The Kill Room

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
    O DD. 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