The Coffin Dancer

by Jeffery Deaver

"Roger," Dellray muttered. "Search and Surveillance. Report."

  "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?"

  "No. I found it that way. It's propped open with a chair, looks like."

  Why? Rhyme wondered. Why'd he do that? He thought furiously.

  "That smell, it's stronger. Smokey."

  The woman's a distraction! Rhyme thought suddenly. He left the door open to
make sure the entry team would focus on it.

  Oh, no, not again!

  "Sachs! That's fuse you're smelling. A time-delay fuse. There's another bomb! Get out now! He left the refrigerator door open to lure us inside."

  "What?"

  "It's a fuse! He's set a bomb. You've got seconds. Get out! Run!"

  "I can get the tape. On her mouth."

  "Get the fuck out!"

  "I can get it . . . "

  Rhyme heard a rustle, a faint gasp, and seconds later, the ringing bang of the explosion, like a sledgehammer on a boiler.

  It stunned his ear.

  "No!" he cried. "Oh, no!"

  He glanced at Sellitto, who was staring at Rhyme's horrified face. "What happened, what happened?" the detective was calling.

  A moment later Rhyme could hear through the earpiece a man's voice, panicky, shouting, "We've got a fire. Second floor. The walls're gone. They're gone . . . We got injuries . . . Oh, God. What happened to her? Look at the blood. All the blood! We need help. Second floor! Second floor . . . "

  Stephen Kall walked a circle around the Twentieth Precinct on the Upper West Side.

  The station house wasn't far from Central Park and he caught a glimpse of the trees. The cross street the precinct house was located on was guarded, but security wasn't too bad. There were three cops in front of the low building, looking around nervously. But there were none on the east side of the station house, where a thick steel grille covered the windows. He guessed that this was the lockup.

  Stephen continued around the corner and then walked south to the next cross street. There were no blue sawhorses closing off this street, but there were guards--two more cops. They eyed every car and pedestrian that passed. He studied the building briefly then continued yet another block south and circled around the west side of the precinct. He slipped through a deserted alley, took his binoculars from his backpack, and gazed at the station house.

  Can you use this, Soldier?

  Sir, yes, I can, sir.

  In a parking lot beside the station house was a gas pump. An officer was filling his squad car with gas. It never occurred to Stephen that police cars wouldn't buy their gas at Amoco or Shell stations.

  For a long moment he gazed at the pump through his small, heavy Leica binoculars, then put them back into the bag and hurried west, conscious, as always, of people on the lookout for him.

  . . . Chapter Sixteen

  Hour 12 of 45

  "Sachs!" Rhyme cried again.

  Damnit, what was she thinking of? How could she be so careless?

  "What happened?" Sellitto asked again. "What's going on?"

  What happened to her?

  "A bomb in the Horowitz apartment," Rhyme said hopelessly. "Sachs was inside when it went off. Call them. Find out what happened. On the speakerphone."

  All the blood . . .

  An interminable three minutes later Sellitto was patched through to Dellray.

  "Fred," Rhyme shouted, "how is she?"

  A harrowing pause before he answered.

  "Ain't good, Lincoln. We're just gettin' the fire out now. It was an AP of some kind. Shit. We shoulda looked first. Fuck."

  Antipersonnel booby traps were usually plastic explosive or TNT and often contained shrapnel or ball bearings--to inflict the most damage they could.

  Dellray continued. "Took a coupla walls down and burned mosta the place out." A pause. "I have to tell you, Lincoln. We . . . found . . . " Dellray's voice--usually so steady--now waffled uneasily.

  "What?" Rhyme demanded.

  "Some body parts . . . A hand. Part of an arm."

  Rhyme closed his eyes and felt a horror he hadn't felt in years. An icy stab through his insentient body. His breath came out in a low hiss.

  "Lincoln--" Sellitto began.

  "We're still searching," Dellray continued. "She might not be dead. We'll find her. Get her to the hospital. We'll do everything we can. You know we will."

  Sachs, why the hell did you do it? Why did I let you?

  I should never--

  Then a crackle sounded in his ear. A pop as loud as a firecracker. "Could somebody . . . I mean, Jesus, could somebody get this off me?"

  "Sachs?" Rhyme called into the microphone. He was sure the voice was hers. Then it sounded like she was choking and retching.

  "Uck," she said. "Oh, boy . . . This's gross."

  "Are you all right?" He turned to the speakerphone. "Fred, where is she?"

  "Is that you, Rhyme?" she asked. "I can't hear anything. Somebody talk to me!"

  "Lincoln," Dellray called. "We got her! She's A-okay. She's all right."

  "Amelia?"

  He heard Dellray shouting for medics. Rhyme, whose body hadn't shivered for some years, noted that his left ring finger was trembling fiercely.

  Dellray came back on. "She can't hear too good, Lincoln. What happened was . . . looks like what happened was it was the woman's body we saw. Horowitz. Sachs pulled it out of the fridge just 'fore the bang. The corpse took mosta the blast."

  Sellitto said, "I see that look, Lincoln. Give her a break."

  But he didn't.

  In a fierce growl he said, "What the hell were you thinking of, Sachs? I told you it was a bomb. You should've known it was a bomb and bailed out."

  "Rhyme, is that you?"

  She was faking. He knew she was.

  "Sachs--"

  "I had to get the tape, Rhyme. Are you there? I can't hear you. It was plastic packing tape. We need to get one of his prints. You said so yourself."

  "Honestly," he snapped, "you're impossible."

  "Hello? Hello-o? Can't hear a word you're saying."

  "Sachs, don't give me any crap."

  "I'm going to check something, Rhyme."

  There was silence for a moment.

  "Sachs? . . . Sachs, you there? What the hell . . . ?"

  "Rhyme, listen--I just hit the tape with the PoliLight. And guess what? There's a partial on it! I've got one of the Dancer's prints!"

  That stopped him for a moment but he soon resumed his tirade again. He was well into his lecture before he realized that he was reading the riot act to an empty line.

  She was sooty and had a stunned look about her.

  "No dressing-down, Rhyme. It was stupid but I didn't think about it. I just moved."

  "What happened?" he asked. His stern visage had fallen away momentarily, he was so happy to see her alive.

  "I was halfway inside. I saw the AP charge behind the door and didn't think I could make it out in time. I grabbed the woman's body out of the fridge. I was going to pull her to the kitchen window. It blew before I got halfway there."

  Mel Cooper looked over the bag of evidence Sachs handed him. He examined the soot and fragments from the bomb. "M forty-five charge. TNT, with a rocker switch and forty-five-second fuse delay. The entry team knocked it over when they rammed the door; that ignited the fuse. There's graphite, so it's newer-formulation TNT. Very powerful, very bad."

  "Fucker," Sellitto spat out. "Time delay . . . He wanted to make sure as many people got into the room as possible 'fore it blew."

  Rhyme asked, "Anything traceable?"

  "Off-the-shelf military. Won't lead us anywhere except--"

  "To the asshole gave it to him," Sellitto muttered. "Phillip Hansen." The detective's phone rang and he took the call, lowered his head as he listened, nodding.

  "Thank you," he said finally, shut off the phone.

  "What?" Sachs asked.

  The detective's eyes were closed.

  Rhyme knew it was about Jerry Banks.

  "Lon?"

  "It's Jerry." The detective looked up. Sighed. "He'll live. But he lost his arm. They couldn't save it. Too much damage."

  "Oh, no," Rhyme whispered. "Can I talk to him?"

  "No," the detective said. "He's asleep."

  Rhyme thought of the young man, pictured him saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, poking at his cowlick, rubbing a razor cut on his smooth, pink
chin. "I'm sorry, Lon."

  The detective shook his head, much the same way Rhyme deflected bouquets of sympathy. "We got other things to worry about."

  Yes, they did.

  Rhyme noticed the plastic packing tape--the gag the Dancer had used. He could see, as could Sachs, a faint lipstick mark on the adhesive side.

  Sachs was staring at the evidence, but it wasn't a clinical look. Not a scientist's gaze. She was troubled.

  "Sachs?" he asked.

  "Why'd he do that?"

  "The bomb?"

  She shook her head. "Why'd he put her in the refrigerator?" She lifted a finger to her mouth and chewed a nail. On her ten fingers, only one nail--the little finger of her left hand--was long and shapely. The others were chewed. Some were brown with dried blood.

  The criminalist answered, "I think it was because he wanted to distract us so we wouldn't focus on the bomb. A body in a refrigerator--that got our attention."

  "I don't mean that," she answered. "COD was suffocation. He put her in there alive. Why? Is he a sadist or something?"

  Rhyme answered, "No, the Dancer's not a sadist. He can't afford to be. His only urge is to complete the job, and he's got enough willpower to keep his other lusts under control. Why'd he suffocate her when he could have used a knife or rope? . . . I'm not exactly sure but it could be good for us."

  "How's that?"

  "Maybe there was something about her that he hated and he wanted to kill her in the most unpleasant way he could."

  "Yeah, but why's that good for us?" Sellitto asked.

  "Because"--it was Sachs who answered--"it means maybe he's losing his cool. He's getting careless."

  "Exactly," Rhyme called, proud of Sachs for making the connection. But she didn't notice his smile of approval. Her eyes dipped closed momentarily and she shook her head, probably replaying the image of the dead woman's horrified eyes. People thought criminalists were cold (how often had Rhyme's wife leveled that charge at him?), but in fact the best ones had a heartbreaking empathy for the victims of the scenes they searched. Sachs was one of these.

  "Sachs," Rhyme whispered gently, "the print?"

  She looked at him.

  "You found a print, you said. We have to move fast."

  Sachs nodded. "It's a partial." She held up the plastic bag.

  "Could it be hers?"

  "No, I printed her. Took a while to find her hands. But the print definitely isn't hers."

  "Mel," Rhyme said.

  The tech put the bit of packing tape in a SuperGlue frame and heated some glue. Immediately a tiny portion of the print became evident.

  Cooper shook his head. "I don't believe it," he muttered.

  "What?"

  "He wiped the tape, the Dancer. He must've known he touched it without a glove on. There's only a bit of one partial left."