The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

The little man paused.

Stephen blurted suddenly, "It's good I met you."

"I'm glad I met you too." Jodie hesitated for a minute. "Partner." He stuck his hand out.

"Partner," Stephen echoed. He had a fierce urge to take his glove off, so he could feel Jodie's skin on his. But he didn't.

Craftsmanship had to come first.

. . . Chapter Twenty-four

Hour 25 of 45

The debate was feverish.

"I think you're wrong, Lincoln," Lon Sellitto said. "We gotta move 'em. He'll hit the safe house again, we leave 'em there."

They weren't the only ones considering the dilemma. Prosecutor Reg Eliopolos hadn't checked in--not yet--but Thomas Perkins, the FBI special agent in charge of the Manhattan office, was here in person, representing the federal side of the debate. Rhyme wished Dellray were here--and Sachs too, though she was with the joint city/federal tactical force searching abandoned subway locations. So far they hadn't found any trace of the Dancer or his compatriot.

"I'm being completely proactive in my take on the situation," said earnest Perkins. "We have other facilities." He was appalled that it had taken the Dancer only eight hours to find out where the witnesses were being held and to get within five yards of the disguised fire door of the safe house. "Better facilities," he added quickly. "I think we should expedite immediate transferal. I've gotten a heads-up from high levels. Washington itself. They want the witnesses immunized."

Meaning, Rhyme assumed, move 'em and move 'em now.

"No," the criminalist said adamantly. "We have to leave them where they are."

"Prioritizing the variables," Perkins said, "I think the answer's pretty clear. Move them."

But Rhyme said, "He'll come after them wherever they are, a new safe house or the existing one. We know the turf there, we know something about his approach. We've got good ambush coverage."

"That's a good point," Sellitto conceded.

"It'll also throw him off stride."

"How so?" Perkins asked.

"He's debating right now too, you know."

"He is?"

"Oh, you bet," Rhyme said. "He's trying to figure out what we're going to do. If we decide to keep them where they are, he'll do one thing. If we move them--which I think is what he's guessing we'll do--he'll try for a transport hit. And however good security is on the road, it's always worse than fixed premises. No, we have to keep them where they are and be prepared for the next attempt. Anticipate it and be ready to move in. The last time--"

"The last time, an agent got killed."

Rhyme snapped back to the SAC, "If Innelman had had a backup, it would've gone different."

Perkins of the perfect suit was a self-protecting bureaucrat but he was reasonable. He nodded his concession.

But am I right? Rhyme wondered.

What is the Dancer thinking? Do I really know?

Oh, I can look over a silent bedroom or filthy alleyway and read perfectly the story that turned it into a crime scene. I can see, in the Rorschach of blood pasted to carpet and tile, how close the victim came to escaping or how little chance he had and what kind of death he died. I can look at the dust the killer leaves behind and know immediately where he comes from.

I can answer who, I can answer why.

But what's the Dancer going to do?

That I can guess at but I can't say for certain.