over a device he called a “tap-trap,” which could detect anyone’s listening in. The monitor showed that the conversation was private.

“Amelia. Is it true what I’m hearing? Your friend and mine is sunning himself in the Caribbean.”

His astonishment was so exaggerated that Sachs had to smile. Cooper did too. Nance Laurel did not.

“He sure is, Fred.”

“Why oh why do my assignments take me to the prime vacation spots of the South Bronx and Newark? While Mr. Lincoln Rhyme’s on a beach, courtesy of the city of New York? Where’s the fairness in that? Is he enjoying those sissy drinks with umbrellas and plastic sea horses?”

“I think he’s paying for it himself, Fred. And how do you know they serve drinks down there with plastic sea horses?”

“Busted,” the agent admitted. “The coconut ones, they’re my personal favorites. Now, how’s the case goin’? That homicide on Third Avenue, that was related? Lydia Foster. Saw it on the wire.”

“Afraid it was. We think it’s a clean-up op, probably that Metzger ordered.”

“Fuck,” Dellray spat out. “Man’s gone rogue big time.”

“He sure has.” Sachs told him too that they’d found there were two perps. “We still don’t know which of them set the bomb at the coffee shop.”

“Well, I gotcha a few things you might be interested in.”

“Go ahead. Anything.”

“First off, the mobile your sniper was using — the one registered to Mr. Code Name Don Bruns, with that fake Social Security number and a Delaware corporation? The company’s buried way deep but I traced it to some shell outfits that NIOS’s used in the past. Probably why the phone’s still active. Lotta time the government thinks they’re too smart to get found out. Or too big. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Good. Thanks, Fred.”

“And turns out your friend the late and great Mr. Moreno was not planning to detonate a big bang of mass destruction and move into a cave.”

He explained he was referring to Robert Moreno’s mysterious message about “vanishing into thin air, May twenty-fourth.”

“What was it about?” Sachs asked.

The FBI agent continued, “Was a play on words, seems. What it is: Some of our folk down in Venezuela found out that Moreno and his family were moving into a new house on the twenty-fourth.”

He gave them the details: Robert Moreno had bought a four-bedroom home in the Venezuelan city of San Cristóbal, one of the more upscale locales in the country. It was on a mountaintop.

Thin air…

Laurel nodded at his words, obviously pleased. So Moreno might not be the Western Hemisphere’s answer to Bin Laden.

Gotta keep the jury happy, Sachs thought cynically.

The agent continued, “Oh, and the IED attack in Mexico City on May thirteen? Now, this one’s almost funny. The only thing with a Moreno connection on that date in Mexico City was a big fund-raiser for a charity he was involved with. Classrooms for the Americas. Called Balloon Day. Everbody bought a balloon for ten dollars then you popped it and got a prize inside. They had over a thousand balloons. I gotta say, my lungs aren’t up to a task like that.”

Sachs slumped, closing her eyes. Jesus.

Can we find somebody to blow them up?…

“Thanks, Fred.” She disconnected.

Upon hearing these revelations, Laurel said, “Interesting how first impressions can be so completely wrong. Isn’t it?” She didn’t seem to be gloating but Sachs couldn’t tell.

If you don’t mind…

I’m just curious…

Sachs fished out her phone and called Lincoln Rhyme.

His answering words: “I’m thinking we should get a chameleon.”

Not “Hello” or “Sachs.”

“A…lizard?”

“They’re quite interesting. I haven’t seen one change color yet. Do you know how they do it, Sachs? Metachrosis is what it’s called, you know. They use hormonal cell signaling to trigger changes in the chromatophore cells in their skin. I find it truly fascinating. So how’s the case going up there?”

She ran through the developments.

Rhyme considered this. “I suppose that makes sense, two different perps. Metzger isn’t going to use his star sniper in New York to clean up. I should have thought of that.”

I should have too, she reflected sadly. Picturing Lydia Foster’s body.

“Upload a picture of Shales, DMV or military.”

“Sure. I’ll do it when we hang up.” Then in a somber voice she told him in detail about the death of Moreno’s interpreter, Lydia.

“Torture?”

She described the knife work.

“Distinctive technique,” he assessed. “That might be helpful.”

He’d be referring to the fact that perps who use knives or other mechanical weapons, like clubs, tended to leave wounds that were consistent from one victim to another, which can often identify them. She noted too that this detached, clinical comment was his only reaction to the horrific attack.

But this was just Lincoln Rhyme. She knew it; she accepted it. And wondered in passing why the same attitude in Nance Laurel set her so on edge.

She asked, “How’s it going down in the balmy Caribbean?”

“Not making much headway, Sachs. We’re under house arrest.”

“What?”

“One way or the other, it’ll be resolved tomorrow.” He clearly wasn’t going to say any more, maybe concerned that his line was tapped. “I should go. Thom’s making something for dinner. I think it’s ready. And you really should try dark rum sometime. It’s quite good. Made from sugar, you know.”

“I may pass on the rum. There are some unpleasant memories. Though I guess they’re not memories if you can’t remember them.”

“What do you think of the case now, Sachs? You still in the policy and politics camp? Leaving it all to Congress?”

“Nope. Not anymore. One look at the crime scene at Lydia Foster’s convinced me. There’re some real bad sons of bitches involved in this. And they’re going down. Oh, and Rhyme, by the way: If you hear something about an IED blast up here, don’t worry, I’m fine.” She explained about the explosion that took out the computer at the coffee shop, without going into the details of the near miss.

He then said, “It’s rather pleasant down here, Sachs. I’m thinking we might want to come back some time — unofficially.”

“A vacation. Yeah, Rhyme, let’s do it.”

“You couldn’t drive very fast. Traffic’s terrible.”

She said, “I’ve always wanted to try a Jet Ski. And you could go to a beach.”

“I’ve already been in the water,” he told her.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, indeed. I’ll tell you about it later.”

She said, “Miss you.” She disconnected before he had a chance to say the same.

Or not.

Nance Laurel received a call on her own mobile. Sachs was aware of her reacting stiffly as she glanced at caller ID. When she answered, the tone in the ADA’s voice told Sachs immediately that this was a private matter, unrelated to the case. “Well, hi…How are you?”

The woman turned away from Sachs and Cooper, turned as far as she could. But Sachs could still hear. “You need them? I didn’t think you did. I packed them up.”

Odd. Sachs had not thought of the prosecutor as having a personal life. She wore no wedding or engagement ring — very little jewelry at all. Sachs could imagine her vacationing with her mother or sister; Nance Laurel as a wife or lover was hard to picture.

Still coddling her conversation, Laurel said into the phone, “No, no. I know where they are.”

What was that tone?

Sachs realized: She’s vulnerable, defenseless. Whoever she was talking to had some kind of personal power over her. A breakup that isn’t completely broken yet? Probably.

Laurel disconnected, sat for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. And then she rose, picked up her purse. “There’s something I have to take care of.”

Odd to see her so shaken.

Sachs found herself asking, “Anything I can do?”

“No. I’ll see you in the morning. I…I’ll be back in the morning.”

Clutching her briefcase, the prosecutor walked from the parlor and out the front door of the town house. Sachs noted that her workstation remained cluttered, documents shuffled and scattered about — completely the opposite of how she’d left things last night.

As Sachs gazed toward the table, one piece of paper stood out. She walked over and picked it up. She read:

Sachs was taken aback. The memo was nearly identical to the email she had sent to Laurel earlier, as instructed by the Overseer. Except for a few variations.

Laurel stole my work.

And not only that but she had to fucking edit it too.

Sachs went through the half dozen other memos that she’d dutifully written and sent to the ADA.

If you don’t mind…

Well, Sachs did mind — because they were all doctored to make it sound like Laurel had done the research. In fact, Sachs’s name didn’t appear on a single piece of paper. Rhyme’s was prominently featured but Sachs was virtually cut out of the investigation altogether.

Goddamn it. What was this about?

Looking for answers, she dug through the stacks. Many of the documents were copies of court opinions and legal briefs.

But one at the bottom was different.

And it explained a great deal.

Sachs glanced at Mel Cooper, who was hunched over a microscope. He hadn’t seen her pilfering Laurel’s paperwork. Sachs took the document she’d just uncovered and photocopied it, slipping the sheet into her purse. She returned the original to Laurel’s workstation and was very careful to put it back exactly where she’d found it. Even though the space seemed cluttered, Sachs wouldn’t have been surprised if the prosecutor had memorized the position of every paper — and paper clip — before leaving.

Sachs wanted to be sure the woman had no idea she’d been busted.