Jeffery Deaver - The Coffin Dancer

Rhyme swiveled around to her. “That’s it, Sachs! He was there watching. When he saw Carney get on board he knew he had at least one of the victims. He slipped it on somewhere after Carney got on board and before the plane took off. You’ve got to find out where, Sachs. And search it. Better get going.”

“Only have an hour – well, less now,” said cool-eyed Amelia Sachs as she started toward the door.

“One thing,” Rhyme said.

She paused.

“The Dancer’s a little different from everybody else you’ve ever been up against.” How could he explain it? “With him, what you see isn’t necessarily what is.”

She cocked an eyebrow, meaning, Get to the point.

“He’s probably not up there, at the airport. But if you see anyone make a move for you, well… shoot first.”

“What?” She laughed.

“Worry about yourself first, the scene second.”

“I’m just CS,” she answered, walking through the door. “He’s not going to care about me.”

“Amelia, listen…”

But he heard her footsteps receding. The familiar pattern: the hollow thud on the oak, the mute steps as she crossed the Oriental carpet, then the tap on the marble entryway. Finally, the coda – as the front door closed with a snap.

Hour 3 of 45

THE BEST SOLDIERS ARE PATIENT SOLDIERS.

Sir, I’ll remember that, sir.

Stephen Kall was sitting at Sheila’s kitchen table, deciding how much he disliked Essie, the mangy cat, or whoever the fuck it was, and listening to a long conversation on his tape recorder. At first he’d decided to find the cats and kill them but he’d noticed that they occasionally gave an unearthly howl. If neighbors were used to the sound they might become suspicious if they heard only silence from Sheila Horowitz’s apartment.

Patience… Watching the cassette roll. Listening.

It was twenty minutes later that he heard what he’d been hoping for on the tape. He smiled. Okay, good. He collected his Model 40 in the Fender guitar case, snug as a baby, and walked to the refrigerator. He cocked his head. The noises had stopped. It didn’t shake any longer. He felt a bit of relief, less cringey, less crawly , thinking of the worm inside, now cold and still. It was safe to leave. He picked up his backpack and left the dim apartment with its pungent cat musk, dusty wine, and a million trails of disgusting worms.

Into the country.

Amelia Sachs sped through a tunnel of spring trees, rocks on one side, a modest cliff on another. A dusting of green, and everywhere the yellow starbursts of forsythia.

Sachs was a city girl, born in Brooklyn General Hospital, and was a lifetime resident of that borough. Nature, for her, was Prospect Park on Sundays or, on weekday evenings, Long Island forest preserves, where she’d hide her black shark-like Dodge Charger from the patrol cruisers prowling for her and her fellow amateur auto racers.

Now, at the wheel of an Investigation and Resources Division rapid response vehicle – a crime scene station wagon – she punched the accelerator, swerved onto the shoulder, and passed a van that sported an upside-down Garfield cat suctioned to the rear window. She made the turnoff that took her deep into Westchester County.

Lifting her hand off the wheel she compulsively poked her finger into her hair and worried her scalp. Then she gripped the plastic wheel of the RRV once again and shoved the accelerator down until she burst into the suburban civilization of strip malls, sloppy commercial buildings, and fast-food franchises.

She was thinking about bombs, about Percey Clay.

And about Lincoln Rhyme.

Something was different about him today. Something significant. They’d been working together for a year now, ever since he’d shanghaied her away from a coveted assignment with Public Affairs to help him catch a serial kidnapper. At the time Sachs had been at a low point in her life – an affair gone bad and a corruption scandal in the department that disillusioned her so much that she wanted out of patrol altogether. But Rhyme wouldn’t let her. Simple as that. Even though he was a civilian consultant he’d arranged for her transfer to Crime Scene. She protested some but soon gave up the pretense of reluctance; the fact was that she loved the work. And she loved working with Rhyme, whose brilliance was exhilarating and intimidating and – an admission she made to no one – goddamn sexy.

Which wasn’t to say that she could read him perfectly. Lincoln Rhyme played life close to his chest and he wasn’t revealing all to her.

Shoot first…

What was that all about? You never discharged a weapon at a crime scene if there was any way to avoid it. A single gunshot would contaminate a scene with carbon, sulfur, mercury, antimony, lead, copper, and arsenic, and the discharge and blowback could destroy vital trace evidence. Rhyme himself told her of the time he’d had to shoot a perp hiding at a scene, his biggest concern being that the shots had ruined much of the evidence. (And when Sachs, believing she’d at last outthought him, said, “But what did it matter, Rhyme? You got the perp, right?” he’d pointed out acerbically, “But what if he’d had partners, hm? What then?”)

What was so different about the Coffin Dancer, other than the stupid name and the fact he seemed marginally smarter than the typical mafioso or Westie triggerman?

And working the scene at the hangar in an hour? It seemed to Sachs that he’d agreed to that as a favor for Percey. Which was completely unlike him. Rhyme would keep a scene sealed for days if he thought it was necessary.

These questions nagged and Amelia Sachs didn’t like unanswered questions.

Though she had no more time for speculation. Sachs spun the wheel of the RRV and turned into the wide entrance to the Mamaroneck Regional Airport. It was a busy place, nestled into a woody area of Westchester County, north of Manhattan. The big airlines had affiliated companies with service here – United Express, American Eagle – but most of the planes parked here were corporate jets, all of them unmarked, for security reasons, she guessed.

At the entrance were several state troopers, checking IDs. They did a double take when she pulled up – seeing the beautiful redhead driving an NYPD crime scene RRV and wearing blue jeans, a wind-breaker, and a Mets cap. They waved her through. She followed signs to Hudson Air Charters and found the small cinder-block building at the end of a row of commercial airline terminals.

She parked in front of the building and leapt out. She introduced herself to two officers who were standing guard over the hangar and the sleek, silver airplane that was inside. She was pleased that the local cops had run police tape around the hangar and the apron in front of it to secure the scene. But she was dismayed by the size of the area.

An hour to search? She could’ve spent an entire day here.

Thanks loads, Rhyme.

She hurried into the office.

A dozen men and women, some in business suits, some in overalls, stood in clusters. They were mostly in their twenties and thirties. Sachs supposed they’d been a young and enthusiastic group until last night. Now their faces revealed a collective sorrow that had aged them quickly.

“Is there someone named Ron Talbot here?” she asked, displaying her silver shield.

The oldest person in the room – a woman in her fifties, with spun and sprayed hair and wearing a frumpy suit – walked up to Sachs. “I’m Sally Anne McCay,” she said. “I’m the office manager. Oh, how’s Percey?”

“She’s all right,” Sachs said guardedly. “Where’s Mr. Talbot?”