Lincoln Rhyme: The Kill Room Part 29

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 a.s.sessed. "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 pa.s.sing why the same att.i.tude 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 pa.s.s 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 b.i.t.c.hes 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, doc.u.ments 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: From: a.s.sistant District Attorney Nance Laurel To: District Attorney Franklin Levine (Manhattan County) Re: People v. Metzger, et al. Update, Tuesday May 16 In researching leads to the case, I identified the chauffeur with Elite Limousines who drove Robert Moreno throughout the city on May 1. The driver's name is Atash Farada. There are several things to consider from my research, relevant to this case.

Robert Moreno was accompanied by a woman in her thirties, possibly an escort or prost.i.tute. He might have paid her a "significant" sum of cash. Her given name was "Lydia."

He and this individual left the driver in his limo at a downtown location for a period of several hours. Farada's impression was that Moreno did not want him to know where he was going.

The driver offered a motive for Moreno's anti-American sentiments. A good friend was killed by U.S. troops in the Panama invasion, December 1989.

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.

From: Detective Amelia Sachs, NYPD To: a.s.sistant District Attorney Nance Laurel Re: Moreno Homicide, Update, Tuesday May 16 In researching leads to the case I identified the driver (Atash Farada) with Elite Limo, who drove Robert Moreno throughout the city on May 1. My discussions with him revealed several things of importance to the investigation: Moreno was accompanied by a woman in her thirties possibly an escort or prost.i.tute. I considered too whether or not she was a terrorist or other operative. He might have paid her a "significant" sum of cash. Her first name was Lydia.

He and the woman left the driver in a downtown location for a period of time. Driver's impression was that Moreno did not want him to know where he and Lydia were going.

Driver suggested motive for anti-American activity. Good friend was killed in Panama invasion.

Laurel stole my work.

And not only that but she had to f.u.c.king 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.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it. What was this about?

Looking for answers, she dug through the stacks. Many of the doc.u.ments 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 doc.u.ment 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 s.p.a.ce 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.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 17.

IV.

SLICE.

CHAPTER 46.

CAPTAIN RHYME, YOU ARE FEELING BETTER?"

After a suitable pause: "I am," he told Royal Bahamas Police Force a.s.sistant commissioner McPherson. "Thank you for asking. We're packed and will be en route to the airport shortly." Rhyme's mobile was on speaker.

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 Cafe and looking over the gruesome crime scene photos. He had, however, decided to refrain from offering his thoughts to Corporal Poitier just then.

The a.s.sistant 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, a.s.sistant 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, a.s.sistant 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 a.s.sistant 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 a.s.sistant commissioner said, "Very good, Captain. You perhaps can come to my office now to discuss this matter?"

"Provided my a.s.sociate is there too?"

"Your a.s.sociate?"

"Corporal Poitier."