The Kill Room

Bruns’ve gone off the deep end. It’s that important to them, to keep this kill order program going that they’re taking out innocents.”
    “Listen, Lon. I want to keep this quiet.”
    He gave a gruff laugh. “Oh, sure. A fucking IED in Manhattan?”
    “Can we play up the story it was a gas leak, still being investigated. Just keep the lid on for a few days?”
    “I’ll do what I can. But you know the fucking media.”
    “That’s all I’m asking, a day or two.”
    He muttered, “I’ll give it a shot.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Anyway, listen, I’m glad you called. Myers’s canvassing boys tracked down the woman that Moreno drove around the city with on May 1, Lydia. They’ll have her address and phone number in a few minutes.”
    “The hooker.”
    He chuckled. “When you speak to her? I don’t think I’d say that.”

CHAPTER 34
    H IS RIGHT HAND ROSE SLOWLY to his mouth and Lincoln Rhyme fed himself a conch fritter—crisp outside and tender within—dabbed with homemade hot sauce. He then picked up and sipped from a can of Kalik beer.
    Hurricane’s restaurant—curious name, given the local weather—was austere, located on a weedy side street in downtown Nassau. Bright blue and red walls, a warped wooden floor, a few flyblown photographs of the local beaches—or maybe Goa or the Jersey Shore. You couldn’t tell. Several overhead fans revolved slowly and did nothing to ease the heat. Their only effect was to piss off the flies.
    The place, though, boasted some of the best food Rhyme had ever had.
    Though he decided that any meal you can spear with a fork yourself, and not have to be fed, is by definition very, very good.
    “Conch,” Rhyme mused. “Never had any univalve tissue evidence in a case. Oyster shells once. Very flavorful. Could you cook it at home?”
    Thom, sitting across from Rhyme, rose and asked the chef for the recipe. The formidible woman in a red bandanna, looking like a Marxist revolutionary, wrote it down for him, cautioning to get fresh conch. “Never canned. Ever.”
    The time was nearly three and Rhyme was beginning to wonder if the corporal had given him the tantalizing invitation just to keep him occupied while, as Pulaski suggested, he was preparing an arrest team.
    That is where I have lunch!…
    Rhyme decided not to worry about it and had more conch and beer.
    At their feet a black-and-gray dog begged for scraps. Rhyme ignored the small, muscular animal but Thom fed it some bits of conch crust and bread. He was about two feet high and had floppy ears and a long face.
    “He’ll never leave you alone now,” Rhyme muttered. “You know that.”
    “He’s cute.”
    The server, a slimmer, younger version of the chef, daughter probably, said, “He’s a potcake dog. You only see them in the Islands here. The name comes from what we feed stray dogs—rice and green peas, potcake.”
    “And they hang out in restaurants?” Rhyme asked sardonically.
    “Oh, yes. Customers love them.”
    Rhyme grunted and stared at the door, through which he expected momentarily to see either Mychal Poitier or a couple of armed, uniformed RBPF officers with an arrest warrant.
    His phone buzzed and he lifted it. “Rookie, what do you have?”
    “I’m at the South Cove Inn. I got it. The number of the man who called about Moreno’s reservation. It’s a mobile exchange from Manhattan.”
    “Excellent. Now, it’ll be a prepaid, untraceable. But Rodney can narrow down the call to a fairly small area. Maybe an office or gym or a Starbucks where our sniper enjoys his lattes. It won’t take—”
    “But—”
    “No, it’s easy. He can work backward from the cell base stations and then interpolate the signal data from adjacent towers. The sniper will’ve thrown the phone out by now but the records should be able to—”
    “Lincoln.”
    “ What? ”
    “It’s not prepaid and it’s still active.”
    Rhyme was speechless for a moment. This was unbelievably good luck.
    “And are you ready for this?”
    Words returned. “Rookie! Get to the point!”
    “It’s registered in the name of Don Bruns.”
    “Our sniper.”
    “Exactly. He used a Social Security number on the phone account and gave an address.”
    “Where?”
    “PO box in Brooklyn. Set up by a shell corporation in Delaware. And the social’s fake.”
    “But we’ve got the phone. Start Rodney scanning for usage and location. We can’t get a Title Three at this point, but see if Lon or somebody can charm a magistrate