The time was 8 a.m. and Rhyme was in the living room of the hot and oh-so-humid motel suite. Thom and Pulaski were sitting on the veranda, sipping coffee, in the company of two more chameleons.
A pause. “May I ask a question, Captain Rhyme?”
“I suppose.” He sounded put out. Tired. Prisonerish.
“I am perplexed by one thing you said.”
“What was that?”
“You said you wished us luck in the murder investigation of the American student.”
“Yes?”
“But the young woman died in an accident. Drinking and swimming.”
Rhyme let several seconds of silence build, as if he were confused. “Oh, I’d be very surprised if that were the case.”
“How do you mean, Captain?”
“I don’t really have time to discuss it, Commissioner. We have to be at the airport soon. I’ll leave it to you to—”
“Please…You really think the student was murdered?”
“I’m sure of it, yes.”
The conclusion that the student’s death was a murder had occurred to him while enjoying conch fritters in the Hurricane Café and looking over the gruesome crime scene photos. He had, however, decided to refrain from offering his thoughts to Corporal Poitier just then.
The assistant commissioner said, “Go on, please.”
“Go on?” Rhyme asked, sounding perplexed.
“Yes, tell me about your thoughts. They’re intriguing.”
We let the bread bake…
“Be that as it may, I have to get to the airport. Good luck again, Assistant Commissioner.”
“Wait! Please! Captain Rhyme, perhaps I was somewhat hasty yesterday. It was an unfortunate incident that happened at Clifton Bay. And Corporal Poitier was, after all, acting insubordinately.”
“Frankly, Assistant Commissioner, my experience has been that in our line of work the best results are often achieved by the most insubordinate.”
“Yes, perhaps that’s true. But could you just give me some thoughts about—”
Rhyme said quickly, “I might be able to help…” His voice faded.
“Yes?”
“But in exchange I would like Corporal Poitier reinstated.”
“He hasn’t been precisely de-stated. The paperwork is sitting on my desk as we speak. But I haven’t signed anything yet.”
“Good. And I would need access to the Robert Moreno crime scene at the South Cove Inn, as well as the autopsy reports and the three victims’ clothing. And any relevant evidence collected there—the bullet in particular. I must see that bullet.”
A faint tap from the speakerphone. The assistant commissioner was clearly not used to negotiating.
Rhyme looked over the others, on whom the sun was beginning to fall in its searing glory. Pulaski gave him an encouraging grin.
After a pause—a gravid pause, Rhyme thought wryly—the assistant commissioner said, “Very good, Captain. You perhaps can come to my office now to discuss this matter?”
“Provided my associate is there too?”
“Your associate?”
“Corporal Poitier.”
“Of course. I’ll arrange it now.”
CHAPTER 47
THE ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER’S OFFICE at the Royal Bahamas Police Force was opulently shabby, more residential than official.
The chamber exuded colonial ambience, which made Rhyme feel right at home. His own working space, the laboratory née parlor, dated back to the era of Victoria. Here, though the RBPF building was newer, McPherson’s office too was cast in an earlier time—with a chintz sofa, a washbasin and pitcher, a large oak armoire, yellow-shaded lamps and, on the wall, pictures of men who had to be governors-general or similar officials. Several formal uniforms—one spotless white, one navy blue—hung stiffly on racks.
Some touches of modern times were present, of course: battered gray file cabinets, three mobile phones sitting on the functional beige desk and two impressive computers. Dominating one wall was a detailed map of New Providence Island.
The climate in here was warm—the air-conditioning was struggling—and the humidity intense. Rhyme deduced that McPherson kept the windows open most of the time and had artificially cooled the room in honor of his visitors this morning. The deduction was supported by another attendee—a chameleon sitting on the sill inside.
The large man, in a pressed khaki uniform, rose and shook Rhyme’s hand carefully. “You’re well, Captain Rhyme?”
“Yes. Some rest was just what I needed.”
“Excellent.”
He shook the hands of Pulaski and Thom as well. A moment later Mychal Poitier walked uncertainly into the room. Greetings all ’round.
The assistant commissioner sat and suddenly he was all business, regarding Rhyme with narrow, focused eyes. “Now, the student. Please, sir. You said murder.”
Rhyme said, “She was definitely killed intentionally, yes. It was planned out beforehand. And she was beaten before she died, I think.”
“Beaten?” Poitier tilted his head.
The criminalist said, “The clue is her jewelry. In the crime scene photos I noted that her bracelets, watch, finger and toe rings were gold. But her necklace was silver leaves. That seemed out of place, mixing the two.”
“What does—?” the assistant commissioner started. Then fell silent. Rhyme had frowned at the interruption.
“I think her assailant beat her badly and wanted to hide that fact. When he was finished, he drowned her and put the necklace on. He knew that scavenger fish’d be attracted to the shiny metal—I read about that on the flight here. I assume it’s in all the guidebooks: warnings not to wear anything flashy. Silver is particularly attractive because it resembles fish scales, more so than gold. The fish took care of the evidence of the beating by removing most of the facial skin.
“We know her killer planned this all out ahead of time because he brought the silver necklace with him.”
Poitier asked, “Why would he do that? There was no evidence of sexual assault.”
“Revenge maybe. But I have some thoughts that might lead us a bit farther. We’ll need to talk to the medical examiner. I’d like to know about the student’s postmortem blood workup.” When the assistant commissioner remained staring at Rhyme, the criminalist said to him, “It would be helpful to know that now.”
“Yes. Of course.” McPherson lifted the receiver from his desk phone and made a call. He spoke for a moment to a clerk or assistant, it seemed, then he said into the mouthpiece, “I don’t care if he’s in an autopsy. The body will be just as dead when he returns. Fetch him.”
After a brief pause McPherson resumed his conversation. He looked at Rhyme, holding the phone away from his ear. “The results are in. The coroner has the report in front of him.”
The criminalist asked, “Blood alcohol?”
The question was posed. Then: “Point zero seven.”
Pulaski said, “Not legally drunk but close.”
Rhyme asked quickly, “What was she drinking?”
Poitier said, “We found Bacardi rum, eighty proof, and Coca-Cola in the car. Both open.”
“Diet or regular? The soft drink.”
“Regular.”
Rhyme then said to McPherson, “Ask the coroner her postmortem glucose level. And I don’t want the vascular system results. Those aren’t reliable; glycolysis continues after death. I want the vitreous concentration.” He explained, “No glycolytic enzymes there.”
McPherson stared. In fact, everyone in the room did.
Rhyme continued impatiently, “I want the glucose level from the vitreous fluid in her eye. It’s standard procedure. I’m sure they ran it.”
The man posed the question. The answer was 4.2 milligrams per deciliter.
“Low normal.” The criminalist smiled. “I knew it. She wasn’t drinking recreationally. If she’d mixed Coke and rum the level would be higher. Her killer forced her to swallow some rum straight and then just left
the soft drink bottle open to make it look like she’d been mixing them.” Rhyme turned back to the assistant commissioner again. “Drug screen?”
Again the question was posed.
“Negative for everything.”
“Good,” Rhyme said enthusiastically. “We’re getting somewhere. Now we need to look into her job.”
Poitier said, “She was a part-time salesclerk in Nassau.”
“No, not that job. Her job as a prostitute, I mean.”
“What? How do you know?”
“The pictures.” He glanced at Poitier. “The pictures that you showed me on your iPad. She had multiple injection marks on her arm. Her blood was negative for narcotics or other drugs, we just learned, so why the tracks? Can’t be insulin; diabetics don’t inject intravenously there. No, it was probably—probably, mind you, not for certain—that she had regular blood tests for sexually transmitted disease.”
“A prostitute.” The assistant commissioner seemed pleased by this. The American who’d died under his watch wasn’t an innocent student after all.
“You can hang up now.” Rhyme’s eyes dipped to the phone, hanging like a motionless pendulum.
McPherson did, after an abrupt goodbye to the medical examiner.
“So, our next step?” Poitier asked.
“To find out where the woman worked,” Pulaski said, “and picked up her johns.”
Rhyme nodded. “Yes. That’s probably where she met her killer. The gold jewelry was expensive and tasteful. She was in very good shape, healthy. Her face pretty. She wouldn’t’ve been a streetwalker. Check her purse for credit card receipts. We’ll see where she bought her cocktails.”
The assistant commissioner nodded to Mychal Poitier, who made a call, apparently to the evidence room or someone in the Detective Unit.
The young officer had an extended conversation and eventually hung up. “Well, this is interesting,” Poitier said. “Two receipts for the bar in the—”
Something in his tone deposited a fast thought in Rhyme’s mind. “The South Cove Inn!”
“Yes, that’s right, Captain. How did you know?”
Rhyme didn’t answer, he gazed out the window for a full minute. The thoughts were coming quickly. “What’s her name?” he asked.
“Annette. Annette Bodel.”
“Well, I have good news for both of us, Commissioner McPherson. For you: Ms. Bodel’s killer was not Bahamian but American—that’s a public relations coup for your country. And for me, I think we’ve found a connection to the Moreno case. I was wrong about one thing—she was tortured, yes. But I think he used a knife, not his fists, cutting her cheek or nose or tongue.”
“How do you know this?” McPherson asked.
“I don’t know it, not yet. But I think it’s likely. My associate in New York told me that a man who’s eliminating witnesses in the case specializes in using knives. He’s not the sniper. My guess is that he’s the sniper’s backup or spotter and was the American who was at the inn on May eighth, learning what he could about suite twelve hundred and Moreno and his guard. He probably picked Annette up in the bar, used her to get information and then left the Bahamas with the sniper after the shooting. But when he heard about the investigation he came back two days ago, Monday, tortured her to find out if she’d told anyone about him and then killed her.”
Pulaski said, “We should take a look at the beach where she was found, search it again—this time as a crime scene.”
The assistant commissioner looked at Poitier but the corporal shook his head. “This man was smart, sir. He killed her at low tide. The site is under three feet of water.”
“Smart indeed.” Rhyme’s eyes held the assistant commissioner’s steadily. He said, “The evidence we’re looking at doesn’t leave a lot of doubt that Robert Moreno was killed by a U.S. government sniper and that his partner or at least somebody in his organization is cleaning up afterward, including murdering Ms. Bodel in Nassau. That information is going to be public pretty soon. You can stick to the story that the Venezuelan cartel is behind the shooting and ignore the American connection. But then it’ll look like you were part of the cover-up. Or you can help us find the shooter and his backup man.”
Pulaski broke in: “You ought to know, Commissioner, that it looks like the man who ordered the killing probably acted outside the scope of his authority. If you help us find the perps, it’s not going to upset Washington as much as you might think.”
Excellent call, Rhyme reflected.
“I’ll order the forensics unit to the spit of land to look for the sniper’s nest.” McPherson turned his broad face to Mychal Poitier. “Corporal, you will escort Captain Rhyme and his associates to the South Cove Inn for a second search of the Moreno crime scene. Assist him in any other way you can. Is that understood?”
“It is, sir.”
Speaking now to Rhyme: “And I’ll arrange to have the full crime scene report and autopsy information released. Oh, and the evidence too. I assume you’ll want that, won’t you, Captain?”
“Evidence, yes. I would very much like that.” And, with some difficulty, refrained from adding that it was about goddamn time.
CHAPTER 48
BACK ON SW ROAD.
With Thom driving, Poitier, Pulaski and Rhyme were in the accessible van, taking the same route to South Cove Inn they’d been on yesterday for the illicit, and nearly fatal, visit to the outcropping of land in Clifton Bay.
The sun was behind them, high even at this early hour, and the vegetation glowed green and red and rich yellow. A few white flowers, which Rhyme knew Sachs would love to see.
Miss you…
She’d disconnected just as he’d drawn a breath to say the same. He smiled at the timing.
They’d stopped briefly to pick up basic evidence collection equipment at the Royal Bahamas Police Force crime scene facility. The gear was high quality and Rhyme was confident that Pulaski and Poitier could find something in the Kill Room that would help them indisputably link Barry Shales to the shooting and, possibly, find clues to Unsub 516’s identity.
Soon they were at the inn and pulled up to the front of the impressive but subdued place, in an architectural style that Rhyme supposed was nouveau colonial. Thom steered Rhyme, in the manual wheelchair, down the sidewalk at the entryway, surrounded by beautifully tended gardens.
They entered the lobby and Mychal Poitier greeted the pleasant desk clerk. She was more curious at the presence of a man in a wheelchair than the police officer; the hotel had surely had its share of those recently. The inn seemed accessible, being on one level, but Rhyme supposed the resort—primarily a beach club and golf course—didn’t get many disabled guests.
The manager was busy at the moment but the clerk didn’t hesitate to prepare a key card for suite 1200.
Pulaski, who’d met her yesterday, nodded a greeting and displayed the picture of Barry Shales that Sachs had emailed. Neither she nor anyone else had ever seen Shales.
Which just about confirmed what Rhyme believed: that it was Unsub 516 who was at the inn on May 8 as Shales’s backup man.
With Pulaski and Poitier carrying the collection equipment, the entourage headed down the corridor the clerk had indicated.
After a walk of several minutes—the inn was quite large—Thom nodded at a sign.
Suites 1200–1208 →
“Almost there.”
They turned the corner. And stopped abruptly.
“Wait,” Poitier muttered. “What’s this?”
Rhyme was looking at the double doors to suite 1200, the Kill Room—the crime scene that had presumably been marked with police tape and strident warnings not to trespass, duly sealed.
But was no longer.
The doors were wide open and a workman in stained white overalls stood in the middle of the room, with a paint roller, putting what seemed to be the final coat on the wall above the fireplace. The floors of the room were bare wood. The carpet had been removed. And everything else—the bl
oody sofa, the shards of glass—was gone.
CHAPTER 49
JACOB SWANN WAS EATING a very well-crafted omelet at a diner on the Upper West Side, near Central Park West.
He was in jeans, a windbreaker (black, today), running shoes and white T-shirt. His backpack was at his side. This was a neighborhood in which many people worked jobs where suits and ties weren’t required and regular hours weren’t the norm—performing arts, museums, galleries. Food service too, of course. Swann blended right in.
The coffee he was sipping was hot and not bitter. The toast thick and buttered before meeting the heating element—the only way to do it. And the omelet? Better than well crafted, he decided. Damn good.
Eggs are the trickiest of ingredients and can make a dish sublime or turn it into a complete rout if you’re careless or conditions betray: toughening or curdling or collapsing. A bit of yolk in the whites you’re trying to meringue and your baked Alaska is fucked. And there’s always the chance of unpleasant bacteria reproducing eagerly in God’s perfect oval (gestating is what shells are made for, after all).
But these eggs had been whisked just right—casually and without a whisper of liquid—and then cooked over high heat, the fresh-chopped tarragon, chive and dill sprinkled in at just the right moment, not too soon. The completed mezzaluna-shaped dish was yellow, brown and white, crisp outside, gently curded within.
Despite the food, though, Swann was growing a bit impatient with Amelia Sachs.
She had been inside Lincoln Rhyme’s town house now for hours. She’d finessed the phone call issue, switching prepaid mobiles every few hours, it seemed—everybody on the team was using them now—and she had a wiretap alert on the landline into the town house, which there was no way to defeat without physically breaking into the central switch.
But with her being the lead investigator she’d have to emerge sooner or later.
He reflected on her partner, Rhyme. Now, that was a setback. It had cost his organization nearly two thousand dollars to eliminate the man, his male nurse and another cop. But his contacts down there from the dock crowd had blown the attempt. They’d asked if Swann wanted them to try again but he’d told them to get the hell off the island. It would be very difficult to trace them back to Swann and his boss but it could be done.
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