Rhyme made a slight movement of his neck and his right arm extended smoothly. He shook O’Neil’s hand. Dance knew he’d recently had some surgery to improve his condition—he was quadriplegic, mostly paralyzed from the neck down; he’d been injured on the job as head of the NYPD Crime Scene Unit some years ago. The operation had been successful and he’d regained nearly all the use of his right arm and hand, which he controlled by subtle gestures of his neck, shoulder and head muscles.

He similarly greeted Harutyun and Stanning, and Sachs introduced Thom Reston, Rhyme’s caregiver.

Harutyun continued, “Kathryn said she’d called in an expert but I never thought it’d be someone like you. Well, thanks for coming. You’re based in New York, I heard. What brings you to California?”

“Came for a visit,” the man said shortly. And let it go at that. He was not a conversationalist—even less of one than Michael O’Neil.

Sachs filled in, “He’s been lecturing at a forensics conference in San Jose. Then we were going to spend a few days with Kathryn and her family in Pacific Grove.”

Dance had known and worked with Rhyme for several years. She’d been after him and Sachs to come for a visit. Rhyme was disinclined to travel—certainly there were logistical issues and he was naturally a bit of a recluse—but he was in demand as a consultant in forensics and crime scene work and he decided to accept a lecture assignment on that subject in San Jose.

The preparations for her house that her father was taking care of in anticipation of the visit involved building a ramp to let Rhyme motor up to the front door and some modifications to a bathroom. Rhyme had told them not to bother, they’d stay at a motel but retired Stuart Dance loved any excuse to use his many woodworking tools.

Harutyun said, “Well, it’s a true pleasure to meet you, Detective Rhyme.”

A fast: “‘Lincoln’ is fine. I’m decommissioned.” He revealed a hint of pleased irritation at the man’s comment.

“Amelia drove, I assume,” Dance said, with a wry glance at Thom. This was a reference to the timing. It was about 120 miles from San Jose to Fresno and they’d made the trip in an hour and a half—and in a disabled-accessible van, no less. Unlike Dance, the policewoman from New York was a car aficionado—she actually worked on them herself—and would take her muscle car out to the track to “relax” at 180 miles per hour.

Sachs smiled. “It was pretty much a straightaway. The flashing blue lights always help too.”

Rhyme looked around the storage facility with a grimace as if he expected this to be the crime lab. “Now. You have some things you’d like me to look over?” The criminalist was never one for socializing, Dance recalled.

“We have a pretty good lab,” Harutyun offered.

“Do you now?” There was cynicism in his voice. Dance had been to Rhyme’s town house on Central Park West in Manhattan; he’d turned the parlor into a well-equipped forensics lab, where he, as a consultant, Sachs and other officers would run the crime scene side of major cases in the metro area.