With Thom at the wheel, they drove along the main highway toward Nassau, a two-lane road in good repair. Traffic from the airport was heavy, mostly older American cars and imports from Japan, 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 passed 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 god and before they came to downtown Nassau 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, nobody 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.”