Jeffery Deaver - The Coffin Dancer

“Part of the timer?” Sachs wondered aloud.

“No, that was intact,” Rhyme reminded.

He felt they were on to something here. If this was another part of the bomb, it might give them a clue as to the source of the explosive or another component.

“We have to know for sure whether this’s from the bomb or from the plane itself. Sachs, I want you to go up to the airport.”

“The -”

“Mamaroneck. Find Percey and have her give you samples of anything with latex, rubber, or circuit boards that would be in the belly of a plane like the one he was flying. Near the seat of the explosion. And, Mel, send the info off to the Bureau’s Explosives Reference Collection and check Army CID – maybe there’s a latex waterproof coating of some kind the army uses for explosives. Maybe we can trace it that way.”

Cooper began typing the request on his computer, but Rhyme noticed Sachs wasn’t pleased with her assignment.

“You want me to go talk to her?” she asked. “To Percey?”

“Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Okay.” She sighed. “All right.”

“And don’t give her any crap like you’ve been doing. We need her cooperation.”

Rhyme didn’t have a clue why she pulled on her vest so angrily and stalked out the door without saying good-bye.

Hour 31 of 45

AT MAMARONECK AIRPORT AMELIA SACHS saw Roland Bell lurking outside the hangar. Another six officers stood guard around the huge building. She supposed there were snipers nearby too.

Her eye caught the hillock where she’d dropped to the ground under fire. She remembered, with a disgusted twist in her belly, the smell of the dirt mingling with the sweet cordite scent from her own impotent pistol shots.

Turned to Bell. “Detective.”

His eyes glanced at her once. “Hey.” Then he returned to scanning the airport. His easy southern demeanor was gone. He’d changed. Sachs realized that they shared something notorious now. They’d both had a shot at the Coffin Dancer and missed.

They both had also been in his kill zone and survived. Bell, though, with more glory than she. His body armor, she noticed, bore stigmata: the streaks from the two slugs that had glanced off him during the safe house attack. He’d stood his ground.

“Where’s Percey?” Sachs asked.

“Inside. Finishing up the repairs.”

“By herself?”

“Think so. She’s something, she is. You wouldn’t think a woman that wasn’t so, well, attractive’d have quite the draw she does. You know?”

Ugh. Don’t get me started.

“Anybody else here? From the Company?” She nodded toward the Hudson Air office. There was a light on inside.

“Percey sent ’most everybody home. Fellow’s going to be her copilot’s due here anytime. And somebody from Operations’s inside. Needs to be on duty when there’s a flight going on, I guess. I checked him out. He’s okay.”

“So she’s really going to fly?” Sachs asked.

“Looks that way.”

“The plane’s been guarded the whole time?”

“Yep, since yesterday. What’re you doing here?”

“Need some samples for analysis.”

“That Rhyme, he’s something too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“All two of you go back a ways?”

“We’ve worked a few cases,” she said dismissingly. “He saved me from Public Affairs.”

“That’s his good deed. Say, I hear you can really drive a nail.”

“I can…?”

“Shoot. Sidearms. You’re on a team.”

And here I am at the site of my latest competition, she thought bitterly. “Just weekend sport,” she muttered.

“I do some pistol work myself, but I’ll tell you, even on a good day, with a nice, long barrel and firing single-action, fifty, sixty yards is all the far I can shoot.”

She appreciated his comments but recognized that they were just an attempt to reassure her about yesterday’s fiasco; the words meant nothing to her.

“Better talk to Percey now.”

“Right through there, Officer.”

Sachs pushed into the huge hangar. She walked slowly, looking at all the places the Dancer could hide. Sachs paused behind a tall row of boxes; Percey didn’t see her.

The woman was standing on a small scaffolding, hands on her hips, as she gazed at the complicated network of pipes and tubes of the open engine. She’d rolled her sleeves up and her hands were covered with grease. She nodded to herself then reached forward into the compartment.

Sachs was fascinated, watching the woman’s hands fly over the machinery, adjusting, probing, seating metal to metal, and tightening the fixtures down with judicious swipes of her thin arms. She mounted a large red cylinder, a fire extinguisher, Sachs guessed, in about ten seconds flat.

But one part – it looked like a big metal inner tube – wouldn’t fit correctly.

Percey climbed off the scaffolding, selected a socket wrench, and climbed up again. She loosened bolts, removed another part to give her more room to maneuver, and tried again to push the big ring into place.

Wouldn’t budge.

She shouldered it. Didn’t move an inch. She removed yet another part, meticulously setting each screw and bolt in a plastic tray at her feet. Percey’s face turned bright red as she struggled to mount the metal ring. Her chest heaved as she fought the part. Suddenly it slipped, dropping completely out of position, and knocked her backward off the scaffolding. She twisted and landed on her hands and knees. The tools and bolts that she’d arranged so carefully in the tray spilled to the floor beneath the plane’s tail.

“No!” Percey cried. “No!”

Sachs stepped forward to see if she was hurt, but noticed immediately that the outburst had nothing to do with pain – Percey grabbed a large wrench and slammed it furiously into the floor of the hangar. The policewoman stopped, stepped into the shadow beside a large carton.

“No, no, no…,” Percey cried, hammering the smooth concrete.

Sachs remained where she was.

“Oh, Ed…” She dropped the wrench. “I can’t do it alone.” Gasping for breath, she rolled into a ball. “Ed… oh, Ed… I miss you so much!” She lay, curled like a frail leaf, on the shiny floor and wept.

Then, suddenly, the attack was over. Percey rolled upright, took a deep breath, and climbed to her feet, wiped the tears from her face. The aviatrix within her took charge once again and she picked up the bolts and tools and climbed back up onto the scaffolding. She stared at the troublesome ring for a moment. She examined the fittings carefully but couldn’t see where the metal pieces were binding.

Sachs retreated to the door, slammed it hard, and then started back into the hangar, walking with loud steps.

Percey swung around, saw her, then turned back to the engine. She gave a few swipes to her face with her sleeve and continued to work.

Sachs walked up to the base of the scaffolding and watched as Percey struggled with the ring.

Neither woman said anything for a long moment.

Finally Sachs said, “Try a jack.”

Percey glanced back at her, said nothing.

“It’s just that the tolerance is close,” Sachs continued. “All you need is more muscle. The old coercion technique. They don’t teach it in mechanics school.”

Percey looked carefully at the mounting brackets on the pieces of metal. “I don’t know.”

“I do. You’re talking to an expert.”

The flier asked, “You’ve mounted a combustor in a Lear?”

“Nope. Spark plugs in a Chevy Monza. You have to jack up the engine to reach them. Well, only in the V-eight. But who’d buy a four-cylinder car? I mean, what’s the point?”