The Kill Room

were mentioning.”
    “Yes. The one you…”
    The corporal had been going to add: the one you don’t care about. Rhyme was sure of this.
    But he’d refrained.
    Because, of course, Rhyme wasn’t fair game. He was weak. A snide word might shatter him beyond repair.
    His face flushed.
    Pulaski said, “Corporal, could we just see copies of the evidence report, the autopsies? We could look at them right here. We won’t take them off the premises.”
    Good approach, Rhyme thought.
    “I’m afraid that will not be possible, Officer Pulaski.” He endured another look at Rhyme.
    “Then let us have a fast look at the scene.”
    Poitier coughed or cleared his throat. “I have to leave it intact, depending on what we hear from the Venezuelan authorities.”
    Rhyme played along. “And I will make sure the scene remains uncontaminated for them.”
    “Still, I’m sorry.”
    “Our case for Moreno’s death is different from yours—you pointed that out the other day. But we still need certain forensics from here.”
    Otherwise the risk you took in calling me from the casino that night will be wasted. This was the implicit message.
    Rhyme was careful not to mention any U.S. security agencies or snipers. If the Bahamians wanted Venezuelan drug runners he wasn’t going to interfere with that. But he needed the goddamn evidence.
    He glanced at the poster of the missing student.
    She was quite attractive, her smile innocent and wide.
    The reward for information was only five hundred dollars.
    He whispered to Poitier, “You have a firearms tracing unit. I saw the reference on your website. At the very least, can I see their report on the bullet?”
    “The unit has yet to get to the matter.”
    “They’re waiting for the Venezuelan authorities.”
    “That’s right.”
    Rhyme inhaled deeply, trying to remain calm. “Please—”
    “Corporal Poitier.” A voice cut through the lobby.
    A man in a khaki uniform stood in an open doorway, a dim corridor beyond. His dark face—both in complexion and expression—was staring toward the four men beside the wall of service.
    “Corporal Poitier,” he repeated in a stern voice.
    The officer turned. He blinked. “Yes, sir.”
    A pause. “When you have finished your business there, I need your presence in my office.”
    Rhyme deduced: The stern man would be the RBPF’s version of Captain Bill Myers.
    “Yes, sir.”
    The young officer turned back, shaken. “That’s Assistant Commissioner McPherson. He is in charge of all of New Providence. Come, you must leave now. I will see you to your car.”
    As he escorted them out, Poitier paused awkwardly to open the door for Rhyme and, once again, avoided looking at the disturbing sight of a man immobile.
    Rhyme motored outside. Thom and Pulaski were in the rear. They headed back to the van.
    Poitier whispered, “Captain, I went to a great risk to give you the information I did—about the phone call, about the man at the South Cove Inn. I had hoped you’d follow up on it in the United States. Not here.”
    “And I appreciate what you told me. But it wasn’t enough. We need the evidence.”
    “That’s not possible. I asked you not to come. I’m sorry. I can’t help.” The slim young officer looked away, back toward the front lobby door, as if his boss was still observing. Poitier was furious, Rhyme could see. He wanted to rage. But the officer’s only reaction was a figurative pat on the head.
    God bless you…
    “There is nothing for you here, sir. Enjoy a day or two, some restaurants. I don’t imagine you get out…” He braked his words to a halt. Then changed tack. “You are probably so busy at your job you don’t get a chance to enjoy yourself. There are some good restaurants down by the docks. For the tourists.”
    Where the facilities are disabled-accessible because of the elderly passengers from the cruise ships.
    Rhyme persisted, “I offered to meet you elsewhere. But you declined.”
    “I didn’t think you would actually come.”
    Rhyme stopped. He said to Thom and Pulaski. “I’d like a word with the corporal in private.”
    The two men wandered back toward the van.
    Poitier’s eyes swept the criminalist’s legs and body once more. He began, “I wish—”
    “Corporal,” Rhyme spat out, “don’t play these fucking games with me.” The shame had finally solidified into the ice of anger.
    The officer blinked in shock.
    “You gave me a couple of leads that don’t mean shit without the