Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

Laurel nodded approvingly, it seemed. “If you could document that and send it to me.”

“What?”

A pause. “What you just told me about the tracing and the type of computer.”

Sachs said, “I was just going to write it up on the board.” A nod toward the whiteboard.

“I’d actually like everything documented in as close to real time as possible.” The ADA’s nod was toward her own stacks of files. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

The prosecutor wielded the words “if you…” like a bludgeon.

Sachs did mind but wasn’t inclined to fight this battle. She pounded out the brief memo on her keyboard.

Laurel added, “Thank you. Just send it to me in an email and I’ll print it out myself. The secure server, of course.”

“Of course.” Sachs fired off the document, noting that the prosecutor’s micromanagement didn’t seem to extend to Lincoln Rhyme.

Her phone buzzed and she lifted a surprised eyebrow, noting caller ID.

At last. A solid lead. The caller was a secretary at Elite Limousines, one of dozens of livery operations Sachs had canvassed earlier, inquiring if Robert Moreno had used their services on May 1. In fact, he had. The woman said the man had hired a car and driver for an as-directed assignment, meaning that Moreno had given the driver the locations he wished to go to after being picked up. The company had no record of those stops but the woman gave Sachs the driver’s name and number.

She then called the driver, identified herself and asked if she could come interview him in connection with a case.

In a heavily accented voice, hard to understand, he said he supposed so and he gave her his address. She disconnected and rose, pulling on her jacket.

“Got Moreno’s driver for his visit here on May first,” she said to Rhyme. “I’m going to interview him.”

Laurel said quickly, “Any chance you could write up your notes on Agent Dellray’s news before you go?”

“First thing I’m back.”

She noted Laurel stiffen but it seemed that this was a battle the prosecutor wasn’t willing to fight.

CHAPTER 14

AT THIS POINT IN A STANDARD INVESTIGATION Lincoln Rhyme would have enlisted the aid of perhaps the best forensics lab man in the city, NYPD detective Mel Cooper.

But the presence of the slim, unflappable Cooper was pointless in the absence of physical evidence and all he’d done was alert the man to be on call—which to Lincoln Rhyme meant being prepared to drop everything, short of open-heart surgery, and get your ass to the lab. Stat.

But that possibility didn’t seem very likely at the moment. Rhyme was now back to the task that had taken all morning: trying to actually get possession of some of the physical evidence in the Moreno shooting.

He was on hold for the fourth time with an official in the Royal Bahamas Police Force in Nassau. A voice, at last: “Yes, hello. Can I help you?” a woman asked in a melodious alto.

About time. But he reined in the impatience even though he had to explain all over again. “This is Captain Rhyme. I’m with the New York City Police Department.” He’d given up on “consulting with” or “working with.” That was too complicated and seemed to arouse suspicion. He’d get Lon Sellitto to informally deputize him if anyone called his bluff. (He wished somebody would , in fact; bluff-callers are people who can get things done.)

“New York, yes.”

“I’d like to speak to someone in your forensics department.”

“Crime Scene, yes.”

“That’s right.” Rhyme pictured the woman he was speaking to as a lazy, not particularly bright civil servant sitting in a dusty un-air-conditioned office, beneath a slowly revolving fan.

Possibly an unfair image.

“I’m sorry, you wanted which department?”

Possibly not.

“Forensics. A supervisor. This is about the Robert Moreno killing.”

“Please hold.”

“No, please…Wait!”

Click.

Fuck.

Five minutes later he found himself talking to the woman officer he was sure had taken his first call, though she didn’t seem to remember him. Or was pretending not to. He repeated his request and this time—after a burst of inspiration—added, “I’m sorry for the urgency. It’s just that the reporters keep calling. I’ll have to send them directly to your office if I can’t give them information myself.”

He had no idea what threat this was meant to convey exactly; he was improvising.

“Reporters?” she asked dubiously.

“CNN, ABC, CBS. Fox. All of them.”

“I see. Yes, sir.”

But the ploy had its effect, because the next hold was for three seconds, tops.

“Poitier speaking.” Deep, melodious, with a British accent and a Caribbean inflection; Rhyme knew the lilt not from having been to the islands himself but owing to his role in putting a few people from that part of the world in New York jails. The Jamaican gangs outstripped the Mafia for violence, hands down.

“Hello. This is Lincoln Rhyme with the New York Police Department.” He wanted to add, Do not , under any fucking circumstances, put me on hold. But refrained.

The Bahamian cop: “Ah, yes.” Cautious.

“Who’m I speaking to? Officer Poitier, did I hear?”

“Corporal Mychal Poitier.”

“And you’re with Crime Scene?”

“No. I’m the lead investigator in the Moreno shooting…Wait, you said you’re Lincoln Rhyme. Captain Rhyme. Well.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“We have one of your forensics books in our library. I’ve read it.”

Maybe this would earn him a modicum of cooperation. On the other hand, the corporal had not said whether he’d liked the book or found it helpful. The latest edition’s bio page reported that Rhyme was retired, a fact that Poitier, fortunately, didn’t seem to know.

Rhyme now made his pitch. Without naming Metzger or NIOS, he explained that the NYPD believed there was an American connection in the Moreno killing. “I have some questions about the shooting, about the evidence. Do you have some time now? Can we talk?”

A pause worthy of Nance Laurel. “I’m afraid not, sir. The Moreno case has been put on hold for the time being and there are—”

“I’m sorry, on hold ?” An open case of a homicide that occurred a week ago? This was the time when the investigation should be at its most intense.

“That’s correct, Captain.”

“But why? You have a suspect in custody?”

“No, sir. First, I don’t know what American connection you’re speaking of; the killing was committed by members of a drug cartel from Venezuela, most likely. We’re waiting to hear from authorities there before we proceed further. And I personally have had to focus on a more urgent case. A part-time student who’s just gone missing, an American girl. Ah, these crimes happen some in our nation.” Poitier added defensively, “But rarely. Very rarely. You know how it is, sir. A pretty student disappears and the press descends. Like vultures.”

The press. Maybe that was why Rhyme finally got put through. His bluff had touched a nerve.

The corporal continued, “We have less rape than Newark, New Jersey, much less. But a missing student in the Islands is magnified like a telephoto lens. And I have to say, with all respect, your news programs are most unfair. The British press too. But now we have lost an American student and not a British one, so it will be CNN and the rest. Vultures. With all respect.”

He was rambling now—to deflect, Rhyme sensed. “Corporal—”

“It’s most unfair,” Poitier repeated. “A student comes here from America. She comes here on holiday or—this girl—to study for a semester. And it’s always our fault. They say terrible things about us.”