The large man, in a pressed khaki uniform, rose and shook Rhyme’s hand carefully. “You’re well, Captain Rhyme?”

“Yes. Some rest was just what I needed.”

“Excellent.”

He shook the hands of Pulaski and Thom as well. A moment later Mychal Poitier walked uncertainly into the room. Greetings all ’round.

The assistant commissioner sat and suddenly he was all business, regarding Rhyme with narrow, focused eyes. “Now, the student. Please, sir. You said murder.”

Rhyme said, “She was definitely killed intentionally, yes. It was planned out beforehand. And she was beaten before she died, I think.”

“Beaten?” Poitier tilted his head.

The criminalist said, “The clue is her jewelry. In the crime scene photos I noted that her bracelets, watch, finger and toe rings were gold. But her necklace was silver leaves. That seemed out of place, mixing the two.”

“What does–?” the assistant commissioner started. Then fell silent. Rhyme had frowned at the interruption.

“I think her assailant beat her badly and wanted to hide that fact. When he was finished, he drowned her and put the necklace on. He knew that scavenger fish’d be attracted to the shiny metal – I read about that on the flight here. I assume it’s in all the guidebooks: warnings not to wear anything flashy. Silver is particularly attractive because it resembles fish scales, more so than gold. The fish took care of the evidence of the beating by removing most of the facial skin.

“We know her killer planned this all out ahead of time because he brought the silver necklace with him.”

Poitier asked, “Why would he do that? There was no evidence of sexual assault.”

“Revenge maybe. But I have some thoughts that might lead us a bit farther. We’ll need to talk to the medical examiner. I’d like to know about the student’s postmortem blood workup.” When the assistant commissioner remained staring at Rhyme, the criminalist said to him, “It would be helpful to know that now.”

“Yes. Of course.” McPherson lifted the receiver from his desk phone and made a call. He spoke for a moment to a clerk or assistant, it seemed, then he said into the mouthpiece, “I don’t care if he’s in an autopsy. The body will be just as dead when he returns. Fetch him.”

After a brief pause McPherson resumed his conversation. He looked at Rhyme, holding the phone away from his ear. “The results are in. The coroner has the report in front of him.”

The criminalist asked, “Blood alcohol?”

The question was posed. Then: “Point zero seven.”

Pulaski said, “Not legally drunk but close.”

Rhyme asked quickly, “What was she drinking?”

Poitier said, “We found Bacardi rum, eighty proof, and Coca Cola in the car. Both open.”

“Diet or regular? The soft drink.”

“Regular.”

Rhyme then said to McPherson, “Ask the coroner her postmortem glucose level. And I don’t want the vascular system results. Those aren’t reliable; glycolysis continues after death. I want the vitreous  concentration.” He explained, “No glycolytic enzymes there.”

McPherson stared. In fact, everyone in the room did.

Rhyme continued impatiently, “I want the glucose level from the vitreous fluid in her eye. It’s standard procedure. I’m sure they ran it.”

The man posed the question. The answer was 4.2 milligrams per deciliter.

“Low normal.” The criminalist smiled. “I knew it. She wasn’t drinking recreationally. If she’d mixed Coke and rum the level would be higher. Her killer forced her to swallow some rum straight and then just left the soft drink bottle open to make it look like she’d been mixing them.” Rhyme turned back to the assistant commissioner again. “Drug screen?”

Again the question was posed.

“Negative for everything.”

“Good,” Rhyme said enthusiastically. “We’re getting somewhere. Now we need to look into her job.”

Poitier said, “She was a part time salesclerk in Nassau.”

“No, not that  job. Her job as a prostitute, I mean.”

“What? How do you know?”

“The pictures.” He glanced at Poitier. “The pictures that you showed me on your iPad. She had multiple injection marks on her arm. Her blood was negative for narcotics or other drugs, we just learned, so why the tracks? Can’t be insulin; diabetics don’t inject intravenously there. No, it was probably – probably, mind you, not for certain – that she had regular blood tests for sexually transmitted disease.”

“A prostitute.” The assistant commissioner seemed pleased by this. The American who’d died under his watch wasn’t an innocent student after all.

“You can hang up now.” Rhyme’s eyes dipped to the phone, hanging like a motionless pendulum.

McPherson did, after an abrupt goodbye to the medical examiner.

“So, our next step?” Poitier asked.

“To find out where the woman worked,” Pulaski said, “and picked up her johns.”

Rhyme nodded. “Yes. That’s probably where she met her killer. The gold jewelry was expensive and tasteful. She was in very good shape, healthy. Her face pretty. She wouldn’t’ve been a streetwalker. Check her purse for credit card receipts. We’ll see where she bought her cocktails.”

The assistant commissioner nodded to Mychal Poitier, who made a call, apparently to the evidence room or someone in the Detective Unit.

The young officer had an extended conversation and eventually hung up. “Well, this is interesting,” Poitier said. “Two receipts for the bar in the–”

Something in his tone deposited a fast thought in Rhyme’s mind. “The South Cove Inn!”

“Yes, that’s right, Captain. How did you know?”

Rhyme didn’t answer, he gazed out the window for a full minute. The thoughts were coming quickly. “What’s her name?” he asked.

“Annette. Annette Bodel.”

“Well, I have good news for both of us, Commissioner McPherson. For you: Ms. Bodel’s killer was not Bahamian but American – that’s a public relations coup for your country. And for me, I think we’ve found a connection to the Moreno case. I was wrong about one thing – she was tortured, yes. But I think he used a knife, not his fists, cutting her cheek or nose or tongue.”

“How do you know this?” McPherson asked.

“I don’t know it, not yet. But I think it’s likely. My associate in New York told me that a man who’s eliminating witnesses in the case specializes in using knives. He’s not the sniper. My guess is that he’s the sniper’s backup or spotter and was the American who was at the inn on May eighth, learning what he could about suite twelve hundred and Moreno and his guard. He probably picked Annette up in the bar, used her to get information and then left the Bahamas with the sniper after the shooting. But when he heard about the investigation he came back two days ago, Monday, tortured her to find out if she’d told anyone about him and then killed her.”

Pulaski said, “We should take a look at the beach where she was found, search it again – this time as a crime scene.”

The assistant commissioner looked at Poitier but the corporal shook his head. “This man was smart, sir. He killed her at low tide. The site is under three feet of water.”

“Smart indeed.” Rhyme’s eyes held the assistant commissioner’s steadily. He said, “The evidence we’re looking at doesn’t leave a lot of doubt that Robert Moreno was killed by a U.S. government sniper and that his partner or at least somebody in his organization is cleaning up afterward, including murdering Ms. Bodel in Nassau. That information is going to be public pretty soon. You can stick to the story that the Venezuelan cartel is behind the shooting and ignore the American connection. But then it’ll look like you were part of the cover up. Or you can help us find the shooter and his backup man.”

Pulaski broke in: “You ought to know, Commissioner, that it looks like the man who ordered the killing probably acted outside the scope of his authority. If you help us find the perps, it’s not going to upset Washington as much as you might think.”