“No. He—or she—could be military, which would be a problem. If we’re lucky he’ll be civilian.”

“Lucky?” From Sachs.

Rhyme assumed Laurel meant because the military justice system would complicate matters. But she elaborated, “A soldier’s more sympathetic to a jury than a mercenary or civilian contractor.”

Sellitto said, “You mentioned two conspirators, along with the shooter. Who else aside from Metzger?”

“Oh,” Laurel continued in a faintly dismissive tone, “the president.”

“Of what?” Sellitto asked.

Whether or not this required a thoughtful hesitation Laurel paused anyway. “Of the United States, of course. I’m sure that every targeted killing requires the president’s okay. But I’m not pursuing him.”

“Jesus, I hope not,” Lon Sellitto said with a laugh that sounded like a stifled sneeze. “That’s more than a political land mine; it’s a fucking nuke.”

Laurel frowned, as if she’d had to translate his comment from Icelandic. “Politics aren’t the issue, Detective. Even if the president acted outside the scope of his authority in ordering a targeted killing, the criminal procedure in his case would be impeachment. But obviously that’s out of my jurisdiction.”

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

HE WAS DISTRACTED MOMENTARILY by the smell of grilling fish, with lime and plantain, he believed. Something else, a spice. He couldn’t quite place it.

Sniffing the air again. What could it be?

Compact, with crew-cut brown hair, he resumed his casual stroll along the broken sidewalk—and dirt path, where the concrete slabs were missing altogether. He billowed out his dark suit jacket to vent the heat and reflected he was glad he hadn’t worn a tie. He paused again beside a weed-filled lot. The street of low shops and pastel houses in need of more pastel paint was deserted now, late morning. No people, though two lazy potcake dogs were lounging in the shade.

Then she emerged.

She was leaving the Deep Fun Dive Shop and walking in the direction of West Bay, a Gabriel Márquez novel in her hand.

Tan and sun-blond, the young woman had a tangle of hair, with a single narrow beaded braid from temple to breast. Her figure was an hourglass but a slim hourglass. She wore a yellow-and-red bikini and a translucent orange wrap around her waist, teasing. It fell to her ankles. She was limber and energetic and her smile could be mischievous.

As it now was.

“Well, look who it is,” she said and stopped beside him.

This was a quiet area some distance away from downtown Nassau. Sleepily commercial. The dogs watched lethargically, ears flopped downward like place-marked pages in a book.

“Hey there.” Jacob Swann removed his Maui Jims and wiped his face. Put the sunglasses back on. Wished he’d brought sunscreen. This trip to the Bahamas hadn’t been planned.

“Hm. Maybe my phone’s not working,” Annette said wryly.