As Sachs gazed toward the table, one piece of paper stood out. She walked over and picked it up. She read:

From: Assistant District Attorney Nance Laurel

To: District Attorney Franklin Levine (Manhattan County)

Re: People v. Metzger, et al. Update, Tuesday May 16

In researching leads to the case, I identified the chauffeur with Elite Limousines who drove Robert Moreno throughout the city on May 1. The driver’s name is Atash Farada. There are several things to consider from my research, relevant to this case.

Robert Moreno was accompanied by a woman in her thirties, possibly an escort or prostitute. He might have paid her a “significant” sum of cash. Her given name was “Lydia.”

He and this individual left the driver in his limo at a downtown location for a period of several hours. Farada’s impression was that Moreno did not want him to know where he was going.

The driver offered a motive for Moreno’s anti American sentiments. A good friend was killed by U.S. troops in the Panama invasion, December 1989.

Sachs was taken aback. The memo was nearly identical to the email she had sent to Laurel earlier, as instructed by the Overseer. Except for a few variations.

From: Detective Amelia Sachs, NYPD

To: Assistant District Attorney Nance Laurel

Re: Moreno Homicide, Update, Tuesday May 16

In researching leads to the case I identified the driver (Atash Farada) with Elite Limo, who drove Robert Moreno throughout the city on May 1. My discussions with him revealed several things of importance to the investigation:

Moreno was accompanied by a woman in her thirties possibly an escort or prostitute. I considered too whether or not she was a terrorist or other operative. He might have paid her a “significant” sum of cash. Her first name was Lydia.

He and the woman left the driver in a downtown location for a period of time. Driver’s impression was that Moreno did not want him to know where he and Lydia were going.

Driver suggested motive for anti American activity. Good friend was killed in Panama invasion.

Laurel stole my work.

And not only that but she had to fucking edit it too.

Sachs went through the half dozen other memos that she’d dutifully written and sent to the ADA.

If you don’t mind…

Well, Sachs did  mind – because they were all doctored to make it sound like Laurel had done the research. In fact, Sachs’s name didn’t appear on a single piece of paper. Rhyme’s was prominently featured but Sachs was virtually cut out of the investigation altogether.

Goddamn it. What was this about?

Looking for answers, she dug through the stacks. Many of the documents were copies of court opinions and legal briefs.

But one at the bottom was different.

And it explained a great deal.

Sachs glanced at Mel Cooper, who was hunched over a microscope. He hadn’t seen her pilfering Laurel’s paperwork. Sachs took the document she’d just uncovered and photocopied it, slipping the sheet into her purse. She returned the original to Laurel’s workstation and was very careful to put it back exactly where she’d found it. Even though the space seemed cluttered, Sachs wouldn’t have been surprised if the prosecutor had memorized the position of every paper – and paper clip – before leaving.

Sachs wanted to be sure the woman had no idea she’d been busted.

Captain Rhyme, you are feeling better?”

After a suitable pause: “I am,” he told Royal Bahamas Police Force assistant commissioner McPherson. “Thank you for asking. We’re packed and will be en route to the airport shortly.” Rhyme’s mobile was on speaker.

The time was 8 a.m. and Rhyme was in the living room of the hot and oh so humid motel suite. Thom and Pulaski were sitting on the veranda, sipping coffee, in the company of two more chameleons.

A pause. “May I ask a question, Captain Rhyme?”

“I suppose.” He sounded put out. Tired. Prisonerish.

“I am perplexed by one thing you said.”

“What was that?”

“You said you wished us luck in the murder  investigation of the American student.”

“Yes?”

“But the young woman died in an accident. Drinking and swimming.”

Rhyme let several seconds of silence build, as if he were confused. “Oh, I’d be very surprised if that were the case.”

“How do you mean, Captain?”

“I don’t really have time to discuss it, Commissioner. We have to be at the airport soon. I’ll leave it to you to–”

“Please…You really think the student was murdered?”

“I’m sure of it, yes.”

The conclusion that the student’s death was a murder had occurred to him while enjoying conch fritters in the Hurricane Café and looking over the gruesome crime scene photos. He had, however, decided to refrain from offering his thoughts to Corporal Poitier just then.

The assistant commissioner said, “Go on, please.”

“Go on?” Rhyme asked, sounding perplexed.

“Yes, tell me about your thoughts. They’re intriguing.”

We let the bread bake…

“Be that as it may, I have to get to the airport. Good luck again, Assistant Commissioner.”

“Wait! Please! Captain Rhyme, perhaps I was somewhat hasty yesterday. It was an unfortunate incident that happened at Clifton Bay. And Corporal Poitier was, after all, acting insubordinately.”

“Frankly, Assistant Commissioner, my experience has been that in our line of work the best results are often achieved by the most insubordinate.”

“Yes, perhaps that’s true. But could you just give me some thoughts about–”

Rhyme said quickly, “I might be able to help…” His voice faded.

“Yes?”

“But in exchange I would like Corporal Poitier reinstated.”

“He hasn’t been precisely de stated. The paperwork is sitting on my desk as we speak. But I haven’t signed anything yet.”

“Good. And I would need access to the Robert Moreno crime scene at the South Cove Inn, as well as the autopsy reports and the three victims’ clothing. And any relevant evidence collected there – the bullet in particular. I must see that bullet.”

A faint tap from the speakerphone. The assistant commissioner was clearly not used to negotiating.

Rhyme looked over the others, on whom the sun was beginning to fall in its searing glory. Pulaski gave him an encouraging grin.

After a pause – a gravid pause, Rhyme thought wryly – the assistant commissioner said, “Very good, Captain. You perhaps can come to my office now to discuss this matter?”

“Provided my associate is there too?”

“Your associate?”

“Corporal Poitier.”

“Of course. I’ll arrange it now.”

The assistant commissioner’s office at the Royal Bahamas Police Force was opulently shabby, more residential than official.

The chamber exuded colonial ambience, which made Rhyme feel right at home. His own working space, the laboratory née  parlor, dated back to the era of Victoria. Here, though the RBPF building was newer, McPherson’s office too was cast in an earlier time – with a chintz sofa, a washbasin and pitcher, a large oak armoire, yellow shaded lamps and, on the wall, pictures of men who had to be governors general or similar officials. Several formal uniforms – one spotless white, one navy blue – hung stiffly on racks.

Some touches of modern times were present, of course: battered gray file cabinets, three mobile phones sitting on the functional beige desk and two impressive computers. Dominating one wall was a detailed map of New Providence Island.

The climate in here was warm – the air conditioning was struggling – and the humidity intense. Rhyme deduced that McPherson kept the windows open most of the time and had artificially cooled the room in honor of his visitors this morning. The deduction was supported by another attendee – a chameleon sitting on the sill inside.