The Kill Room

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
    A T 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