“Of course we’re not leaving. Do you want your assignment or do you want to keep interrupting?” Without waiting for an answer, Rhyme reminded the young officer about the information that Corporal Poitier had provided via phone the other night in New York: the call from an American inquiring about Moreno’s reservation, and the man at the hotel the day before the shooting asking a maid about Moreno—Don Bruns, their talented sniper.

“Thirties, American, athletic, small build, short brown hair.” Pulaski had remembered this from the chart.

“Good. Now, I can’t go myself,” the criminalist said. “I’d make too much of a stir. We’ll park in the lot and wait for you. Walk up to the main desk, flash your badge and find out what the number was of the person who called from America and anything else about the guy asking about Moreno. Don’t explain too much. Just say you’re a police officer looking into the incident.”

“I’ll say I just came from RBPF headquarters.”

“Hm. I like that. Suitably authoritarian and yet vague at the same time. If you get the number—when you get the number—we’ll call Rodney Szarnek and have him talk to the cell or landline provider. You clear on all of that?”

“You bet, Lincoln.”

“What does that mean, ‘You bet’?”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“Mouth filler, expressions like that.” He was still hurt and angry about what he considered Poitier’s betrayal—which was only partly his refusal to help.

As they bobbed along the streets of Nassau an idea occurred to Rhyme. “And when you’re at the inn, see if Eduardo de la Rua, the reporter who died, left anything there. Luggage, notebook, computer. And do what you can to get your hands on it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I want any notes or recordings that de la Rua made. The police haven’t been very diligent about collecting evidence. Maybe there’s still something at the inn.”

“Maybe he recorded Moreno talking about somebody surveilling him.”

“That,” Rhyme said acerbically, “or somebody conducting surveillance, since what you said may be correct but is a shamless example of verbing a perfectly fine noun.” And he couldn’t resist a smile at his own irony.

Pulaski sighed. Thom smiled.

The young officer thought for a moment. “De la Rua was a reporter. What about his camera? Maybe he took some pictures in the room or on the grounds before the shooting.”

“Didn’t think of that. Good. Yes. Maybe he got some pictures of a surveiller.” Then he grew angry again. “The Venezuelan authorities. Bullshit.”

Rhyme’s mobile buzzed. He looked at the caller ID.

Well, what’s this?

He hit answer. “Corporal?”

Had Poitier been fired? Had he called to apologize for losing his temper, while reiterating that there was nothing he could do to help?