A foreign activist, a sniper, a luxury resort, and—”
“First homicide case?”
“Well, yes.”
“Corporal, with all respect—” Echoing the man’s own line. “—could I speak to a supervisor?”
Poitier didn’t sound insulted when he said, “One moment, please.” Again the hand went over the receiver. Rhyme could hear muted words. He thought he could make out “Moreno” and “New York.”
Poitier came back on a moment later. “I’m sorry, Captain. It seems my supervisor is unavailable. But I have your number. I will be glad to call you when we know something more.”
Rhyme believed this might be his only chance. He thought quickly. “Just tell me one thing: Did you recover bullets intact?”
“One, yes, and—” His conversation braked to a halt. “I’m not sure. Excuse me, please. I must go.”
Rhyme said, “The bullet? That’s key to the case. Just tell me—”
“I believe I may have been mistaken about that. I must hang up now.”
“Corporal, what was the department with the police force you transferred from?”
Another pause. “Business Inspections and Licensing Division, sir. And before that, Traffic. I must go.”
The line died.
CHAPTER 15
J ACOB SWANN PULLED HIS GRAY Nissan Altima past the house of Robert Moreno’s limo driver.
His tech people had come through. They’d learned that Moreno had used an outfit called Elite Limousine when he was in the city on May 1. He discovered too that Moreno had a particular driver he always used. His name was Vlad Nikolov. And, being the activist’s regular chauffeur, he probably had information that the investigators would want. Swann had to make sure they didn’t get those facts.
He’d made a fast call via his prepaid—“Sorry, wrong number”—and learned the driver was home at the moment. His thickly Russian- or Georgia n-a ccented voice sounded a bit groggy, which meant he’d probably worked the late-night shift. Good. He wasn’t going anywhere soon. But Swann knew he’d have to move fast; the police couldn’t datamine with the same impunity as his technical services department but traditional canvassing could reveal the driver’s identity too.
Swann climbed out of his car and stretched, looking around.
Many livery workers lived in Queens. This was because the parking situation in Manhattan was so horrific and the real estate prices so high. And because limo work often involved shuttles to and from LaGuardia and JFK airports, both of which were located in the borough.
Vlad Nikolov’s house was modest but well tended, Swann noted. A spray of flowering plants, thick and brilliant courtesy of the delicate spring temperature and a recent rain, bordered the front of the beige brick bungalow. The grass was trim, the slate slabs leading to the front door had been swept, possibly even scrubbed, in the past day or two. The centerpiece of the yard was two boxwood bushes, diligently shaped.
The utility bill information, including smart electric meter patterns, and food and other purchasing profiles that the tech department had datamined, suggested that the forty-two-year-old Nikolov lived alone. This was unusual for Russian or Georgian immigrants, who tended to be very family-minded. Swann supposed that perhaps he had family back in his native country.
In any event, the man’s solitary life worked to Swann’s advantage.
He continued past the house, glancing briefly at a window, covered with a gauzy curtain. Lace. Maybe Nikolov had a girlfriend who came to visit sporadically. A Russian man would be unlikely to buy lace. Another person inside would be a problem—not because Jacob Swann minded killing her but because two deaths increased the number of people who might miss a victim and bring the police here all the more quickly. It made a bigger news splash too. He hoped to keep the driver’s death quiet for as long as possible.
Swann came to the end of the block, turned and slipped a plain black baseball cap over his
“First homicide case?”
“Well, yes.”
“Corporal, with all respect—” Echoing the man’s own line. “—could I speak to a supervisor?”
Poitier didn’t sound insulted when he said, “One moment, please.” Again the hand went over the receiver. Rhyme could hear muted words. He thought he could make out “Moreno” and “New York.”
Poitier came back on a moment later. “I’m sorry, Captain. It seems my supervisor is unavailable. But I have your number. I will be glad to call you when we know something more.”
Rhyme believed this might be his only chance. He thought quickly. “Just tell me one thing: Did you recover bullets intact?”
“One, yes, and—” His conversation braked to a halt. “I’m not sure. Excuse me, please. I must go.”
Rhyme said, “The bullet? That’s key to the case. Just tell me—”
“I believe I may have been mistaken about that. I must hang up now.”
“Corporal, what was the department with the police force you transferred from?”
Another pause. “Business Inspections and Licensing Division, sir. And before that, Traffic. I must go.”
The line died.
CHAPTER 15
J ACOB SWANN PULLED HIS GRAY Nissan Altima past the house of Robert Moreno’s limo driver.
His tech people had come through. They’d learned that Moreno had used an outfit called Elite Limousine when he was in the city on May 1. He discovered too that Moreno had a particular driver he always used. His name was Vlad Nikolov. And, being the activist’s regular chauffeur, he probably had information that the investigators would want. Swann had to make sure they didn’t get those facts.
He’d made a fast call via his prepaid—“Sorry, wrong number”—and learned the driver was home at the moment. His thickly Russian- or Georgia n-a ccented voice sounded a bit groggy, which meant he’d probably worked the late-night shift. Good. He wasn’t going anywhere soon. But Swann knew he’d have to move fast; the police couldn’t datamine with the same impunity as his technical services department but traditional canvassing could reveal the driver’s identity too.
Swann climbed out of his car and stretched, looking around.
Many livery workers lived in Queens. This was because the parking situation in Manhattan was so horrific and the real estate prices so high. And because limo work often involved shuttles to and from LaGuardia and JFK airports, both of which were located in the borough.
Vlad Nikolov’s house was modest but well tended, Swann noted. A spray of flowering plants, thick and brilliant courtesy of the delicate spring temperature and a recent rain, bordered the front of the beige brick bungalow. The grass was trim, the slate slabs leading to the front door had been swept, possibly even scrubbed, in the past day or two. The centerpiece of the yard was two boxwood bushes, diligently shaped.
The utility bill information, including smart electric meter patterns, and food and other purchasing profiles that the tech department had datamined, suggested that the forty-two-year-old Nikolov lived alone. This was unusual for Russian or Georgian immigrants, who tended to be very family-minded. Swann supposed that perhaps he had family back in his native country.
In any event, the man’s solitary life worked to Swann’s advantage.
He continued past the house, glancing briefly at a window, covered with a gauzy curtain. Lace. Maybe Nikolov had a girlfriend who came to visit sporadically. A Russian man would be unlikely to buy lace. Another person inside would be a problem—not because Jacob Swann minded killing her but because two deaths increased the number of people who might miss a victim and bring the police here all the more quickly. It made a bigger news splash too. He hoped to keep the driver’s death quiet for as long as possible.
Swann came to the end of the block, turned and slipped a plain black baseball cap over his
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