CHAPTER 54
“You were right, Captain,” Mychal Poitier called from the second-story porch outside Annette Bodel’s apartment in Nassau. “The side window has been jimmied. Barry Shales or your unsub broke in here, either before or after he killed her.”
Rhyme gazed up, squinting into the brilliant sky. He couldn’t see the corporal, just the silhouette of a palm waving lethargically near the roof of the building in which prostitute-student Annette had lived.
This was the other crime scene he’d referred to. He’d known that Annette’s killer had to come here to find any information she might have had about him and his visit to South Cove last week. Poitier and his men had been here before — after she was reported missing — but merely to see if she, or her body, was present. The door locks had not been disturbed and the officers hadn’t investigated further.
“Probably afterward,” Rhyme called. Part of the questions during Annette’s torture would have been about address books and computer files that might have referenced him. Diaries too, of course. All of that would be gone but, he hoped, some trace of the unsub remained.
A small cluster of locals, faces tanned and faces black, were nearby, checking out the entourage. Rhyme supposed their words ought to be delivered more discreetly but twenty-five vertical feet separated him from Poitier and so there was no choice but to shout.
“Don’t go inside, Corporal. Ron will handle it.” He turned. “Rookie, how we doing?”
“Almost ready, Lincoln.” He was suiting up in RBPF crime scene coveralls and assembling the basic collection equipment.
Rhyme didn’t even consider running this scene himself, though he’d earlier been tempted. There was no elevator in the building and it would be nearly impossible to carry the heavy wheelchair up the narrow rickety stairs. Besides, Pulaski was good. Nearly as good as Amelia Sachs.
The officer now paused in front of Rhyme as if expecting a briefing. But the criminalist offered simply, “It’s your scene. You know what to do.”
A nod from the young man and up the stairs he trotted.
It took about an hour for him to walk the grid.
When Pulaski emerged, with a half dozen collection bags, he asked Rhyme and Poitier if they wanted to review the evidence now. Rhyme debated but in the end he decided to take everything back to New York and do the analysis there.
Part of this was the familiarity of working with Mel Cooper.
Part was that he missed Sachs, a fact he wouldn’t share with another human being…except her.
“What are our travel options?” he asked Thom.
He checked his phone. “If we can get to the airport in a half hour, we can make the next flight.”
Rhyme glanced at the corporal.
“We’re twenty minutes at the most,” Poitier said.
“Even in the infamous Bahamian traffic?” Rhyme asked wryly.
“I have red lights.”
Pulaski headed toward the van, still in coveralls, booties and shower cap.
“Get into street clothes, rookie. I think you’d upset the passengers, dressed like that.”
“Oh, right.”
The flashing lights did help and soon they were at the terminal. They exited the van and, while Pulaski saw to the luggage and Thom arranged for the vehicle to be collected, Rhyme remained next to Poitier. The area was bustling with tourists and locals, and the air filled with dust and the endless bangs and catcalls of construction. And that constant perfume, trash fire smoke.
Rhyme began to speak, then found words had abandoned him. He forced them into line. “I’m sorry about what happened at the sniper nest, Corporal. The assistant commissioner was right. I nearly got you killed.”
Poitier laughed. “We aren’t in a business like librarians or dental workers, Captain. Not all of us go home every night.”
“Still, I wasn’t as competent as I should have been.” These words seared him. “I should have anticipated the attack.”
“I have not been a real police officer for very long, Captain, but I think it’s safe to say that it would be impossible to anticipate everything that could happen in this profession. It’s really quite mad, what we do. Little pay, danger, politics at the top, chaos on the streets.”
“You’ll do well as a detective, Corporal.”
“I hope so. I certainly feel more at home here than in Business Inspections and Licensing.”
A flashing light caught Rhyme’s eye and he could hear a siren as well. A police car was speeding into the airport, weaving through traffic.
“Ah, the last of the evidence,” Poitier said. “I was worried it wouldn’t arrive in time.”
What evidence could it be? Rhyme wondered. They had everything that existed from the Moreno sniper shooting, as well as from Annette Bodel’s apartment. The divers had given up searching for Barry Shales’s spent cartridges.
The corporal waved the car over.
The young constable who’d met them at the South Cove Inn was behind the wheel. Holding an evidence bag, he got out and saluted, the gesture aimed halfway between the two men he faced.
Rhyme resisted a ridiculous urge to salute back.
Poitier took the bag and thanked the officer. Another tap of stiff fingers to his forehead and the constable returned to the car, speeding away and clicking on the siren and lights once more, though his mission had been accomplished.
“What’s that?”
“Can’t you tell?” Poitier asked. “I remember in your book you instruct officers to always smell the air when they’re running the crime scene.”
Frowning, Rhyme leaned down and inhaled.
The fragrant aroma of fried conch rose from the bag.
CHAPTER 55
Susss, susss…
In his kitchen Jacob Swann sipped a Vermentino, a light pleasant Italian wine, in this case from Liguria. He returned to honing his knife, a Kai Shun, though not the slicer. This was an eight-and-a-half-inch Deba model for chopping and for removing large pieces of meat intact.
Susss, susss, susss…
He stroked from side to side, on the Arkansas whetstone, his personal style for sharpening. Never in a circle.
The hour was around 8 p.m. Jazz played on his turntable. Larry Coryell, the guitarist. He excelled at standards, his own compositions and even classical. “Pavane for a Dead Princess” was an unmatched interpretation.
Aproned, Swann stood at the butcher-block island. Not long ago he’d received a text from headquarters complimenting him on his work today, confirming that he’d made the right decision to delay the attack on Sachs. Shreve Metzger had provided yet more info but there was nothing more to do at the moment. He could stand down for the evening. And he was taking advantage of that.
The lights were low, the shades and curtains drawn.
There was, in a way, a sense of romance in the air. Swann looked at the woman sitting nearby. Her hair was down, she wore one of his T-shirts, black, and plaid boxers, also his. He believed he could smell a floral scent, laced with spice. Smell and flavor are inextricably linked. Swann never cooked anything of importance when he had a cold or a sinus infection. Why waste the effort? Eating at a time like that meant the food was simply fuel.
A sin.
The woman, whose name was Carol Fiori — odd moniker for a Brit — looked back. She was crying softly.
Occasionally she’d make the uhn uhn uhn sound, like earlier. Carol was the jogger who had approached him in the alleyway earlier and ruined his chance to disable Amelia Sachs. A throat-punch and into the trunk she’d gone. He’d driven off quickly, returning home. He’d get the detective later.