The Kill Room

had been made to collect trace from the victims themselves. Generally, in a sniper killing, such information about the spot where the victim is shot wouldn’t be that helpful, of course, since the shooter was a distance away. In this case, though, the sniper had been in the hotel, albeit a day earlier, and might even have snuck into the Kill Room to see about vista and shooting angles. He could easily have left some trace, even if he didn’t leave any prints. But virtually no trace had been collected from the room, only some candy wrappers and a few cigarette butts beside an ashtray near the guard’s body.
    However, the next pages on the iPad, photos of the Kill Room itself, were illuminating. Moreno had been shot in the living room of the suite. Everything and everyone in the room was covered with shards of glass. Moreno lay sprawled on a couch, head back, mouth open, a bloodstain on his shirt, in the center of which was a large black dot, the entrance wound. The upholstery behind him was covered in dark blood and gore, from what would have been a massive exit wound caused by the sniper’s bullet.
    The other victims lay on their backs near the couch, one a large Latino, identified in the photo as Simon Flores, Moreno’s guard, the other a dapper bearded balding man in his fifties, de la Rua, the reporter. They were covered with broken glass and blood, their skin torn and slashed in dozens of places.
    The bullet itself was photographed lying on the floor next to a small sandwich board evidence location card bearing the number 14. It was lodged in the carpet a few feet behind the couch.
    Rhyme flipped the page, expecting to see more.
    But the next image was of the corporal with his wife again, sitting in beach chairs.
    Without looking his way, Poitier said, “That’s all there is.”
    “Not the autopsy?”
    “One has been done. We don’t have the results.”
    Rhyme asked, “The victims’ clothing?”
    Now he regarded the criminalist. “At the morgue.”
    “I asked my associate at the South Cove to track down de la Rua’s camera, tape recorder and anything else he had with him. He said they went to the morgue. I’d love to see them.”
    Poitier gave a skeptical laugh. “I would have too.”
    “Would have ?”
    “Yes, you caught that, Captain. By the time I inquired about them they were missing, along with the victims’ more valuable personal effects.”
    Rhyme had noticed in the picture of the bodies that the guard wore a Rolex watch, and a pair of Oakley sunglasses protruded from his pocket. Near the reporter lay a gold pen.
    Poitier added, “Apparently you must be fast here securing evidence when you run a scene. I’m learning that. The lawyer I was mentioning?”
    “The prominent lawyer.”
    “Yes,” Poitier said. “After he was killed and before our detectives got there, half the office was looted.”
    Rhyme said, “You have the bullet, though.”
    “Yes. In our evidence locker. But that meeting with Assistant Commissioner McPherson after you left headquarters? It was to order me to deliver to him all the evidence in the Moreno case. He has taken custody and sealed the locker. No one else can have access. Oh, he also ordered me to have no contact whatsoever with you.”
    Rhyme sighed. “They really don’t want this case to go forward, do they?”
    With a bitterness Rhyme had not heard before, he said, “Ah, but the case has gone forward. Indeed, it is concluded. The cartels have murdered the victim out of retribution for one thing or another. Who can tell, with those inscrutable cartels?” The man grimaced. Then his voice lowered. “Now, Captain Rhyme, I couldn’t get you your physical evidence, as I’d hoped. But I can play tour guide.”
    “Tour guide?”
    “Indeed. We have a wonderful tourist attraction on the southwest coast of New Providence Island. A spit of land a half mile long, ravaged by hurricanes, composed mostly of rock and beaches with tainted sand. The highlights are a trash tip, a metal fabrication plant cited frequently for polluting and a company that shreds tires for recycling.”
    “Sounds charming,” Thom said.
    “It’s quite popular. At least it was for one American tourist. He visited it on the ninth of May. At around eleven fifteen in the morning. One of the more attractive sights he enjoyed was of the South Cove Inn. An unobstructed view, exactly two thousand one hundred and ten yards away. I thought that you, as a tourist to our country, might enjoy