Sachs fished out her phone and called Lincoln Rhyme.

His answering words: “I’m thinking we should get a chameleon.”

Not “Hello” or “Sachs.”

“A…lizard?”

“They’re quite interesting. I haven’t seen one change color yet. Do you know how they do it, Sachs? Metachrosis is what it’s called, you know. They use hormonal cell signaling to trigger changes in the chromatophore cells in their skin. I find it truly fascinating. So how’s the case going up there?”

She ran through the developments.

Rhyme considered this. “I suppose that makes sense, two different perps. Metzger isn’t going to use his star sniper in New York to clean up. I should have thought of that.”

I should have too, she reflected sadly. Picturing Lydia Foster’s body.

“Upload a picture of Shales, DMV or military.”

“Sure. I’ll do it when we hang up.” Then in a somber voice she told him in detail about the death of Moreno’s interpreter, Lydia.

“Torture?”

She described the knife work.

“Distinctive technique,” he assessed. “That might be helpful.”

He’d be referring to the fact that perps who use knives or other mechanical weapons, like clubs, tended to leave wounds that were consistent from one victim to another, which can often identify them. She noted too that this detached, clinical comment was his only reaction to the horrific attack.

But this was just Lincoln Rhyme. She knew it; she accepted it. And wondered in passing why the same attitude in Nance Laurel set her so on edge.

She asked, “How’s it going down in the balmy Caribbean?”

“Not making much headway, Sachs. We’re under house arrest.”

“What?”

“One way or the other, it’ll be resolved tomorrow.” He clearly wasn’t going to say any more, maybe concerned that his line was tapped. “I should go. Thom’s making something for dinner. I think it’s ready. And you really should try dark rum sometime. It’s quite good. Made from sugar, you know.”

“I may pass on the rum. There are some unpleasant memories. Though I guess they’re not memories if you can’t remember them.”

“What do you think of the case now, Sachs? You still in the policy and politics camp? Leaving it all to Congress?”

“Nope. Not anymore. One look at the crime scene at Lydia Foster’s convinced me. There’re some real bad sons of bitches involved in this. And they’re going down. Oh, and Rhyme, by the way: If you hear something about an IED blast up here, don’t worry, I’m fine.” She explained about the explosion that took out the computer at the coffee shop, without going into the details of the near miss.

He then said, “It’s rather pleasant down here, Sachs. I’m thinking we might want to come back some time—unofficially.”

“A vacation. Yeah, Rhyme, let’s do it.”

“You couldn’t drive very fast. Traffic’s terrible.”