“Thanks for coming back,” Sachs said.

“No, thanks to you all for saving our case.” She was looking around the room.

Our case…

“Amelia came up with the idea,” Lon Sellitto said.

Rhyme added, “I missed the option entirely.”

Sellitto added that he’d been in touch with Captain Myers and the man had—with some reluctance—agreed they should proceed with the new charges. The attorney general had given his tentative approval too.

“Now we have to consider how to proceed,” Laurel said, surprising Rhyme by not only unbuttoning but slipping off her jacket. She could smile, she could sip whiskey, she could relax. “First, I’d like some background. Who was he, this reporter?”

Ron Pulaski had been researching. He said, “Eduardo de la Rua, fifty-six. Married. Freelance journalist and blogger. Born in Puerto Rico, U.S. passport. But he’s been living in Buenos Aires for the past ten years. Last year he won the Premio a la Excelencia en el Periodismo. That’s ‘Award for Excellence in Journalism.’”

“You speak Spanish too, rookie?” Rhyme interrupted. “You never fail to astound. Good accent too.”

“Nada.”

“Ha,” Sellitto offered.

The young officer: “Lately de la Rua’s been writing for Diario Seminal Negocio de Argentina.”

“The Weekly Journal of Argentina,” Rhyme tried.

“Almost. Weekly Business Journal.”

“Of course.”

“He was doing a series on American businesses and banks starting up in Latin America. He’d been after Moreno for months to do an interview about that—the alternative view, why U.S. companies shouldn’t be encouraged to open operations down there. Finally he agreed and de la Rua flew to Nassau. And we know what happened next.”

Sachs told Laurel, “Shales is in custody.”

“Good,” the prosecutor said. “Now, where are we with the evidence?”

“Ah, the evidence,” Rhyme mused. “The evidence. All we need to prove is that the bullet caused the flying glass, and the glass was the cause of the reporter’s death. We’re close. We’ve got the trace of glass splinters on the bullet and on de la Rua’s clothes. I’d just really like some of the shards that actually caused the laceration and bleeding.” He looked to Laurel. “Juries love the weapons, don’t they?”

“They sure do, Lincoln.”

“The morgue in the Bahamas?” Sachs asked. “The examiner would still have the glass, wouldn’t you think?”

“Let’s hope. People may steal Rolexes and Oakleys down there but I imagine broken glass is safe from sticky fingers. I’ll call Mychal and see what he can find. He can ship some up here with an affidavit that states the shards were recovered from the body and were the cause of death. Or, hell, maybe he could come up himself to testify.”

“That’s a great idea,” Thom said. “He could stay with us for a while, hang out.”