"Pricks," Rhyme muttered. He had no sentimental feelings about hardware, either professional or personal. But he'd grown quite attached to the Storm Arrow as a practical matter because
it was such a fine piece of machinery and he'd worked hard to master it. Operating a wheelchair is a true skill. He was furious at the thugs.
The aide continued, "I'm borrowing one of theirs." A glance at the medical team. "Non-motorized. Well, motorized by yours truly."
Another figure appeared.
"Well, the rookie saves the day."
"You don't look too bad," Pulaski said. "Damp. I don't think I've ever seen you damp, Lincoln."
"What'd you find at the inn?"
"Not much else. The maid confirmed pretty much what Corporal Poitier told us. A tough-looking American was asking about Moreno and suite twelve hundred. He said he was a friend and was thinking of throwing a party for him. Wanted to know who was with him, what his schedule was, who was his friend--I assume that was his guard."
"Party," Rhyme grunted and looked around the ambulance. The medic returned with burly assistants, one of whom was pushing a battered wheelchair. Rhyme asked, "You have any brandy or anything?"
"Brandy?"
"Medicinal brandy."
"Medicinal brandy?" The man's large face drew into a frown. "Let me think. I suppose doctors down here do administer that some--being a third-world island, of course. I'm afraid I missed that course when I got my emergency health services degree at the University of Maryland."
Touche.
But the doctor was clearly amused, not offended, and gestured to the assistants, who got Rhyme into the battered chair. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in one that didn't have a battery and motor, and he didn't like the sensation of helplessness. It took him back to the days just after the accident.
"I want to see Mychal," he said. Instinctively he reached for the chair's controller before recalling it wasn't there. He didn't bother to go for the handgrip on the wheel to propel himself forward. If he couldn't pull the fucking trigger of a gun he wasn't going to be able to move his own deadweight over broken asphalt and sand with one hand.
Thom wheeled him the thirty feet to where Poitier sat on a creosote-soaked eight-by-eight beam, beside the two RBPF officers who'd responded to the emergency call.
Poitier rose. "Ah, Captain. I heard you were safe. Good, good. You look none the worse for wear."
"Damp," Pulaski repeated. Drawing a smile from Thom and scowl from Rhyme.
"And you?"
"Fine. Little groggy. They gave me some pain medicine. My first fight in five years on the force and I didn't do very well. Blindsided. I was blindsided."
"Did anyone see tag numbers?" Rhyme asked.
"There were none, no number plates. And it won't do any good to look up gold-and-black Mercurys or white pickup trucks. I'm sure they were stolen. I will look at mug shots back in the station but that will be useless too. Still we have to go through the motions."
Suddenly a plume of dust rose from the direction of the SW Road. A car, no, two cars were moving in fast.
The RBPF officers who were standing nearby stiffened uneasily.
Not because these cars represented a physical threat. Rhyme could see that the unmarked Ford sported red grille lights, which flashed dramatically. He wasn't surprised that the man in the backseat was Assistant Commissioner McPherson. A second car, a marked RBPF cruiser, was behind.
They both skidded to a stop near the ambulance and McPherson climbed angrily from the car, slammed the door.
Storming toward Poitier, he said, "What has happened here?"
Rhyme explained, shouldering the blame.
The assistant commissioner glared at him then turned and raged in a low growl at his corporal, "I will not have this insubordination. You should have told me."
Rhyme expected the young man would roll over. But he stared into his boss's eyes.