"He's larger than life. Drives around in his own Lexus SUV, carries two guns… a real cowboy sort."

"But is he honest?"

"Arturo was telling me that he plays the system but, yes, he's honest enough. And he's good. He's a twenty-year veteran and sometimes goes into the field himself to work a case. He even collects evidence on his own."

Rhyme was impressed. He'd done the same when he was an active captain on the force and working as head of Investigation Resources. He remembered many times when a young technician was startled to turn around at the sound of a voice and see his boss's boss's boss holding a pair of tweezers in gloved hands as he examined a fiber or hair.

"He's made a name for himself cracking down on economic crimes and human trafficking and terrorism. Put some big people behind bars."

"And he's still alive," Rhyme said. He wasn't being flippant. The head of the Mexico City police force had been assassinated not long ago.

"He does have a huge security detail," Dance explained. Then added, "He'd like to talk to you."

"Give me the number."

Dance did. Slowly. She'd met Rhyme and knew about his disability. He moved his right index finger over the special touchpad and typed the numbers. They appeared on the flat screen in front of him.

She then said that the DEA was continuing its interview with the man who'd delivered a package to Logan. "He's lying when he says he doesn't know what was inside. I watched the video and gave the agents some advice on how to handle the interrogation. The worker would've thought drugs or cash and taken a fast look. The fact he didn't steal it means that it wasn't those two things. They're about to start with him again."

Rhyme thanked her.

"Oh, one thing?"

"Yes?"

Dance gave him a URL of a website. This too Rhyme slowly typed into his browser.

"Go to that site. I thought you'd like to see Rodolfo. I think it's easier to understand someone when you can picture them."

Rhyme didn't know if that was the case or not. In his line of work, he tended not to see many people at all. The victims were usually dead and the ones who'd killed them were long gone by the time he got involved. Given his druthers he'd rather not see anyone.

After disconnecting, though, he called the site up. It was a Mexican newspaper story in Spanish about a huge drug bust, Rhyme deduced. The officer in charge was Rodolfo Luna. The photo accompanying the story showed a large man surrounded by fellow federal policemen. Some wore black ski masks to hide their identities, others had the grim, vigilant look of people whose jobs turned them into marked men.

Luna was a broad-faced, dark-complexioned man. He wore a military cap but it seemed that he had a shaved head underneath. His olive drab uniform was more military than police and he was decked out with plenty of shiny gingerbread on the chest. He had a bushy black mustache, surrounded by jowl lines. Frowning with an intimidating visage, he was holding a cigarette and pointing toward something to the left of the scene.

Rhyme placed the call to Mexico City, again using the touchpad. He could have used the voice recognition system, but since he'd regained some motion in his right hand he tended to prefer to use the mechanical means.

Placing the call took only a country code's extra effort and soon he was talking to Luna, who had a surprisingly delicate voice with only a slight and completely unrecognizable accent. He would be Mexican, of course, but his vowels seemed tinged with French.

"Ah, ah, Lincoln Rhyme. This is very much a pleasure. I've read about you. And, of course, I have your books. I made sure they were in the course curriculum for my investigators." A moment's pause. He asked, "Forgive me. But are you going to update the DNA section?"

Rhyme had to laugh. He'd been considering doing exactly that just a few days ago. "I'm going to. As soon as this case is finished. Inspector… are you an inspector?"

"Inspector? I'm sorry," said the good-natured voice, "but why does everybody think that officers in other countries than the United States are inspectors?"

"The definitive source for law enforcement training and procedures," Rhyme said. "Movies and TV."

A chuckle. "What would we poor police do without cable? But no. I'm a commander. In my country the army and the police, we're often interchangeable. And you are a captain RET, I see from your book. Does that mean resident expert technician? I was wondering."

Rhyme laughed aloud. "No, it means I'm retired."

"Really? And yet here you are working."

"Indeed. I appreciate your help with this case. This is a very dangerous man."

"I'm pleased to be of assistance. Your colleague, Mrs. Dance, she's been very helpful in getting some of our felons extradited back to our own country, when there was considerable pressure not to."

"Yes, she's good." He got to the meat of his question: "I understand you've seen Logan."

"My assistant, Arturo Diaz, and his team have spotted him twice. Once yesterday in a hotel. And then not long ago nearby-among office buildings on Avenue Bosque de Reforma in the business district. He was taking pictures of the buildings. That aroused suspicion-they are hardly architectural marvels-and a traffic officer recognized Logan's picture. Arturo's men got there quickly. But your Mr. Watchmaker vanished before backup arrived. He's very elusive."

"That describes him pretty well. Who are the tenants in the offices he was taking pictures of?"

"Dozens of companies. And some small government ministries. Satellite offices. Transport and commerce operations. A bank on the ground floor of one. Would that be significant?"

"He's not in Mexico for a robbery. Our intelligence is that this is a murder he's planning."

"We're looking into the personnel and the purposes of all the offices right now to see if there might be a likely victim."

Rhyme knew the delicate game of politics but he had no time for finesse, and he had a feeling Luna didn't either. "You have to keep your teams out of sight, Commander. You must be much more careful than usual."

"Yes, of course. This man has the eye, does he?"

"The eye?"

"Like second sight. Kathryn Dance was telling me he's like a cat. He knows when he's in danger."

No, Rhyme thought; he's just very smart and can anticipate exactly what his opponents are likely to do. Like a master chess player. But he said, "That's it exactly, Commander."

Rhyme stared at the picture of Luna on his computer. Dance was right: Conversations seemed to have more to them when you could visualize the person you were speaking with.

"We have a few of those down here too." Another chuckle. "In fact, I'm one of them. It's why I'm still alive when so many of my colleagues are not. We will continue the surveillance-subtly. When we capture him, Captain, perhaps you would like to come for the extradition."

"I don't get out much."

Another pause. Then a somber, "Ah, forgive me. I forgot about your injury."

The one thing, Rhyme reflected, with equal sobriety, that he himself never could. He said, "No apologies are necessary."

Luna added, "Well, we are very-what do you say?-accessible here in Mexico City. You would be welcome to come, and very comfortable. You could stay at my house and my wife will cook for you. I have no stairs to trouble you."

"Perhaps."

"We have very good food, and I am a collector of mescal and tequilas."

"In that case a celebration dinner might be in order," Rhyme said to placate him.

"I will earn your presence by capturing this man… and perhaps you could lecture to my officers."

Now Rhyme laughed to himself. He hadn't realized they'd been negotiating. Rhyme's appearance in Mexico would be a feather in this man's cap; it was one of the reasons he'd been so cooperative. This was probably the way all business-whether it was law enforcement or commerce-worked in Latin America.