He knew clues existed — but they remained out of reach. Infuriating. And with every passing day, hell, every hour, they grew less valuable as they degraded, were contaminated and possibly were stolen.
Rhyme had been looking forward to analyzing the recovered evidence himself with his own hand, probing, examining…touching. An intense pleasure that had been denied him for so many hard years.
But that possibility was looking more and more unlikely, as time passed with no word from the Bahamas.
An officer from Information Services called and reported that while there were many database hits for “Don Bruns” or “Donald Bruns,” none was ranked as significant by IS’s Obscure Relationship Algorithm system. ORA takes disparate information, like names, addresses, organizations and activities, and uses supercomputers to find connections that traditional investigation might not. Rhyme was only mildly disappointed with the negative results. He hadn’t expected much; government agents at that level — especially snipers — surely would swap out their covers frequently, use cash for most purchases and stay off the grid as much as possible.
He now glanced toward Sachs, her eyes fixed on her notebook as she typed a memo for Laurel. She was fast and accurate. Whatever afflicted her hip and knee had spared her fingers. She never seemed to hit backspace for corrections. He recalled when he started in policing, years ago, women officers never admitted they could type, for fear of being marginalized and treated like administrative assistants. Now that had changed; those who keyboarded faster could get information faster and were therefore more efficient investigators.
Sachs’s expression, however, suggested that of a put-upon secretary.
Thom’s voice: “Can I get you—?”
“No,” Rhyme snapped.
“Well, since the question was directed toward Amelia,” the aide fired back, “why don’t we let her answer? Can I get you anything to eat, drink?”
“No, thanks, Thom.”
Which gave Rhyme a certain sense of petty satisfaction. He declined Thom’s offer too. And he returned to brooding.
Sachs took a phone call. Rhyme heard music tinning from her phone and knew who the caller was. She hit speaker.
“What do you have for us, Rodney?” Rhyme called.
“Lincoln, hi. Moving slowly but I’ve traced the whistleblower’s email from Romania to Sweden.”
Rhyme looked at the time. The hour was early morning in Stockholm. He supposed the body clock of geeks operated on its own time.
The Computer Crimes Unit cop said, “I actually know the guy operating the proxy service. We had a running argument about The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo a year or so ago and we played hack against each other for a while. He’s good. Not as good as me, though. Anyway, I charmed him into helping us, as long as he doesn’t have to testify.”
Despite his sour mood at the moment Rhyme had to laugh. “The good old boy network is alive and well — literally, a network.”
Szarnek may have laughed too, though it was hard to tell because of the music that filled in the gaps between his words.
“Now, he knows for sure that the email originated in the New York area and that no government servers were involved in any of the routing. They were sent from a commercial Wi-Fi. The whistleblower might’ve bootlegged somebody’s account or used free Wi-Fi at some coffee shop or hotel.”
“How many locations?” Sachs asked.
“There are about seven million unprotected accounts in the New York area. Give or take.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh, but I’ve managed to eliminate one.”
“Only one? Which?”
“Mine.” He laughed at his own joke. “But don’t worry, we can shrink the number down pretty fast. There’s some code we have to break but I’m borrowing supercomputer time at Columbia. I’ll let you know ASAP if I find something.”
They thanked the cop. He returned to his awful music and beloved boxes, Sachs to her angry keyboarding and Rhyme to the anemic whiteboards.
His own mobile rang and he gripped the unit, noting that the area code was 242.
Well, this is interesting, he thought and answered the call.
CHAPTER 22
“Hello, is that you, Corporal?”
“Yes, Captain, yes,” replied Royal Bahamas Police Force officer Mychal Poitier. A faint laugh. “You seem surprised to hear me. You didn’t think I would call back.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“It’s late. I have called at a bad time, maybe?”
“No, I’m glad you did.”
Ringing bells sounded in the distance. Where was Poitier? The hour was late, yet Rhyme could hear the murmur of crowds, large crowds.
“When we spoke earlier I wasn’t alone. Some of my answers may have seemed odd.”
“I was wondering about that.”
Poitier said, “You may have gathered that there was some disinclination to cooperate.” He paused as if wondering whether or not this was actually a word.
“I did gather that.”
A blast of music like a calliope, the classic circus theme, swelled.
Poitier continued, “And you were perhaps curious why a young officer like me was put in charge of what would seem to be a very important case when I’d never run a homicide before.”
“Are you young?” Rhyme asked.
“I am twenty-six.”
Young under some circumstances, not so young under others. But for homicide work, yes, he was a rookie.
Now a loud noise, a clanging, filled the air around Poitier.
The corporal continued, “I’m not in the office.”
“I gathered that too.” Rhyme laughed. “You’re on the street?”
“No, no, I have a job in the evenings. Security at a casino in a resort on Paradise Island. Near the famous Atlantis. You know it?”
Rhyme didn’t know. He had never been to a beach resort in his life.
Poitier asked, “Do your police officers have second jobs too?”
“Yes, some of them do. It’s hard to make a good living in policing.”
“Yes, yes, that is true. I didn’t want to come in to work, though. I would rather have stayed on the missing student case but I need the money…Now, I don’t have much time. I bought a phone card, ten minutes. Let me explain about the Moreno case and my involvement. You see, I have been on the waiting list to move to our Central Detective Unit for some time. It’s always been my goal to be a detective. Well, last week a supervisor told me that I had been selected for a junior position at CDU. And, far more surprising, that I would be given a case to supervise — the Moreno homicide. I had believed it would be a year or more before I would even be considered for the unit. And to be given a case myself? That was unthinkable. But I was, naturally, delighted.
“Then I was told I’d been selected because the case was merely administrative at that point. A cartel was behind the death — as I told you before. Probably from Señor Moreno’s home country of Venezuela. Certainly the sniper had already left the country, returned to Caracas. I was to gather the evidence, take some statements at the inn where Señor Moreno died and send the file to the Venezuelan national police. I would be the liaison if they wished to come to Nassau to investigate further. Then I was to assist some senior detectives running the case of the other murder I mentioned.”
The prominent lawyer.
More clanging, shouting. What was it, a slot machine payoff?
There was a pause and then Poitier called to someone nearby. “No, no, they’re drunk. Just watch them. I’m busy. I must make this call. Escort them out if they get belligerent. Call Big Samuel.”