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A pause. "What you just told me about the tracing and the type of computer."
Sachs said, "I was just going to write it up on the board." A nod toward the whiteboard.
"I'd actually like everything documented in as close to real time as possible." The ADA's nod was toward her own stacks of files. "If you wouldn't mind."
The prosecutor wielded the words "if you..." like a bludgeon.
Sachs did mind but wasn't inclined to fight this battle. She pounded out the brief memo on her keyboard.
Laurel added, "Thank you. Just send it to me in an email and I'll print it out myself. The secure server, of course."
"Of course." Sachs fired off the document, noting that the prosecutor's micromanagement didn't seem to extend to Lincoln Rhyme.
Her phone buzzed and she lifted a surprised eyebrow, noting caller ID.
At last. A solid lead. The caller was a secretary at Elite Limousines, one of dozens of livery operations Sachs had canvassed earlier, inquiring if Robert Moreno had used their services on May 1. In fact, he had. The woman said the man had hired a car and driver for an as-directed assignment, meaning that Moreno had given the driver the locations he wished to go to after being picked up. The company had no record of those stops but the woman gave Sachs the driver's name and number.
She then called the driver, identified herself and asked if she could come interview him in connection with a case.
In a heavily accented voice, hard to understand, he said he supposed so and he gave her his address. She disconnected and rose, pulling on her jacket.
"Got Moreno's driver for his visit here on May first," she said to Rhyme. "I'm going to interview him."
Laurel said quickly, "Any chance you could write up your notes on Agent Dellray's news before you go?"
"First thing I'm back."
She noted Laurel stiffen but it seemed that this was a battle the prosecutor wasn't willing to fight.
CHAPTER 14
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."
