Rhyme reread the letter about Moreno’s renunciation of his U.S. citizenship. He was as angry as Laurel that this technicality had derailed the case.

“He hated the country that much,” Pulaski asked, “that he’d give up his citizenship?”

“Apparently so,” Laurel said.

“Come on, boys and girls,” Rhyme chided, then sipped some more whiskey. “They won round one. Or the first inning. Whatever clichéd figure of speech and mixed metaphor you like. But we still have a perp, you know. Unsub Five Sixteen, responsible for an IED in a coffee shop and the Lydia Foster homicide. Those are Major Cases. Lon Sellitto’ll assign us to work them.”

“It won’t be my case, though,” Nance Laurel said. “I’ve been told to get back to my regular caseload.”

“This’s bullshit,” Ron Pulaski spat out, surprising Rhyme with his vehemence. “Moreno’s the same person he was when he got shot—an innocent victim. So what if he wasn’t a citizen?”

“Bullshit it is, Ron,” Laurel said, her voice more resigned than angry. “That’s exactly right.”

She finished her whiskey and walked over to Rhyme. She shook his hand. “It’s been a privilege working with you.”

“I’m sure we will again.”

A faint smile. But something about the exquisite sadness in the expression told him that she believed her life as a prosecutor was over.

Sachs said to her, “Hey, you want to have dinner sometime? We can dish on the government.” She added in a whisper that Rhyme could hear, “And dish on men too?”

“I’d like that. Yes.”

They exchanged phone numbers, Sachs having to check to find out what her new one was. She’d bought a half dozen prepaids in the past few days.

Then the ADA carefully assembled her files, using paper clips and Post-it Notes to mark relevant categories. “I’ll have copies sent to you for the unsub case.”

The short woman hefted the briefcase in one hand, the litigation bag in the other and with one last look around the room—and no other words—walked out, her solid heels thudding on the wood, then the marble of the hallway. And she was gone.

Chapter 72

CHAPTER 72

JACOB SWANN DECIDED, WITH SOME REGRET, that he couldn’t rape Nance Laurel before he killed her.

Well, he could. And part of him wanted to. But it wouldn’t be wise—that was what he meant. A sexual assault left far too much evidence. Minimizing the clues in any murder was hard enough—trying to make sure sweat, tears, saliva, hairs and those hundred thousand skin cells we slough off daily weren’t available to be picked up by some diligent crime scene tech.

Not to mention fingerprints inside the latex gloves or on skin.

He’d need another option.