The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

He elbowed the cat roughly to the floor and enjoyed her pained bleat.

"I've been looking for more pilots," Ron said uncomfortably. "I've got--"

"We just need one. Right-hand seat."

A pause. "What?" Ron asked.

"I'm taking the flight tomorrow. All I need is an FO."

"You? I don't think that's a good idea, Perce."

"You have anybody?" she asked shortly.

"Well, the thing is--"

"Do you have anyone?"

"Brad Torgeson's on the call list. He said he had no problem helping us out. He knows about the situation."

"Good. A pilot with balls. How's his Lear time?"

"Plenty . . . Percey, I thought you were hiding out until the grand jury."

"Lincoln agreed to let me take the flight. If I stayed here until then."

"Who's Lincoln?"

Yes, Stephen thought. Who is Lincoln?

"Well, he's this weird man . . . " The Wife hesitated, as if she wanted to talk about him but wasn't sure what to say. Stephen was disappointed when she said only, "He's working with the police, trying to find the killer. I told him I'd stay here until tomorrow but I was definitely making the flight. He agreed."

"Percey, we can delay it. I'll talk to U.S. Medical. They know we're going through some--"

"No," she said firmly. "They don't want excuses. They want wheels up on schedule. And if we can't do it they'll find somebody else. When are they delivering the cargo?"

"Six or seven."

"I'll be there late afternoon. I'll help you finish with the annular."

"Percey," he wheezed, "everything's going to be fine."

"We get that engine fixed on time, everything'll be great."

"You must be going through hell," Ron said.

"Not really," she said.

Not yet, Stephen corrected silently.

Sachs skidded the RRV station wagon around the corner at forty miles per hour. She saw a dozen tactical agents trotting along the street.

Fred Dellray's teams were surrounding the building where Sheila Horowitz lived. A typical Upper East Side brownstone, next door to a Korean deli, in front of which an employee squatted on a milk crate, peeling carrots for the salad bar and staring with no particular curiosity at the machine-gun-armed men and women surrounding the building.

Sachs found Dellray, weapon unholstered, in the foyer, examining the directory.

S. Horowitz. 204.

He tapped his radio. "We're on four eight three point four."