Jeffery Deaver - The Coffin Dancer

“Orders?” Eliopolos asked lamely. He wasn’t a stupid man. He knew that he’d been caught.

Rhyme laughed. He glanced at Sellitto and Dellray. “See, our U.S. attorney friend here has three witnesses he hopes can nail Hansen.”

“Three?”

“Percey, Hale… and the Dancer himself,” Rhyme scoffed. “He wants to capture him so he’ll turn evidence.” He looked at Eliopolos. “So you’re using Percey as bait too.”

“Only,” Dellray chuckled, “he’s putting her in a Havaheart trap. Got it, got it.”

“You’re thinking,” Rhyme said, “that your case against Hansen’s not so good, whatever Percey and Hale saw.”

Mr. Uh-huh tried sincerity. “They saw him ditch some goddamn evidence. Hell, they didn’t even actually see him do that. If we find the duffel bags and they link him to the killings of those two soldiers last spring, fine, we’ve got a case. Maybe. But, A, we might not find the bags, and, B, the evidence inside them might be damaged.”

Then, C, call me , Rhyme thought. I can find evidence in the clear night wind.

Sellitto said, “But you get Hansen’s hit man alive, he can dime his boss.”

“Exactly.” Eliopolos crossed his arms the way he must have done in court when he was delivering closing statements.

Sachs had been listening from the doorway. She asked the question Rhyme had just been about to. “And what would you plea the Dancer out to?”

Eliopolos asked, “Who’re you?”

“Officer Sachs. IRD.”

“It’s not really a crime scene tech’s place to question -”

“Then I’m asking the fuckin’ question,” Sellitto barked, “and if I don’t get an answer, the mayor’s gonna be asking it too.”

Eliopolos had a political career ahead of him, Rhyme supposed. And a successful one, most likely. He said, “It’s important that we successfully prosecute Hansen. He’s the greater of the two evils. The more potential for harm.”

“That’s a pretty answer,” Dellray said, scrunching up his face. “But it don’t do a thing for the question. What’re you gonna agree to give the Dancer if he snitches on Hansen?”

“I don’t know,” the attorney said evasively. “That hasn’t been discussed.”

“Ten years in medium security?” Sachs muttered.

“It hasn’t been discussed .”

Rhyme was thinking about the trap that they’d planned so carefully until 4a.m. If Percey and Hale were moved now, the Dancer would learn of it. He’d regroup. He’d find out they were at Shoreham and, against guards with orders to take him alive, he’d waltz in, kill Percey and Hale – and a half dozen U.S. marshals – and leave.

The attorney began, “We don’t have much time -”

Rhyme interrupted with, “You have paper?”

“I was hoping you’d be willing to cooperate.”

“We aren’t.”

“You’re a civilian.”

“I’m not,” said Sellitto.

“Uh-huh. I see.” He looked at Dellray but didn’t even bother asking the agent whose side he was on. The attorney said, “I can get an order to show cause for protective custody in three or four hours.”

On Sunday morning? Rhyme thought. Uh-uh. “We’re not releasing them,” he said. “Do what you have to do.”

Eliopolos smiled a smile in his round bureaucratic face. “I should tell you that if this perp dies in any attempt to collar him I will personally be reviewing the shooting committee report, and it is a distinct possibility that I’ll conclude that proper orders on the use of deadly force in an arrest situation were not given by supervisory personnel.” He looked at Rhyme. “There could also be issues of interference by civilians with federal law enforcement activity. That could lead to major civil litigation. I just want you to be forewarned.”

“Thanks,” Rhyme said breezily. “ ’Preciateit.”

When he was gone, Sellitto crossed himself. “Jesus, Linc, you hear him. He said major civil litigation.”

“My my my… Speaking for myself, minor litigation woulda scared this boy plenty,” Dellray chimed in.

They laughed.

Then Dellray stretched and said, “A pisser what’s going round. You hear ’bout it, Lincoln? That bug?”

“What’s that?”

“Been infecting a lotta folk lately. My SWAT boys and me’re out on some operation or other and what happens but they come down with this nasty twitch in their trigger fingers.”

Sellitto, a much worse actor than the agent, said broadly, “You too? I thought it was just our folks at ESU.”

“But listen,” said Fred Dellray, the Alec Guinness of street cops. “I got a cure. All you gotta do is kill yourself a mean asshole, like this Dancer fella, he so much as looks cross-eyed at you. That always works.” He flipped open his phone. “Think I’ll call in and make sure my boys and girls remember ’bout that medicine. I’m gonna do that right now.”

Hour 22 of 45

WAKING IN THE GLOOMY SAFE HOUSE at dawn, Percey Clay rose from her bed and walked to the window. She drew aside the curtain and looked out at the gray monotonous sky. A slight mist was in the air.

Close to minimums, she estimated. Wind 090 at five knots. Quarter mile visibility. She hoped the weather cleared for the flight tonight. Oh, she could fly in any weather – and had. Anyone with an IFR ticket – instrument flight rules rating – could take off, fly, and land in dense overcast. (In fact, with their computers, transponders, radar, and collision avoidance systems, most commercial airliners could fly themselves – even setting down for a perfect, hands-free landing.) But Percey liked to fly in clear weather. She liked to see the ground pass by beneath her. The lights at night. The clouds. And above her the stars.

All the stars of evening…

She thought again of Ed and her call to his mother in New Jersey last night. They’d made plans for his memorial service. She wanted to think some more about it, work on the guest list, plan the reception.

But she couldn’t. Her mind was preoccupied with Lincoln Rhyme.

Recalling the conversation they’d had yesterday behind closed doors in his bedroom – after the fight with that officer Amelia Sachs.

She’d sat next to Rhyme in an old armchair. He’d studied her for a moment, looking her up and down. A curious sensation came over her. His wasn’t a personal perusal – not the way men looked over some women (not her, of course) in bars or on the street. It was the way a senior pilot might study her before their first flight together. Checking her authority, her demeanor, her quickness of thought. Her courage.

She’d pulled her flask from her pocket but Rhyme had shaken his head and suggested eighteen-year-old scotch. “Thom thinks I drink too much,” he’d said. “Which I do. But what’s life without vices, right?”

She’d given a wan laugh. “My father’s a purveyor.”

“Of booze? Or vice in general?”

“Cigarettes. Executive with U.S. Tobacco in Richmond. Excuse me. They’re not called that anymore. It’s U.S. Consumer Products or something like that.”

There was a flutter of wings outside the window.

“Oh.” She’d laughed. “It’s a tiercel.”

Rhyme had followed her gaze out the window. “A what?”

“A male peregrine. Why’s his aerie down here? They nest higher in the city.”

“I don’t know. I woke up one morning and there they were. You know falcons?”

“Sure.”

“Hunt with them?” he’d asked.

“I used to. I had a tiercel I used for hunting partridge. I got him as an eyas.”

“What’s that?”

“A young bird in the nest. They’re easier to train.” She’d examined the nest carefully, a faint smile on her face. “But my best hunter was a haggard – a mature goshawk. Female. They’re bigger than the males, better killers. Hard to work with. But she’d take anything – rabbit, hare, pheasant.”