CHAPTER 26.

S O, THIS IS THE CARIBBEAN."

His hand on the joystick of his candy-apple-red wheelchair, Lincoln Rhyme steered out a door at Lynden Pindling Airport in Na.s.sau into an atmosphere hotter and more dank than he could recall experiencing in years.

"Takes your breath away," he called. "But I like it."

"Slow down, Lincoln," Thom said.

But Rhyme would have none of that. He was a child on Christmas morning. Here he was in a foreign country for the first time in many years. He was excited at the prospect of the trip itself. But also at what it might yield: hard, physical evidence in the Moreno case. He'd decided to come down here because of something he was nearly ashamed to admit: intuition, that fishy c.r.a.p that Amelia Sachs was always going on and on about. He had a feeling that the only way he was going to get that million-dollar bullet and the rest of the evidence was to wheel right up to Corporal Mychal Poitier and ask him for it. In person.

Rhyme knew the officer was genuinely troubled by the death of Robert Moreno and troubled too that he was a p.a.w.n being used by his superiors to marginalize the case.

There wasn't a single inspection or license I handled that was not completed in a timely, thorough and honest manner...

He didn't think it would take much to convince the corporal to help them.

And so Thom had thrown himself upon the sword of airline and hotel reservation telephone hold, listening to bad music-the aide announced several times-to arrange the flight and motel, an a.s.signment made complicated by Rhyme's condition.

But not as complicated as they'd thought.

Certainly some issues had to be contended with when traveling as a quad-special wheelchairs to the seat, particular pillows, concerns about the Storm Arrow in storage, the practical matters of the p.i.s.s and s.h.i.t details that might have to be attended to on the flight.

In the end, though, the journey wasn't bad. We're all disabled in the eyes of the Transportation Security Administration, all immobile, all objects, all baggage to be shuffled about at whim. Lincoln actually felt that he was better off than most of his fellow travelers, who were used to being mobile and independent.

Outside the baggage claim area, on the ground floor of the airport, Rhyme motored to the edge of the sidewalk filled with tourists and locals bustling for cars and taxis and mini vans. He looked at a small garden of plants, some of whose varieties he'd never seen. He had no interest in horticulture for aesthetics but he found flora extremely helpful in crime scene work.

He'd also heard the rum was particularly good in the Bahamas.

Returning to where Thom was standing, making a phone call, Rhyme phoned Sachs and left a message. "Made it okay. I..." He turned, hearing a caterwauling screech behind him. "Christ, scared the h.e.l.l out of me. There's a parrot here. He's talking!"

The cage had been placed there by a local tourist commission. Inside was an Abaco Bahamian parrot, according to the sign. The noisy bird, gray with a flourish of green on the tail, was saying, "h.e.l.lo! Hi! Hola!" Rhyme recorded some of the greeting for Sachs.

Another breath of the dank, salty air, tinged with a sour aroma, what he realized was smoke. What was burning? No one else seemed alarmed.

"Got the bags," came a voice from behind them.

NYPD patrolman Ron Pulaski-young, blond, thin-was wheeling the suitcases on a cart. The trio didn't expect to be here long but the nature of Rhyme's condition was such that he required accessories. A lot of them. Medicines, catheters, tubes, disinfectants, air pillows to prevent the sores that could lead to infections.

"What's that?" Rhyme asked as Thom retrieved a small backpack from one bag and slung it on the back of the wheelchair.

"It's a portable respirator," Pulaski answered.

Thom added, "Battery-powered. Double oxygen tank. It'll last for a couple of hours."

"What the h.e.l.l did you bring that for?"

"Flying with cabin pressure at seven thousand feet," the aide replied as if the answer were obvious. "Stress. There're a dozen reasons it can't hurt to have one with us."

"Do I look stressed?" Rhyme asked petulantly. He had weaned himself off the ventilator years ago, to breathe on his own, one of the proudest achievements possible for a quad. But Thom had apparently forgotten-or disregarded-that accomplishment. "I don't need it."

"Let's hope you don't. But what can it hurt?"

Rhyme had no answer to that. He glanced at Pulaski. "And it's not a respirator, by the way. Respiration is the exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Ventilation is the introduction of gas into the lungs. Hence, it's a ventilator."

Pulaski sighed. "Got it, Lincoln."

At least the rookie had stopped his irritating habit of calling Rhyme "sir" or "captain."

The young officer then asked, "Does it matter?"

"Of course, it matters," he snapped. "Precision is the key to everything. Where's the van?"

Another of Thom's tasks was getting a disabled-accessible vehicle in the Bahamas.

Still on the phone, he glanced at Rhyme, grimacing. "I'm on hold again."

The aide finally made contact with somebody and several minutes later the van was pulling up to the curb near the resort mini bus waiting area. The white Ford was battered and stank of old cigarette smoke. The windows greasy. Pulaski loaded the luggage into the back while Thom signed forms and handed them to the lean, dark-skinned man who'd delivered the vehicle. Credit cards and a certain amount of cash were exchanged and the driver disappeared on foot. Rhyme wondered if the van had been stolen. Then decided that this was unfair.

You're in a different world, not Manhattan anymore. Keep an open mind.

With Thom at the wheel, they drove along the main highway toward Na.s.sau, a two-lane road in good repair. Traffic from the airport was heavy, mostly older American cars and imports from j.a.pan, beat-up trucks, mini vans. Hardly any SUVs, not surprising in a land of expensive gas and no ice, snow or mountains. Curiously, though the driving here was left-sided-the Bahamas was a former British colony-most of the cars had left-hand drive, American-style.

As they poked along east, Rhyme noted along the roadside small businesses without signage to indicate what their products or services were, many unkempt plots of land, vendors selling fruits and vegetables out of the backs of their cars; they seemed uninterested in making sales. The van pa.s.sed some large, rambling homes behind gates, mostly older construction. A number of smaller houses and shacks seemed abandoned, victims of hurricanes, he guessed. Nearly all the locals had very dark skin. Most of the men were dressed in T-shirts or short-sleeved shirts, untucked, and jeans or slacks or shorts. Women wore similar outfits too but many were in plain dresses of floral patterns or bright solid colors.

"Well," Thom exclaimed breathlessly, braking hard and managing to avoid the goat while not capsizing their belongings.

"Look at that," Pulaski said. And captured the animal on his cell phone camera.

Thom obeyed the GPS G.o.d and before they came to downtown Na.s.sau itself they turned off the main road, away from dense traffic. They drove past the limestone walls of an old fort. In five minutes the aide pulled the van, rocking on a bad suspension, into the parking lot of a modest but well-kept-up motel. He and Pulaski handed off the luggage to a bellman and the aide went to the front desk to check in and examine the accessible aspects of the motel. He returned to report they were acceptable.

"Part of Fort Charlotte," Pulaski said, reading a sign beside a path that led from the motel to the fort.

"What?" Rhyme asked.

"Fort Charlotte. After it was built, n.o.body ever attacked the Bahamas. Well, never attacked New Providence Island. That's where we are."

"Ah," Rhyme offered, without interest.

"Look at this," Pulaski said, pointing to a lizard standing motionless on the wall next to the front door of the place.

Rhyme said, "A green anole, an American chameleon. She's gravid."

"She's what?"

"Pregnant. Obviously."

"That's what 'gravid' means?" the young officer asked.

"The technical definition is 'distended with eggs.' Ergo, pregnant."

Pulaski laughed. "You're joking."

Rhyme growled, "Joking? What would be funny about an expectant lizard?"

"No. I mean, how'd you know that?"

"Because I was coming to an area I'm not familiar with, and what's in chapter one of my forensics book, rookie?"

"The rule that you have to know the geography when you run a crime scene."

"I needed to learn the basic information about geology and flora and fauna that might help me here. The fact that n.o.body invaded after Fort Charlotte was built is pointless to me, so I didn't bother to learn that. Lizards and parrots and Kalik beer and mangroves might be relevant. So I read up on them on the flight. What were you reading?"

"Uhm, People."

Rhyme scoffed.

The lizard blinked and twisted its head but otherwise remained motionless.

Rhyme removed his mobile phone from his shirt pocket. The prior surgery, on his right arm and hand, had been quite successful. The movements were slightly off, compared with those of a non-disabled limb, but they were smooth enough so that an onlooker might not notice they weren't quite natural. His cell was an iPhone and he'd spent hours practicing the esoteric skills of swiping the screen and calling up apps. He'd had his fill of voice-recognition, because of his condition, so he'd put Siri to sleep. He now used the recent calls feature to dial a number with one touch. A richly accented woman's voice said, "Police, do you have an emergency?"

"No, no emergency. Could I speak to Corporal Poitier, please?"

"One moment, sir."

A blessedly short period of hold. "Poitier speaking."

"Corporal?"

"That's right. Who is this, please?"

"Lincoln Rhyme."

Silence for a lengthy moment. "Yes." The single word contained an abundance of uncertainty and ill ease. Casinos were far safer places for conversations than the man's office.

Rhyme continued, "I would have given you my own credit card. Or called you back on my line."

"I couldn't speak any longer. And I'm quite busy now."

"The missing student?"

"Indeed," said the richly inflected baritone.

"Do you have any leads?"

There was a pause. "Not so far. It's been over twenty-four hours. No word at her school or part-time job. She most recently had been seeing a man from Belgium. He appears to be very distraught but..." He let the lingering words fade to smoke. Then he said, "I'm afraid I'm unable to help you in regard to your case."

"Corporal, I'd like to meet with you."

The fattest silence yet. "Meet?"

"Yes."

"Well, how can that be?"

"I'm in Na.s.sau. I'd suggest someplace other than police headquarters. We can meet wherever you like."

"But...I...You're here?"

"Away from the office might be better," Rhyme repeated.

"No. That's impossible. I can't meet you."

"I really must talk to you," Rhyme said.

"No. I have to go, Captain." There was a desperation in his voice.

Rhyme said briskly, "Then we'll come to your office."

Poitier repeated, "You're really here?"

"That's right. The case's important. We're taking it seriously."

Rhyme knew this reminder-that the Royal Bahamas Police seemed not to be-was blunt. But he was still convinced that Poitier would help him if he pushed hard enough.

"I'm very busy, as I say."

"Will you see us?"

"No, I can't."

There was a click as the corporal hung up.

Rhyme glanced at the lizard, then turned to Thom and laughed. "Here we are in the Caribbean, surrounded by such beautiful water-let's go make some waves."

CHAPTER 27.

ODD. JUST PLAIN ODD.