"What?" Sachs asked.
Rhyme explained. The conchoidal fractures began on the clean side of the glass and ended on the dirty side. "He was inside when he broke the window."
"But he couldn't've been," Sachs protested. "The glass was inside the hangar. He--" She stopped and nodded. "You mean he broke it out, then scooped the glass up and threw it inside with the gravel. But why?"
"The gravel wasn't to prevent shoe prints. It was to fool us into thinking he broke in. But he was already inside the hangar and broke out. Interesting." The criminalist considered this for a moment, then shouted, "Check that trace. There any brass in it? Any brass with graphite on it?"
"A key," Sachs said. "You're thinking somebody gave him a key to get into the hangar."
"That's exactly what I'm thinking. Let's find out who owns or leases the hangar."
"I'll call," Sellitto said and flipped open his cell phone.
Cooper looked through the eyepiece of another microscope. He had it on high magnification. "Here we go," he said. "Lot of graphite and brass. What I'd guess is some 3-In-One oil too. So it was an old lock. He had to fiddle with it."
"Or?" Rhyme prompted. "Come on, think!"
"Or a new-made key!" Sachs blurted.
"Right! A sticky one. Good. Thom, the chart, please! Write: 'Access by key.' "
In his precise handwriting the aide wrote the words.
"Now, what else do we have?" Rhyme sipped and puffed and swung closer to the computer. He misjudged and slammed into it, nearly knocking over his monitor.
"Goddamn," he muttered.
"You all right?" Sellitto asked.
"Fine, I'm fine," he snapped. "Anything else? I was asking--anything else?"
Cooper and Sachs brushed the rest of the trace onto a large sheet of clean newsprint. They put on magnifying goggles and went over it. Cooper lifted several flecks with a probe and placed them on a slide.
"Okay," Cooper said. "We've got fibers."
A moment later Rhyme was looking at the tiny strands on his computer screen.
"What do you think, Mel? Paper, right?"
"Yep."
Speaking into his headset, Rhyme ordered his computer to scroll through the microscopic images of the fibers. "Looks like two different kinds. One's white or buff. The other's got a green tint."
"Green? Money?" Sellitto suggested.
"Possibly."
"You have enough to gas a few?" Rhyme asked. The chromatograph would destroy the fibers.
Cooper said they had and proceeded to test several of them.
He read the computer screen. "No cotton and no soda, sulfite, or sulfate."
These were chemicals added to the pulping process in making high-quality paper.
"It's cheap paper. And the dye's water soluble. There's no oil-based ink."
"So," Rhyme announced, "it's not money."
"Probably recycled," Cooper said.
Rhyme magnified the screen again. The matrix was large now and the detail lost. He was momentarily frustrated and wished that he was looking through a real compound 'scope eyepiece. There was nothing like the clarity of fine optics.
Then he saw something.
"Those yellow blotches, Mel? Glue?"
The tech looked through the microscope's eyepiece and announced, "Yes. Envelope glue, looks like."
So possibly the key had been delivered to the Dancer in an envelope. But what did the green paper signify? Rhyme had no idea.
Sellitto folded up his phone. "I talked to Ron Talbot at Hudson Air. He made a few calls. Guess who leases that hangar where the Dancer waited."
"Phillip Hansen," Rhyme said.
"Yep."
"We're making a good case," Sachs said.
True, Rhyme thought, though his goal was not to hand the Dancer over to the AG with a watertight case. No, he wanted the man's head on a pike.
"Anything else there?"
"Nothing."
"Okay, let's move on to the other scene. The sniper's nest. He was under a lot of pressure there. Maybe he got careless."
But, of course, he hadn't been careless.
There were no shell casings.
"Here's why," Cooper said, examining the trace through the 'scope. "Cotton fibers. He used a dish towel to catch the casings."
Rhyme nodded. "Footprints?"
"Nope." Sachs explained that the Dancer'd worked his way around the patches of exposed mud, staying on the grass even when he was racing to the catering van to escape.
"How many FRs you find?"
"None at the sniper's nest," she explained. "Close to two hundred in the two vans."
Using AFIS--the automated fingerprint identification system that linked digitalized criminal, military, and civil service fingerprint databases around the country--a cold search of this many prints would be possible (though very time consuming). But as obsessed as Rhyme was with finding the Dancer, he didn't bother with an AFIS request. Sachs reported that she'd found his glove prints in the vans too. The friction ridge prints inside the vehicles wouldn't be the Dancer's.
Cooper emptied the plastic bag onto an examining tray. He and Sachs looked over it. "Dirt, grass, pebbles . . . Here we go. Can you see this, Lincoln?" Cooper mounted another slide.
"Hairs," Cooper said, bent over his own 'scope. "Three, four, six, nine . . . a dozen of 'em. It looks like a continuous medulla."
The medulla is a canal running through the middle of a strand of some types of hair. In humans, the medulla is either nonexistent or fragmented. A continuous medulla meant the hair was animal. "What do you think, Mel?"
"I'll run them through the SEM." The scanning electron microscope. Cooper ran the scale up to 1500X magnification and adjusted dials until one of the hairs was centered in the screen. It was a whitish stalk with sharp-edged scales resembling a pineapple's skin.
"Cat," Rhyme announced.
"Cats, plural," Cooper corrected, looking into the compound 'scope again. "Looks like we've got a black and a calico. Both shorthairs. Then a tawny, long and fine. Persian, something like that."
Rhyme snorted. "Don't think the Dancer's profile's that he's an animal lover. He's either passing for somebody with cats or's staying with somebody who's got 'em."
"More hair," Cooper announced and mounted a slide on the compound 'scope. "Human. It's . . . wait, two strands about six inches long."
"He's shedding, huh?" Sellitto asked.
"Who knows?" Rhyme said skeptically. Without the bulb attached, it's impossible to determine the sex of the person who lost the strand. Age, except with an infant's hair, was also impossible to tell. Rhyme suggested, "Maybe it's the paint truck driver's. Sachs? He have long hair?"
"No. Crew cut. And it was blond."
"What do you think, Mel?"
The tech scanned the length of the hair. "It's been colored."
"The Dancer's known for changing his appearance," Rhyme said.
"Don't know, Lincoln," Cooper said. "The dye's similar to the natural shade. You'd think he'd go for something very different if he wanted to change his identity. Wait, I see two colors of dye. The natural shade is black. It's had some auburn added, and then more recently a dark purple wash. About two to three months apart.
"I'm also picking up a lot of residue here, Lincoln. I ought to gas one of the hairs."
"Do it."
A moment later Cooper was reading the chart on the computer connected to the GC/MS. "Okay, we've got some kind of cosmetic."
Makeup was very helpful to the criminalist; cosmetic manufacturers were notorious for changing the formulation of their products to take advantage of new trends. Different compositions could often be pinpointed to different dates of manufacture and distribution locations.
"What do we have?"
"Hold on." Cooper was sending the formula to the brand-name database. A moment later he had an answer. "Slim-U-Lite. Swiss made, imported by Jencon, outside of Boston. It's a regular detergent-based soap with oils and amino acids added. It was in t
he news--the FTC's on their case for claiming that it takes off fat and cellulite."
"Let's profile," he announced. "Sachs, what do you think?"
"About him?"
"About her. The one aiding and abetting him. Or the one he killed to hide out in her apartment. And maybe steal her car."
"You're sure it's a woman?" wondered Lon Sellitto.
"No. But we don't have time to be timid in our speculations. More women are worried about cellulite than men. More women color their hair than men. Bold propositions! Come on!"
"Well, overweight," Sachs said. "Self-image problem."
"Maybe punky, New Wave, or whatever the fuck the weirdos call 'emselves nowadays," Sellitto suggested. "My daughter turned her hair purple. Pierced some stuff too, which I don't want to talk about. How 'bout the East Village?"
"I don't think she's going for a rebel image," Sachs said. "Not with those colors. They're not different enough. She's trying to be stylish and nothing she's doing is working. I say she's fat, with short hair, in her thirties, professional. Goes home alone to her cats at night."
Rhyme nodded, staring at the chart. "Lonely. Just the sort to get suckered in by somebody with a glib tongue. Let's check veterinarians. We know she's got three cats, three different colors."
"But where?" Sellitto asked. "Westchester? Manhattan?"
"Let's first ask," Rhyme mulled, "why would he hook up with this woman in the first place?"
Sachs snapped her fingers. "Because he had to! Because we nearly trapped him." Her face had lit up. Some of the old Amelia was back.
"Yes!" Rhyme said. "This morning, near Percey's town house. When ESU moved in."
Sachs continued. "He ditched the van and hid out in her apartment until it was safe to move."
Rhyme said to Sellitto, "Get some people calling vets. For ten blocks around the town house. No, make it the whole Upper East Side. Call, Lon, call!"
As the detective punched numbers into his phone, Sachs asked gravely, "You think she's all right? The woman?"
Rhyme answered from his heart though not with what he believed to be the truth. "We can hope, Sachs. We can hope."
. . . Chapter Fourteen
Hour 7 of 45
To Percey Clay the safe house didn't appear particularly safe.
It was a three-story brownstone structure like many others along this block near the Morgan Library.
"This's it," an agent said to her and Brit Hale, nodding out the window of the van. They parked in the alley and she and Hale were hustled through a basement entrance. The steel door slammed shut. They found themselves staring at an affable man in his late thirties, lean and with thinning brown hair. He grinned.
"Howdy," he said, showing his NYPD identification and gold shield. "Roland Bell. From now on you meet anybody, even somebody charming as me, ask 'em for an ID and make sure it's got an i-dentical picture on it."
Percey listened to his relentless drawl and asked, "Don't tell me . . . you're a Tarheel?"
"That I am." He laughed. "Lived in Hoggston--not a joke, no--until I escaped to Chapel Hill for four years. Understand you're a Richmond gal."
"Was. Long time ago."
"And you, Mr. Hale?" Bell asked. "You flying the Stars and Bars too?"
"Michigan," Hale said, shaking the detective's vigorous hand. "Via Ohio."
"Don't you worry, I'll forgive you for that little mistake of yours in the eighteen sixties."
"I myself would've surrendered," Hale joked. "Nobody asked me."
"Hah. Now, I'm a Homicide detective but I keep drawing this witness protection detail 'cause I have this knack of keeping people alive. So my dear friend Lon Sellitto asked me to help him out. I'll be baby-sitting y'all for a spell."
Percey asked, "How's that other detective?"
"Jerry? What I hear, he's still in the operating room. No news yet."
His speech may have been slow but his eyes were very fast, scooting over their bodies. Looking for what? Percey wondered. To see if they were armed? Had microphones hidden on them? Then he'd scan the corridor. Then the windows.
"Now," Bell said, "I'm a nice fellow but I can be a bit muley when it comes to looking after who I'm s'posed to." He gave Percey a faint smile. "You look a bit muley yourself but just remember that everything I tell you t'do's for your own good. All right? All right. Hey, I think we're going to get along just fine. Now lemme show you our grade-A accommodations."
As they walked upstairs he said, "Y'all're probably dead to know how safe this place is . . . "
Hale asked uncertainly, "What was that again? 'Dead to know'?"
"Means, uhm, eager. I guess I talk a bit South still. Boys down in the Big Building--that's headquarters--fool with me some. Leave messages saying they've collared themselves a redneck and want me to translate for 'em. Anyway, this place is good 'n' safe. Our friends in Justice, oh, they know what they're doing. Bigger'n it looks from the outside, right?"
"Bigger than a cockpit, smaller than an open road," Hale said.
Bell chuckled. "Those front windows? Didn't look too secure when you were driving up."
"That was one thing . . . ," Percey began.
"Well, here's the front room. Take a peek." He pushed open a door.
There were no windows. Sheets of steel had been bolted over them. "Curtains're on the other side," Bell explained. "From the street it looks just like dark rooms. All the other windows're bulletproof glass. But you stay away from 'em all the same. And keep the shades drawn. The fire escape and roof're loaded with sensors and we've got tons of video cameras hidden around the place. Anybody comes near we check 'em clip and clean 'fore they get to the front door. It'd take a ghost with anorexia to get in here." He walked down a wide corridor. "Follow me down this dogtrot here . . . Okay, that's your room there, Mrs. Clay."
"Long as we're living together, you may's well call me Percey."
"Done deal. And you're over here . . . "
"Brit."
The rooms were small and dark and very still--very different from Percey's office in the corner of the hangar at Hudson Air. She thought of Ed, who preferred to have an office in the main building, his desk organized, pictures of B17s and P-51s on the wall, Lucite paperweights on every stack of documents. Percey liked the smell of jet fuel, and for a sound track to her workday the buzz saw of pneumatic wrenches. She thought of them together, him perched on her desk, sharing coffee. She managed to push the thought away before the tears started again.
Bell called on his walkie-talkie. "Principals in position." A moment later two uniformed policemen appeared in the corridor. They nodded and one of them said, "We'll be out here. Full-time." Curiously, their New York twang didn't seem that different from Bell's resonant drawl.
"That was good," Bell said to Percey.
She raised an eyebrow.
"You checked his ID. Nobody's gonna get the bulge on you."
She smiled wanly.
Bell said to Percey, "Now, we've got two men with your mother-in-law in New Jersey. Any other family needs watching?"
Percey said she didn't, not in the area.
He repeated the question to Hale, who answered, with a rueful grin, "Not unless an ex-wife's considered family. Well, wives."
"Okay. Cats'r dogs need watering?"
"Nope," Percey said. Hale shook his head.
"Then we may's well just ree-lax. No phone calls from cell phones if you've got one. Only use that line there. Remember the windows and curtains. Over there, that's a panic button. Worse comes to worst, and it won't, you hit it and drop to the ground. Now, you need anything, just give me a holler."
"As a matter of fact, I do," Percey said. She held up the silver flask.
"Well, now," Bell drawled, "you want me to help you empty it, I'm afraid I'm still on duty. But 'preciate the offer. You want me to help you fill it, why, that's a done deal."
Their scam didn't make the five o'clock news.
But three transmissions went out unscrambled on a citywide polic
e channel, informing the precincts about a 10-66 secure operation at the Twentieth Precinct and broadcasting a 10-67 traffic advisory about street closures on the Upper West Side. All suspects apprehended within the borders of the Twentieth were to be taken directly to Central Booking and the Men's or Women's Detention Center downtown. No one would be allowed in or out of the precinct without a special okay from the FBI. Or the FAA--Dellray's touch.
As this was being broadcast, Bo Haumann's 32-E teams went into position around the station house.
Haumann was now in charge of that portion of the operation. Fred Dellray was putting together a federal hostage rescue team in case they discovered the cat lady's identity and her apartment. Rhyme, along with Sachs and Cooper, continued to work the evidence from the crime scenes.
There were no new clues, but Rhyme wanted Sachs and Cooper to reexamine what they'd already found. This was criminalistics--you looked and looked and looked, and then, when you couldn't find anything, you looked some more. And when you hit the inevitable brick wall, you kept right on looking.
Rhyme had wheeled up close to his computer and was ordering it to magnify images of the timer found in the wreckage of Ed Carney's plane. The timer itself might have been useless, because it was so generic, but Rhyme wondered if it might not contain a little trace or even a partial latent print. Bombers often believe that fingerprints are destroyed in the detonation and will shun gloves when working with the tinier components of the devices. But the blast itself will not necessarily destroy prints. Rhyme now ordered Cooper to fume the timer in the SuperGlue frame and, when that revealed nothing, to dust it with the Magna-Brush, a technique for raising prints that uses fine magnetic powder. Once again he found nothing.
Finally he ordered that the sample be bombarded by the nit-yag, slang for a garnet laser that was state-of-the-art in raising otherwise invisible prints. Cooper was looking at the image under the 'scope while Rhyme examined it on his computer screen.
Rhyme gave a short laugh, squinted, then looked again, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him.
"Is that? . . . Look. Lower right-hand corner!" Rhyme called.
But Cooper and Sachs could see nothing.
His computer-enhanced image had found something that Cooper's optical 'scope had missed. On the lip of metal that had protected the timer from being blown to smithereens was a faint crescent of ridge endings, crossings, and bifurcations. It was no more than a sixteenth of an inch wide and maybe a half inch long.
The Coffin Dancer Page 12
