"The hooker."

He chuckled. "When you speak to her? I don't think I'd say that."

CHAPTER 34.

HIS RIGHT HAND ROSE SLOWLY to his mouth and Lincoln Rhyme fed himself a conch fritter-crisp outside and tender within-dabbed with homemade hot sauce. He then picked up and sipped from a can of Kalik beer.

Hurricane's restaurant-curious name, given the local weather-was austere, located on a weedy side street in downtown Na.s.sau. Bright blue and red walls, a warped wooden floor, a few flyblown photographs of the local beaches-or maybe Goa or the Jersey Sh.o.r.e. You couldn't tell. Several overhead fans revolved slowly and did nothing to ease the heat. Their only effect was to p.i.s.s off the flies.

The place, though, boasted some of the best food Rhyme had ever had.

Though he decided that any meal you can spear with a fork yourself, and not have to be fed, is by definition very, very good.

"Conch," Rhyme mused. "Never had any univalve tissue evidence in a case. Oyster sh.e.l.ls once. Very flavorful. Could you cook it at home?"

Thom, sitting across from Rhyme, rose and asked the chef for the recipe. The formidible woman in a red bandanna, looking like a Marxist revolutionary, wrote it down for him, cautioning to get fresh conch. "Never canned. Ever."

The time was nearly three and Rhyme was beginning to wonder if the corporal had given him the tantalizing invitation just to keep him occupied while, as Pulaski suggested, he was preparing an arrest team.

That is where I have lunch!...

Rhyme decided not to worry about it and had more conch and beer.

At their feet a black-and-gray dog begged for sc.r.a.ps. Rhyme ignored the small, muscular animal but Thom fed it some bits of conch crust and bread. He was about two feet high and had floppy ears and a long face.

"He'll never leave you alone now," Rhyme muttered. "You know that."

"He's cute."

The server, a slimmer, younger version of the chef, daughter probably, said, "He's a potcake dog. You only see them in the Islands here. The name comes from what we feed stray dogs-rice and green peas, potcake."

"And they hang out in restaurants?" Rhyme asked sardonically.

"Oh, yes. Customers love them."

Rhyme grunted and stared at the door, through which he expected momentarily to see either Mychal Poitier or a couple of armed, uniformed RBPF officers with an arrest warrant.

His phone buzzed and he lifted it. "Rookie, what do you have?"

"I'm at the South Cove Inn. I got it. The number of the man who called about Moreno's reservation. It's a mobile exchange from Manhattan."

"Excellent. Now, it'll be a prepaid, untraceable. But Rodney can narrow down the call to a fairly small area. Maybe an office or gym or a Starbucks where our sniper enjoys his lattes. It won't take-"

"But-"

"No, it's easy. He can work backward from the cell base stations and then interpolate the signal data from adjacent towers. The sniper will've thrown the phone out by now but the records should be able to-"

"Lincoln."

"What?"

"It's not prepaid and it's still active."

Rhyme was speechless for a moment. This was unbelievably good luck.

"And are you ready for this?"

Words returned. "Rookie! Get to the point!"

"It's registered in the name of Don Bruns."

"Our sniper."

"Exactly. He used a Social Security number on the phone account and gave an address."

"Where?"

"PO box in Brooklyn. Set up by a sh.e.l.l corporation in Delaware. And the social's fake."

"But we've got the phone. Start Rodney scanning for usage and location. We can't get a t.i.tle Three at this point, but see if Lon or somebody can charm a magistrate into approving a five-second listen-in for a voiceprint."

This would allow them to compare the vocal pattern with the .wav file the whistleblower had sent and confirm that it was, in fact, the sniper, who was presently using the phone.

"And have Fred Dellray look into who's behind the company."

"I will. Now, a couple other things."

Couple of other things. But Rhyme refrained. He'd beaten the kid up enough for one day.

"The reporter, de la Rua? He didn't leave anything here at the inn. He came to the interview with a bag or briefcase but they're sure the police took it with them, along with the bodies."

He wondered if Poitier-if he actually showed up and was in a cooperative mood-would give them access to those items.

"I'm still waiting to talk to the maid about the American who was here the day before the shooting. She gets in in a half hour."

"A competent job, Pulaski. Now, are you being cautious? Any sign of that Mercury with our dope-smoking surveillers?"

"No, and I've been looking. How about with you?...Oh, wait. If you asked me, that means you gave 'em the slip."

Rhyme smiled. The kid was learning.

CHAPTER 35.

SO LYDIA'S NOT A PROSt.i.tUTE," Amelia Sachs said.

"Nope," Lon Sellitto replied, "she's an interpreter."

"Translating wasn't a cover for being a call girl? You're sure?"

"Positive. She's legit. Been a commercial interpreter for ten years, works for big companies and law firms. And, I still checked: no rap sheet-city, state or FBI, NCIC. Looks like Moreno had used her before."

Sachs gave a brief, cynical laugh. "I was making a.s.sumptions. Escort service, terrorist. Brother. If she's legitimate, Moreno wouldn't have used her at any illegal meetings but odds are she'll know something helpful. Probably she'd have a lot of information about him."

"She'd have to," Sellitto agreed.

And what exactly did Lydia know? Jacob Swann wondered, sitting forward in the front seat of his Nissan, parked in Midtown, listening to this conversation in real time, having tapped once again into Amelia Sachs's 3G, easily tappable phone. He was now pleased she hadn't been blown to nothingness by the IED in Java Hut. This lead was golden.

"What languages?" Sachs was asking. Swann had the other caller's mobile identification number. Lon Sellitto, another NYPD cop, the Tech Services people had told him.

"Russian, German, Arabic, Spanish and Portuguese."

Interesting. Now, more than ever, Swann wanted her surname and address. If you please.

"I'll go interview her now."

Well, that would be particularly convenient: Detective Sachs and a witness, together in a private apartment. Along with Jacob Swann and the Kai Shun knife.

"Got a pen?"

"I'm ready."

So am I, thought Jacob Swann.

Sellitto said, "Her full name's Lydia-"

"Wait!" Sachs shouted.

Swann winced at the volume and held his mobile away from his ear.

"What?"

"Something's wrong, Lon. It just occurred to me: How did our perp know about Java Hut?"

"Whatta you mean?"

"He didn't follow me there. He got there first. How did he find out about the place?"

"f.u.c.k. You think he's got a tap on your phone?"

"Could be."

Oh, h.e.l.l. Swann sighed.

Sachs continued, "I'll find a different phone, a landline, and give you a call through the main number at headquarters."

"Sure."

"I'm dumping my mobile. You do the same."

The line disconnected, leaving Jacob Swann listening to pure silence.

CHAPTER 36.

AT FIRST, AMELIA SACHS WAS CONTENT to pull the battery out of her phone.

But then paranoia seeped in like water in the badly grouted bas.e.m.e.nt of her Brooklyn town house and she pitched the unit into a sewer grate outside the smoking cave of Java Hut.

She found a Patrol officer and swapped her smallest bill, a ten, for four bucks' worth of change and called Police Plaza from a nearby pay phone, then was transferred.

"Sellitto."

"Lon."

"You think he was really listening?" he asked.

"I'm not taking any chances."

"Okay, fine with me. But it p.i.s.ses me off. That was a new Android. f.u.c.ker. Now are you ready?"

She had pen in hand and a notepad balanced on the stained shelf under the phone. "Go ahead."

"The interpreter's name is Lydia Foster." He gave Sachs her address on Third Avenue. Her phone number too.

"How'd the canva.s.sers find her?"

"Legwork," Sellitto explained. "Started at the top floor of that office building where Moreno picked her up and worked their way down twenty-nine stories. Naturally, they didn't get a hit till floor three, took 'em forever. She was working freelance, translating for a bank."

"I'm going to call her now." She added, "How the h.e.l.l did he tap our lines, Lon? It isn't just anybody who can do that."

The older detective muttered, "This guy is too f.u.c.king connected."