Jeffery Deaver - The Coffin Dancer

“Still not sure. We’re getting faint infrared readings. Whoever or whatever’s in there isn’t moving. Could be a sleeping cat. Or a wounded victim. Or might be a pilot light or lamp that’s been burning for a while. Could be the subject, though. In an interior part of the apartment.”

“Well, what do you think?” Sachs asked.

“Who’s that?” the agent asked over the radio.

“NYPD, Portable Five Eight Eight Five,” Sachs responded, giving her badge number. “I want to know what your opinion is. Do you think the suspect is inside?”

“Why you askin’?” Dellray wanted to know.

“I want an uncontaminated scene. I’d like to go in alone if they think he’s not there.” A dynamic entry by a dozen tactical officers was probably the most efficient way to utterly decimate a crime scene.

Dellray looked at her for a moment, his dark face creased, then said into his stalk mike, “What’s your opinion, S &S?”

“We just can’t say for sure, sir,” the disembodied agent reported.

“Know you can’t, Billy. Just gimme what your gut’s telling you.”

A pause, then: “I think he’s rabbited. Think it’s clean.”

“Hokay.” To Sachs he said, “But you take one officer with you. That’s an order.”

“I go in first, though. He can cover me from the door. Look, this guy just isn’t leaving any evidence anywhere. We need a break.”

“All right, Officer.” Dellray nodded to several of the federal SWAT agents.

“Entry approved,” he muttered, slipping out of hipster as he spoke words of law enforcement art.

One of the tactical agents had the lobby door lock disassembled in thirty seconds.

“Hold up,” Dellray said, cocking his head. “It’s a call from Central.” He spoke into the radio. “Give ’em the frequency.” He looked at Sachs. “ Lincoln ’s calling you.”

A moment later the criminalist’s voice intruded. “Sachs,” he said, “what’re you doing?”

“I’m just -”

“Listen,” he said urgently. “Don’t go in alone. Let them secure the scene first. You know the rule.”

“I’ve got backup -”

“No, let SWAT secure it first.”

“They’re sure he’s not there,” she lied.

“That’s not good enough,” he shot back. “Not with the Dancer. Nobody’s ever sure with him.”

This again. I don’t need it, Rhyme. Exasperated, she said, “This’s the sort of scene he’s not expecting us to find. He probably hasn’t hosed it. We could find a fingerprint, a shell casing. Hell, we could find his credit card.”

No response. It wasn’t often that Lincoln Rhyme was rendered silent.

“Quit spooking me, Rhyme, okay?”

He didn’t respond and she had a strange feeling that he wanted her to be spooked. “Sachs…?”

“What?”

“Just be careful” was his only advice and the words were offered tentatively.

Then suddenly five tactical agents appeared, wearing Nomex gloves and hoods, blue flak jackets, and holding their black H &Ks.

“I’ll call you from inside,” she said.

She started up the stairs after them, her thoughts more on the heavy crime scene suitcase she held in her weak hand, her left, than on the black pistol in her right.

In the old days, in the Before days, Lincoln Rhyme had been a walker.

There was something about motion that soothed him. A stroll through Central or Washington Square Park, a brisk walk through the Fashion District. Oh, he’d pause often – maybe to collect a bit of evidence for the databases at the IRD lab – but once the bits of dirt or the plants or the samples of building materials were safely stowed and their sources jotted in his notebook, he’d continue on his way again. Miles and miles he’d walk.

One of the most frustrating things about his present condition was the inability to let off tension. He now had his eyes closed and he rubbed the back of his head into the headrest of the Storm Arrow, grinding his teeth together.

He asked Thom for some scotch.

“Don’t you need to be clearheaded?”

“No.”

“I think you do.”

Go to hell, Rhyme thought, and ground his teeth harder. Thom would have to clean off a bloody gum, have to arrange for the dentist to come over. And I’ll be a prick with him too.

Thunder rolled in the distance and the lights dimmed.

He pictured Sachs at the front of the tactical force. She was right, of course: an ESU team doing a full secure of the apartment would contaminate it badly. Still, he was worried sick for her. She was too reckless. He’d seen her scratching her skin, pulling eyebrows, chewing nails. Rhyme, ever skeptical of the psychologist’s black arts, nonetheless knew self-destructive behavior when he saw it. He’d also been for a drive with her – in her souped-up sports car. They’d hit speeds over 150 miles per hour and she seemed frustrated that the rough roads on Long Island wouldn’t let her do twice that.

He was startled to hear her whispering voice. “Rhyme, you there?”

“Go ahead, Amelia.”

A pause. “No first names, Rhyme. It’s bad luck.”

He tried to laugh, “wished he hadn’t used the name, wondered why he had.

“Go ahead.”

“I’m at the front door. They’re going to take it down with a battering ram. The other team reported in. They really don’t think he’s there.”

“You wearing your armor?”

“Stole a feebie’s flak jacket. Looks like I’m wearing black cereal boxes for a bra.”

“On three,” Rhyme heard Dellray’s voice, “all teams, take out door and windows, cover all areas, but hold short of entry. One…”

Rhyme was so torn. How badly he wanted the Dancer – he could taste it. But, oh, how frightened he was for her.

“Two…”

Sachs, damn it, he thought. I don’t want to worry about you…

“Three…”

He heard a soft snap, like a teenager cracking his knuckles, and found himself leaning forward. His neck quivered with a huge cramp and he leaned back. Thom appeared and began to massage it.

“It’s all right,” he muttered. “Thank you. Could you just get the sweat? Please.”

Thom looked at him suspiciously – at the word “please” – then wiped his forehead.

What’re you doing, Sachs?

He wanted to ask but wouldn’t think of distracting her just now.

Then he heard a gasp. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred. “Jesus, Rhyme.”

“What? Tell me.”

“The woman… the Horowitz woman. The refrigerator door’s open. She’s inside. She’s dead but it looks like… Oh, God, her eyes.”

“Sachs…”

“It looks like he put her inside when she was still alive. Why the hell would he -”

“Think past it, Sachs. Come on. You can do it.”

“Jesus.”

Rhyme knew Sachs was claustrophobic. He imagined the terror she’d be feeling, looking at the terrible mode of death.

“Did he tape her or tie her?”

“Tape. Some kind of clear packing tape on her mouth. Her eyes, Rhyme. Her eyes…”

“Don’t get shook, Sachs. The tape’ll be a good surface for prints. What’re the floor surfaces?”

“Carpet in the living room. And linoleum in the kitchen. And -”

A scream. “Oh God!”

“What?”

“Just one of the cats. It jumped in front of me. Little shit… Rhyme?”

“What?”

“I’m smelling something. Something funny.”

“Good.” He’d taught her always to smell the air at a crime scene. It was the first fact a CS officer should note. “But what does ‘funny’ mean?”

“A sour smell. Chemical. Can’t place it.”

Then he realized that something didn’t make sense.

“Sachs,” he asked abruptly. “Did you open the refrigerator door?”