AT THIS POINT IN A STANDARD INVESTIGATION Lincoln Rhyme would have enlisted the aid of perhaps the best forensics lab man in the city, NYPD detective Mel Cooper.

But the presence of the slim, unflappable Cooper was pointless in the absence of physical evidence and all he’d done was alert the man to be on call—which to Lincoln Rhyme meant being prepared to drop everything, short of open-heart surgery, and get your ass to the lab. Stat.

But that possibility didn’t seem very likely at the moment. Rhyme was now back to the task that had taken all morning: trying to actually get possession of some of the physical evidence in the Moreno shooting.

He was on hold for the fourth time with an official in the Royal Bahamas Police Force in Nassau. A voice, at last: “Yes, hello. Can I help you?” a woman asked in a melodious alto.

About time. But he reined in the impatience even though he had to explain all over again. “This is Captain Rhyme. I’m with the New York City Police Department.” He’d given up on “consulting with” or “working with.” That was too complicated and seemed to arouse suspicion. He’d get Lon Sellitto to informally deputize him if anyone called his bluff. (He wished somebody would, in fact; bluff-callers are people who can get things done.)

“New York, yes.”

“I’d like to speak to someone in your forensics department.”

“Crime Scene, yes.”

“That’s right.” Rhyme pictured the woman he was speaking to as a lazy, not particularly bright civil servant sitting in a dusty un-air-conditioned office, beneath a slowly revolving fan.

Possibly an unfair image.

“I’m sorry, you wanted which department?”

Possibly not.

“Forensics. A supervisor. This is about the Robert Moreno killing.”

“Please hold.”

“No, please…Wait!”

Click.

Fuck.

Five minutes later he found himself talking to the woman officer he was sure had taken his first call, though she didn’t seem to remember him. Or was pretending not to. He repeated his request and this time—after a burst of inspiration—added, “I’m sorry for the urgency. It’s just that the reporters keep calling. I’ll have to send them directly to your office if I can’t give them information myself.”

He had no idea what threat this was meant to convey exactly; he was improvising.

“Reporters?” she asked dubiously.

“CNN, ABC, CBS. Fox. All of them.”

“I see. Yes, sir.”

But the ploy had its effect, because the next hold was for three seconds, tops.

“Poitier speaking.” Deep, melodious, with a British accent and a Caribbean inflection; Rhyme knew the lilt not from having been to the islands himself but owing to his role in putting a few people from that part of the world in New York jails. The Jamaican gangs outstripped the Mafia for violence, hands down.