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Rhyme nodded.
Sachs handed a sheet of paper to Mel Cooper. "Dimensions of the wheelbase. And here are pictures of the tread marks."
The tech scanned the marks into the computer and then sent the image, along with the dimensions, to the NYPD's VI--Vehicle Identifier--database. "Shouldn't be long," Cooper's calm voice reported.
Young detective Eddie Deng asked, "What about the other trucks?"
"What other trucks?" Sachs asked.
Coe filled in. "The terms of a smuggling contract include land transport too. There should've been some trucks to take the immigrants back to the city."
Sachs shook her head. "I didn't see any sign of them. But when he sank the ship the Ghost probably called the driver and had them go back to the city." She looked over the evidence bags again. "I found this . . . " She held up a bag containing a cell phone.
"Excellent!" Rhyme said. He'd dubbed clues like this "NASDAQ evidence," after the high-tech-heavy stock market. Computers, cell phones, personal electronic organizers. A whole new breed of evidence, these telltale devices could provide huge amounts of information about perps and the people they'd been in contact with. "Fred, let's get your people to look it over."
"Gotcha."
The bureau had recently added a computer and electronics team to the New York office. Dellray made a call and arranged for an agent to pick up the cell phone and take it to the federal forensics lab downtown for analysis.
Rhyme said, musing, "Okay, he's hunting them down, shooting the immigrants, shooting at the driver who abandoned him. He's doing it by himself, right, Sachs? No sign of the mysterious assistant?"
She nodded at the footprint Polaroids. "No, I'm sure the Ghost was the only one in the second raft and the only one shooting."
Rhyme frowned. "I don't like unidentified perps out there someplace when we're running crime scenes. Nothing on who this bangshou is?"
Sellitto muttered, "Nope. Not a clue. The Ghost's got dozens of them around the world."
"And no sign of the fourth immigrant? The other one who fell out of the raft?"
"No."
The criminalist then asked Sachs, "What about ballistics?"
Sachs held up a plastic bag containing shell casings for Rhyme to examine.
"Seven-point-six-two millimeter," he said, "but the brass's an odd length. And it's uneven. Cheap." Though he had a body that couldn't move, his eyes were as sharp as those of the peregrine falcons that liv
ed on the windowsill outside his bedroom upstairs. "Check out the casings online, Mel."
When Rhyme had been head of NYPD forensics he'd spent months putting together databases of evidence standards--samples of substances and materials along with the sources they came from, like motor oil, thread, fibers, dirt and so on--to facilitate tracing evidence found at crime scenes. One of the largest, and most often used, databases was the compilation of bullet shell casings and slugs information. The combined FBI and NYPD collection had samples and digitized images of nearly every projectile that had ever been fired from a weapon in the past hundred years.
Cooper opened the plastic bag and then reached in with chopsticks--appropriately, considering the case they were now working on. This was the tool that Rhyme had found was the least damaging to evidence and he'd ordered all his techs to learn to use the sticks, preferring them to tweezers or forceps, which could too easily crush delicate samples.
"Back to your captivating narrative about the beach, Sachs."
She continued. "Things were heating up by now. The Ghost had been on land for a while. He knew the Coast Guard had a rough idea of his location. He found the third immigrant in the water, John Sung, shot him, then stole the Honda and left." She glanced at Rhyme. "Any word about it?"
An emergency vehicle locator notice had gone out to all nearby law enforcement agencies. As soon as the stolen red Honda was spotted anywhere in the New York metropolitan area, Sellitto or Dellray would get a call. But there'd been no word, the homicide detective told her. Then added, "The Ghost's been to New York before, though, plenty of times. He'd know the transit system. I'd guess he stuck to back roads west until he got close to the city then dumped the car and took the subway into town. He's got to be here by now."
Rhyme noticed a frown of concern on the FBI agent's face. "What is it, Fred?"
"I wish we'da found the prick 'fore he got over the city line."
"Why?"
"Reports my people're feeding me're that he's got a nice, tidy network in town. Tongs and street gangs in Chinatown, course. But it's way beyond that--even got people in the government on his 'roll."
"Government?" Sellitto asked, surprised.
