A small cluster of locals, faces tanned and faces black, were nearby, checking out the entourage. Rhyme supposed their words ought to be delivered more discreetly but twenty-five vertical feet separated him from Poitier and so there was no choice but to shout.

“Don’t go inside, Corporal. Ron will handle it.” He turned. “Rookie, how we doing?”

“Almost ready, Lincoln.” He was suiting up in RBPF crime scene coveralls and assembling the basic collection equipment.

Rhyme didn’t even consider running this scene himself, though he’d earlier been tempted. There was no elevator in the building and it would be nearly impossible to carry the heavy wheelchair up the narrow rickety stairs. Besides, Pulaski was good. Nearly as good as Amelia Sachs.

The officer now paused in front of Rhyme as if expecting a briefing. But the criminalist offered simply, “It’s your scene. You know what to do.”

A nod from the young man and up the stairs he trotted.

* * *

IT TOOK ABOUT AN HOUR for him to walk the grid.

When Pulaski emerged, with a half dozen collection bags, he asked Rhyme and Poitier if they wanted to review the evidence now. Rhyme debated but in the end he decided to take everything back to New York and do the analysis there.

Part of this was the familiarity of working with Mel Cooper.

Part was that he missed Sachs, a fact he wouldn’t share with another human being…except her.

“What are our travel options?” he asked Thom.

He checked his phone. “If we can get to the airport in a half hour, we can make the next flight.”

Rhyme glanced at the corporal.

“We’re twenty minutes at the most,” Poitier said.

“Even in the infamous Bahamian traffic?” Rhyme asked wryly.

“I have red lights.”

Pulaski headed toward the van, still in coveralls, booties and shower cap.

“Get into street clothes, rookie. I think you’d upset the passengers, dressed like that.”

“Oh, right.”

The flashing lights did help and soon they were at the terminal. They exited the van and, while Pulaski saw to the luggage and Thom arranged for the vehicle to be collected, Rhyme remained next to Poitier. The area was bustling with tourists and locals, and the air filled with dust and the endless bangs and catcalls of construction. And that constant perfume, trash fire smoke.

Rhyme began to speak, then found words had abandoned him. He forced them into line. “I’m sorry about what happened at the sniper nest, Corporal. The assistant commissioner was right. I nearly got you killed.”

Poitier laughed. “We aren’t in a business like librarians or dental workers, Captain. Not all of us go home every night.”

“Still, I wasn’t as competent as I should have been.” These words seared him. “I should have anticipated the attack.”