“It could mean a lot of things. Construction work, demolition, for one of his Local Empowerment Movement companies, for instance.” Still, the implications of the discoveries seemed to bother her. “Did the driver notice any surveillance?”

Sachs explained what Farada had said about Moreno’s looking around, uneasy.

Laurel asked, “Does he know if Moreno saw anything specific?”

“No.”

Nance Laurel scooted her chair forward and stared at the evidence board, her pose oddly parallel to Rhyme’s when he parked his Storm Arrow in front of the charts.

“And nothing about Moreno’s charitable work, anything that cast him in a favorable light?”

“The driver said he was a gentleman. And he tipped well.”

This didn’t seem to be exactly what Laurel was looking for. “I see.” She glanced at her watch. The time was getting close to 11 p.m. She frowned as if she expected the time to be hours earlier. For a moment Sachs actually believed that the woman was considering camping out for the night. But she began to organize all the piles of papers on her table, saying, “I’m going home now.” A glance at Sachs. “I know it’s late but if you could just write up your notes and what Agent Dellray found, then send them—”

“To you, on the secure server.”

“If you could.”

* * *

WHEELING BACK AND FORTH in front of the sparse whiteboards and listening to the staccato, insistent typing of Amelia Sachs at the keyboard of her computer.

She didn’t seem happy.

Lincoln Rhyme certainly wasn’t. He scanned the boards again. The goddamn boards…

The case was nothing but hearsay, ambiguous and speculative.

Soft.

Not a single bit of evidence collected, evidence analyzed, evidence rendered into deduction. Rhyme sighed in frustration.

A hundred years ago the French criminalist Edmond Locard said that at every crime scene a transfer occurs between the perpetrator and the scene or the perp and the victim. It might be virtually impossible to see, but it was absolutely there to find…if you knew how to look and if you were patient and diligent.

Nowhere was Locard’s Principle more true than in a homicide like Moreno’s. A shooting always leaves a wealth of clues: slugs, spent cartridges, friction ridge prints, gunshot residue, footprints, trace materials at the sniper’s nest…

He knew clues existed—but they remained out of reach. Infuriating. And with every passing day, hell, every hour, they grew less valuable as they degraded, were contaminated and possibly were stolen.

Rhyme had been looking forward to analyzing the recovered evidence himself with his own hand, probing, examining…touching. An intense pleasure that had been denied him for so many hard years.

But that possibility was looking more and more unlikely, as time passed with no word from the Bahamas.