Part 9 (1/2)
She noted Laurel stiffen but it seemed that this was a battle the prosecutor wasn't willing to fight.
CHAPTER 14.
AT 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 a.s.s 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 Na.s.sau. A voice, at last: ”Yes, h.e.l.lo. 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.
f.u.c.k.
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.
”h.e.l.lo. This is Lincoln Rhyme with the New York Police Department.” He wanted to add, Do not, under any f.u.c.king circ.u.mstances, 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 modic.u.m of cooperation. On the other hand, the corporal had not said whether he'd liked the book or found it helpful. The latest edition's bio page reported that Rhyme was retired, a fact that Poitier, fortunately, didn't seem to know.
Rhyme now made his pitch. Without naming Metzger or NIOS, he explained that the NYPD believed there was an American connection in the Moreno killing. ”I have some questions about the shooting, about the evidence. Do you have some time now? Can we talk?”
A pause worthy of Nance Laurel. ”I'm afraid not, sir. The Moreno case has been put on hold for the time being and there are-”
”I'm sorry, on hold?” An open case of a homicide that occurred a week ago? This was the time when the investigation should be at its most intense.
”That's correct, Captain.”
”But why? You have a suspect in custody?”
”No, sir. First, I don't know what American connection you're speaking of; the killing was committed by members of a drug cartel from Venezuela, most likely. We're waiting to hear from authorities there before we proceed further. And I personally have had to focus on a more urgent case. A part-time student who's just gone missing, an American girl. Ah, these crimes happen some in our nation.” Poitier added defensively, ”But rarely. Very rarely. You know how it is, sir. A pretty student disappears and the press descends. Like vultures.”
The press. Maybe that was why Rhyme finally got put through. His bluff had touched a nerve.
The corporal continued, ”We have less rape than Newark, New Jersey, much less. But a missing student in the Islands is magnified like a telephoto lens. And I have to say, with all respect, your news programs are most unfair. The British press too. But now we have lost an American student and not a British one, so it will be CNN and the rest. Vultures. With all respect.”
He was rambling now-to deflect, Rhyme sensed. ”Corporal-”
”It's most unfair,” Poitier repeated. ”A student comes here from America. She comes here on holiday or-this girl-to study for a semester. And it's always our fault. They say terrible things about us.”
Rhyme had lost all patience but he struggled to remain calm. ”Again, Corporal, about the Moreno murder? Now, we're sure the cartels had nothing to do with his death.”
Silence now, in stark contrast with the officer's earlier rambling. Then: ”Well, my efforts are on finding the student.”
”I don't care about the student,” Rhyme blurted, bad taste maybe but, in fact, at the moment he didn't. ”Robert Moreno. Please. There is an American connection and I'm looking into it now. There's some urgency.”
Task: Al-Barani Ras.h.i.+d (NIOS ID: abr942pd5t) Born: 2/73, Michigan Rhyme couldn't begin to guess who this Ras.h.i.+d was, the next name in the STO queue, and doubted he was an innocent soccer dad in Connecticut. But he agreed with Nance Laurel that the man shouldn't die on the basis of faulty, or faked, information.