“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 rat
her 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.
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