Jeffery Deaver - The Coffin Dancer

“You got pictures?” Percey asked, tipping back the flask. The hot liquor burned for a brief exquisite moment. She decided she’d quit drinking. Then decided not to.

“ ’Deed I do.” He fished a wallet from his baggy slacks and displayed the children. Two blond boys, around five and seven. “Benjamin and Kevin,” Bell announced.

Percey also caught a glimpse of another photo – a pretty, blond woman, short hair in bangs.

“They’re adorable.”

“You have any kids?”

“No,” she answered, thinking, I always had my reasons. There was always next year or the next. When the Company was doing better. When we’d leased that 737. After I got my DC-9 rating… She gave him a stoic smile. “Yours? They want to be cops when they grow up?”

“Soccer players’s what they want to be. Not much of a market for that in New York. Unless the Mets keep playing the way they’ve been.”

Before the silence grew too thick, Percey asked, “Is it okay if I call the Company? I’ve got to see how my aircraft’s coming.”

“You bet. I’ll leave you be. Just make sure you don’t give our number or address to a soul. It’s the one thing I’m gonna be real muley about.”

Hour 8 of 45

“RON. IT’S PERCEY. HOW IS EVERYONE?”

“Shook up,” he answered. “I sent Sally home. She couldn’t -”

“How is she?”

“Just couldn’t deal with it. Carol too. And Lauren. Lauren was out of control. I’ve never seen anybody that upset. How’re you and Brit?”

“Brit’s mad. I’m mad. What a mess this is. Oh, Ron…”

“And that detective, the cop who got shot?”

“I don’t think they know yet. How’s Foxtrot Bravo?”

“It’s not as bad as it could be. I’ve already replaced the cockpit window. No breaches in the fuselage. Number two engine… that’s a problem. We’ve got to replace a lot of the skin. We’re trying to find a new fire extinguisher cartridge. I don’t think it’ll be a problem…”

“But?”

“But the annular has to be replaced.”

“The combustor? Replace it? Oh, Jesus.”

“I’ve already called the Garrett distributor in Connecticut They agreed to deliver one tomorrow, even though it’s Sunday. I can have it installed in a couple, three hours.”

“Hell,” she muttered, “I should be there… I told them I’d stay put but, damn it, I should be there.”

“Where are you, Percey?”

And Stephen Kall, listening to this conversation as he sat in Sheila Horowitz’s dim apartment, was ready to write. He pressed the receiver closer to his ear.

But the Wife said only, “In Manhattan. About a thousand cops around us. I feel like the pope or the president.”

Stephen had heard on his police scanner reports of some curious activity around the Twentieth Precinct, which was on the Upper West Side. The station house was being closed and suspects were being relocated. He wondered if that was where the Wife was right now – at the precinct house.

Ron asked, “Are they going to stop this guy? Do they have any leads?”

Yes, do they? Stephen wondered.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Those gunshots,” Ron said. “Jesus, they were scary. Reminded me of the service. You know, that sound of the guns.”

Stephen wondered again about this Ron fellow. Could he be useful?

Infiltrate, evaluate… interrogate.

Stephen considered tracking him down and torturing him to get him to call Percey back and ask where the safe house was…

But although he probably could get through the airport security again it would be a risk. And it would take too much time.

As he listened to their conversation Stephen gazed at the laptop computer in front of him. A message saying Please wait kept flashing. The remote tap was connected to a Bell Atlantic relay box near the airport and had been transmitting their conversations to Stephen’s tape recorder for the past week. He was surprised the police hadn’t found it yet.

A cat – Esmeralda, Essie , the worm sack – climbed onto the table and arched her back. Stephen could hear the irritating purring.

He began to feel cringey.

He elbowed the cat roughly to the floor and enjoyed her pained bleat.

“I’ve been looking for more pilots,” Ron said uncomfortably. “I’ve got -”

“We just need one. Right-hand seat.”

A pause. “What?” Ron asked.

“I’m taking the flight tomorrow. All I need is an FO.”

“You? I don’t think that’s a good idea, Perce.”

“You have anybody?” she asked shortly.

“Well, the thing is -”

“Do you have anyone?”

“Brad Torgeson’s on the call list. He said he had no problem helping us out. He knows about the situation.”

“Good. A pilot with balls. How’s his Lear time?”

“Plenty… Percey, I thought you were hiding out until the grand jury.”

“ Lincoln agreed to let me take the flight. If I stayed here until then.”

“Who’s Lincoln?”

Yes, Stephen thought. Who is Lincoln?

“Well, he’s this weird man…” The Wife hesitated, as if she wanted to talk about him but wasn’t sure what to say. Stephen was disappointed when she said only, “He’s working with the police, trying to find the killer. I told him I’d stay here until tomorrow but I was definitely making the flight. He agreed.”

“Percey, we can delay it. I’ll talk to U.S. Medical. They know we’re going through some -”

“No,” she said firmly. “They don’t want excuses. They want wheels up on schedule. And if we can’t do it they’ll find somebody else. When are they delivering the cargo?”

“Six or seven.”

“I’ll be there late afternoon. I’ll help you finish with the annular.”

“Percey,” he wheezed, “everything’s going to be fine.”

“We get that engine fixed on time, everything’ll be great .”

“You must be going through hell,” Ron said.

“Not really,” she said.

Not yet, Stephen corrected silently.

Sachs skidded the RRV station wagon around the corner at forty miles per hour. She saw a dozen tactical agents trotting along the street.

Fred Dellray’s teams were surrounding the building where Sheila Horowitz lived. A typical Upper East Side brownstone, next door to a Korean deli, in front of which an employee squatted on a milk crate, peeling carrots for the salad bar and staring with no particular curiosity at the machine-gun-armed men and women surrounding the building.

Sachs found Dellray, weapon unholstered, in the foyer, examining the directory.

S. Horowitz. 204.

He tapped his radio. “We’re on four eight three point four.”

The secure federal tactical operations frequency. Sachs adjusted her radio as Dellray peered into the Horowitz woman’s mailbox with a small black flashlight. “Nothin’ picked up today. Got a feeling that girl’s gone.” He then said, “We got our folk on the fire escape and floor above and below with a SWAT cam and some mikes. Haven’t seen anybody inside. But we’re pickin’ up some scratching and purring. Nothing sounds human, though. She got cats, remember. That was a feather in his cap, thinking of the vets. Our man Rhyme, I mean.”

I know who you mean, she thought.

Outside, the wind was howling and another line of black clouds was trooping over the city. Big slabs of bruise-colored clouds.

Dellray snarled into his radio. “All teams. Status?”

“Red Team. We’re on the fire escape.”

“Blue Team. First floor.”

“Roger,” Dellray muttered. “Search and Surveillance. Report.”