The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"You find out what kind of car they get into, then call and tell me. I'll be on the street around the corner, in a car, waiting. But you'll have to watch out for decoys."

&nb

sp; An image of the red-haired woman cop came to mind. She could hardly be a decoy for the Wife. Too tall, too pretty. He wondered why he disliked her so much . . . He regretted not judging that shot at her better.

"Okay. I can do that. You'll shoot them in the street?"

"It depends. I might follow them to the new safe house and do it there. I'll be ready to improvise."

Jodie studied the phone like a kid at Christmas. "I don't know how it works."

Stephen showed him. "You call me on it when you're in position."

" 'In position.' That sounds professional." Then Jodie looked up from the phone. "You know, after this's over and I go through the rehab thing, why don't we get together sometime? We could have some juice or coffee or something. Huh? You wanta do that?"

"Sure," Stephen said. "We could--"

But suddenly a huge pounding shook the door. Spinning around like a dervish, whipping his gun from his pocket, Stephen dropped into two-handed shooting position.

"Open the fuckin' door," a voice from outside shouted. "Now!"

"Quiet," Stephen whispered to Jodie. Heart racing.

"You in there, booger?" the voice persisted. "Jodie. Where the fuck're you?"

Stephen stepped to the boarded-over window and looked out again. The Negro homeless guy from across the street. He wore a tattered jacket that read Cats . . . The Musical. The Negro didn't see him.

"Where'sa little man?" the Negro said. "I needa little man. I gotta have some pills! Jodie Joe? Where you be?"

Stephen said, "You know him?"

Jodie looked out, shrugged, and whispered, "I don't know. Maybe. Looks like a lotta people on the street."

Stephen studied the man for a long moment, thumbing the plastic grip of his pistol.

The homeless man called, "I know you here, man." His voice dissolved into a gargle of disgusting cough. "Jo-die. Jo-die! It cos' me, man. As' wha' it cos' me. Cos' me a fuckin' weeka pickin' cans's what it cos' me. They tole me you here. Ever-bod-y told me. Jodie, Jodie!"

"He'll just go away," Jodie said.

Stephen said, "Wait. Maybe we can use him."

"How?"

"Remember what I told you? Delegate. This is good . . . " Stephen was nodding. "He looks scary. They'll focus on him, not you."

"You mean take him along with me? To that safe house place?"

"Yes," Stephen said.

"I need some stuff, man," the Negro moaned. "Come on. I'm fucked-up, man. Please. I got the wobblies. You fuck!" He kicked the door hard. "Please, man. You in there, Jodie? The fuck you at? You booger! Help me." It sounded like he was crying.

"Go on out," Stephen said. "Tell him you'll give him something if he goes along with you. Just have him go through the trash or something across the street from the safe house, while you're watching the traffic. It'll be perfect."

Jodie looked at him. "You mean now? Just go talk to him?"

"Yeah. Now. Tell him."

"You want him to come in?"