Jeffery Deaver - The Kill Room

CHAPTER 22

HELLO, IS THAT YOU, CORPORAL?”

“Yes, Captain, yes,” replied Royal Bahamas Police Force officer Mychal Poitier. A faint laugh. “You seem surprised to hear me. You didn’t think I would call back.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s late. I have called at a bad time, maybe?”

“No, I’m glad you did.”

Ringing bells sounded in the distance. Where was Poitier? The hour was late, yet Rhyme could hear the murmur of crowds, large crowds.

“When we spoke earlier I wasn’t alone. Some of my answers may have seemed odd.”

“I was wondering about that.”

Poitier said, “You may have gathered that there was some disinclination to cooperate.” He paused as if wondering whether or not this was actually a word.

“I did gather that.”

A blast of music like a calliope, the classic circus theme, swelled.

Poitier continued, “And you were perhaps curious why a young officer like me was put in charge of what would seem to be a very important case when I’d never run a homicide before.”

“Are you young?” Rhyme asked.

“I am twenty-six.”

Young under some circumstances, not so young under others. But for homicide work, yes, he was a rookie.

Now a loud noise, a clanging, filled the air around Poitier.

The corporal continued, “I’m not in the office.”

“I gathered that too.” Rhyme laughed. “You’re on the street?”

“No, no, I have a job in the evenings. Security at a casino in a resort on Paradise Island. Near the famous Atlantis. You know it?”

Rhyme didn’t know. He had never been to a beach resort in his life.

Poitier asked, “Do your police officers have second jobs too?”

“Yes, some of them do. It’s hard to make a good living in policing.”

“Yes, yes, that is true. I didn’t want to come in to work, though. I would rather have stayed on the missing student case but I need the money…Now, I don’t have much time. I bought a phone card, ten minutes. Let me explain about the Moreno case and my involvement. You see, I have been on the waiting list to move to our Central Detective Unit for some time. It’s always been my goal to be a detective. Well, last week a supervisor told me that I had been selected for a junior position at CDU. And, far more surprising, that I would be given a case to supervise—the Moreno homicide. I had believed it would be a year or more before I would even be considered for the unit. And to be given a case myself? That was unthinkable. But I was, naturally, delighted.

“Then I was told I’d been selected because the case was merely administrative at that point. A cartel was behind the death—as I told you before. Probably from Señor Moreno’s home country of Venezuela. Certainly the sniper had already left the country, returned to Caracas. I was to gather the evidence, take some statements at the inn where Señor Moreno died and send the file to the Venezuelan national police. I would be the liaison if they wished to come to Nassau to investigate further. Then I was to assist some senior detectives running the case of the other murder I mentioned.”

The prominent lawyer.

More clanging, shouting. What was it, a slot machine payoff?

There was a pause and then Poitier called to someone nearby. “No, no, they’re drunk. Just watch them. I’m busy. I must make this call. Escort them out if they get belligerent. Call Big Samuel.”

Back to Rhyme: “You are suspecting conspiracy at the top, dark intrigues, to quash the Moreno investigation. In a way, yes. First, we must ask, why would the cartels want to kill him? Señor Moreno was well liked in Latin America. The cartels are businessmen first. They would not want to alienate the people they need for workers and mules by killing a popular activist. My impression—from some research I have done—is that the cartels and Moreno tolerated each other.”

Rhyme told him, “Like I told you, we feel the same.”

The corporal paused. “Señor Moreno was very outspoken against America. And his Local Empowerment Movement, with its anti-U.S. bias, was growing in popularity. You know that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And he had connections with organizations that had terrorist leanings. This is no surprise either, I’m sure.”

“We’re aware of that, as well.”

“Now, it occurred to me that perhaps—” His voice lowered. “—your government wished this man dead.”

Rhyme realized he’d been selling the corporal short.

“And so you see the situation my superiors—in fact the entire Ministry of National Security and our Parliament—found themselves in.” Nearly whispering now. “What if our investigation shows that this was true? The CIA or the Pentagon sent a sniper down here to shoot Señor Moreno? And what if a police investigation finds that man and identifies the organization he works for. The implications could be great. In retaliation for that embarrassing revelation, there might be decisions made in the U.S. to change the immigration policy regarding the Bahamas. Or to change Customs’ policy. That would be very hard for us. The economy is not good here. We need Americans. We need the families who come here so their children can play with the dolphins and grandmother can do aerobics in the pool and husband and wife slip back to the room for their first romance in months. We can’t lose our tourists. Absolutely. And that means we can’t ruffle the feathers of Washington.”

“Do you think there would be that retribution if you conducted a more rigorous investigation?”

“It’s a reasonable explanation for the otherwise inexplicable fact that the lead investigator in the Moreno case—that is, myself—was, only two weeks ago, making certain proper fire exits existed in new buildings and that Jet Ski rental companies had paid all their fees on time.”

Poitier’s voice rose in volume and there was some steel in it. “But I have to tell you, Captain: I may have been assigned to Business Inspections and Licensing but there wasn’t a single inspection or license I handled that was not completed in a timely, thorough and honest manner.”

“I don’t doubt it, Corporal.”

“So it is troublesome for me to be given this case and yet not be given this case, if you understand my meaning.”

Silence, broken by a slot machine clattering loudly into Rhyme’s ear.

When the noise stopped, Mychal Poitier whispered, “The Moreno case is in dry dock here, Captain. But I assume yours is steaming ahead.”

“Correct.”

“And you are, I assume, pursuing a conspiracy charge.”

Selling him short indeed. “That’s right.”

“I looked for that name, Don Bruns. You said it was a cover.”

“Yes.”

“There was nothing in any of our records here. Customs, Passport Control, hotel registers. He could easily have slipped onto the island, though, unseen. It’s not difficult. But there are two things that might help you. I will say I didn’t neglect the case entirely. I interviewed witnesses, as I said. A desk clerk at the South Cove Inn told me that someone called the front desk two days before Robert Moreno arrived to confirm his reservation. A male caller, an American accent. But the clerk thought this was odd because Moreno’s guard had called just an hour or so before, also to check on the reservation. Who was the second caller—the one in or from America—and why was he so interested in Moreno’s arrival?”

“Did you get the number?”

“I was told it was an American area code. But the full number was not available. Or, to be frank, I was told not to dig further to find the number. Now, the second thing is that the day before the shooting, someone was at the inn, asking questions. This man spoke to a maid about the suite where Señor Moreno was staying, if there were groundskeepers regularly outside, did the suite have curtains, where did his guard stay, about the men’s comings and goings. I’m assuming this was the man who called, but I don’t know, of course.”