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"What does that matter?"
"Spencer, where's the crime scene?"
"Oh, sure. The Bahamas."
"What's he going to do, roll around in the sand looking for shell casings and tire prints?"
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 Nassau 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 crap 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 pawn 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 assignment 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 piss and shit 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 hell 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, "Hello! 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 hell 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."
