Back to Rhyme: “You are suspecting conspiracy at the top, dark intrigues, to quash the Moreno investigation. In a way, yes. First, we must ask, why would the cartels want to kill him? Señor Moreno was well liked in Latin America. The cartels are businessmen first. They would not want to alienate the people they need for workers and mules by killing a popular activist. My impression — from some research I have done — is that the cartels and Moreno tolerated each other.”
Rhyme told him, “Like I told you, we feel the same.”
The corporal paused. “Señor Moreno was very outspoken against America. And his Local Empowerment Movement, with its anti-U.S. bias, was growing in popularity. You know that?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And he had connections with organizations that had terrorist leanings. This is no surprise either, I’m sure.”
“We’re aware of that, as well.”
“Now, it occurred to me that perhaps—” His voice lowered. “—your government wished this man dead.”
Rhyme realized he’d been selling the corporal short.
“And so you see the situation my superiors — in fact the entire Ministry of National Security and our Parliament — found themselves in.” Nearly whispering now. “What if our investigation shows that this was true? The CIA or the Pentagon sent a sniper down here to shoot Señor Moreno? And what if a police investigation finds that man and identifies the organization he works for. The implications could be great. In retaliation for that embarrassing revelation, there might be decisions made in the U.S. to change the immigration policy regarding the Bahamas. Or to change Customs’ policy. That would be very hard for us. The economy is not good here. We need Americans. We need the families who come here so their children can play with the dolphins and grandmother can do aerobics in the pool and husband and wife slip back to the room for their first romance in months. We can’t lose our tourists. Absolutely. And that means we can’t ruffle the feathers of Washington.”
“Do you think there would be that retribution if you conducted a more rigorous investigation?”
“It’s a reasonable explanation for the otherwise inexplicable fact that the lead investigator in the Moreno case — that is, myself — was, only two weeks ago, making certain proper fire exits existed in new buildings and that Jet Ski rental companies had paid all their fees on time.”
Poitier’s voice rose in volume and there was some steel in it. “But I have to tell you, Captain: I may have been assigned to Business Inspections and Licensing but there wasn’t a single inspection or license I handled that was not completed in a timely, thorough and honest manner.”
“I don’t doubt it, Corporal.”
“So it is troublesome for me to be given this case and yet not be given this case, if you understand my meaning.”
Silence, broken by a slot machine clattering loudly into Rhyme’s ear.
When the noise stopped, Mychal Poitier whispered, “The Moreno case is in dry dock here, Captain. But I assume yours is steaming ahead.”
“Correct.”
“And you are, I assume, pursuing a conspiracy charge.”
Selling him short indeed. “That’s right.”
“I looked for that name, Don Bruns. You said it was a cover.”
“Yes.”
“There was nothing in any of our records here. Customs, Passport Control, hotel registers. He could easily have slipped onto the island, though, unseen. It’s not difficult. But there are two things that might help you. I will say I didn’t neglect the case entirely. I interviewed witnesses, as I said. A desk clerk at the South Cove Inn told me that someone called the front desk two days before Robert Moreno arrived to confirm his reservation. A male caller, an American accent. But the clerk thought this was odd because Moreno’s guard had called just an hour or so before, also to check on the reservation. Who was the second caller — the one in or from America — and why was he so interested in Moreno’s arrival?”
“Did you get the number?”
“I was told it was an American area code. But the full number was not available. Or, to be frank, I was told not to dig further to find the number. Now, the second thing is that the day before the shooting, someone was at the inn, asking questions. This man spoke to a maid about the suite where Señor Moreno was staying, if there were groundskeepers regularly outside, did the suite have curtains, where did his guard stay, about the men’s comings and goings. I’m assuming this was the man who called, but I don’t know, of course.”
“Did you get a description?”
“Male, Caucasian, mid-thirty years of age, short-cut hair, light brown. American accent too. Thin but athletic, the maid said. She said too he seemed military.”
“That’s our man. First, he called to make sure Moreno was still arriving. Then he showed up the day before the shooting to check out the target zone. Any car? Other details?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Beep.
Rhyme heard the sound over the line and he thought: Shit, NIOS’s tapping us.
But Poitier said, “I only have a few minutes left. That’s the tone warning me the time on my card is expiring.”
“I’ll call you back—”
“I must go anyway. I hope this—”
Rhyme said urgently, “Please, wait. Tell me about the crime scene. I asked you earlier about the bullet.”
That’s key to the case…
A pause. “The sniper fired three times from a very far distance, more than a mile. Two shots missed and those bullets disintegrated on the concrete wall outside the room. The one that killed Moreno was recovered largely intact.”
“One bullet?” Rhyme was confused. “But the other victims?”
“Oh, they were not shot. The round was very powerful. It hit the windows and showered everyone with glass. The guard and the reporter interviewing Moreno were badly cut and bled to death before they got to the hospital.”
The million-dollar bullet.
“And the brass? The cartridges?”
“I asked a crime scene team to go search where the sniper had to shoot from. But…” His voice dimmed. “I was, of course, very junior and they told me they didn’t want to bother.”
“They didn’t want to bother?”
“The area was rugged, they said, a rocky shoreline that would be hard to search. I protested but by then the decision had been made not to pursue the case.”
“You yourself can search it, Corporal. I can tell you how to find the place he shot from,” Rhyme said.
“Well, the case is suspended, as I said.”
Beep.
“There are simple things to look for. Snipers leave a great deal of trace, however careful they are. It won’t take much time.”
Beep, beep…
“I’m not able to, Captain. The missing student still hasn’t been found—”
Rhyme blurted: “All right, Corporal, but please — at least send me the report, photos, the autopsy results. And if I could get the victims’ clothing. Shoes particularly. And…the bullet. I really want that bullet. We’ll be very diligent about the chain of custody.”
A pause. “Ah, Captain, no, I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Beep, beep, beep…
The last that Rhyme heard before the line went silent was the urgent hoot of a slot machine and a very drunken tourist saying, “Great, great. You realize it just cost you two hundred bucks to win thirty-nine fucking dollars.”
CHAPTER 23
That night Rhyme and Sachs lay in his SunTec bed, fully reclined.