The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"He'd have to be a mind reader."

Rhyme tipped his head. "You're catching on."

Eliopolos snickered. He looked around the room, spotted Jodie. "You're Joseph D'Oforio?"

The little man stared back. "I--yes."

"You're coming too."

"Hey, hold on a minute, they said I'd get my money and I could--"

"This doesn't have anything to do with rewards. If you're entitled to it you'll get it. We're just going to make sure you're safe until the grand jury."

"Grand jury! Nobody said anything about testifying!"

"Well," Eliopolos said, "you're a material witness." A nod toward Rhyme. "He may have been intent on murdering some hit man. We're making a case against the man who hired him. Which is what most law enforcers do."

"I'm not going to testify."

"Then you're going to do time for contempt. In general population. And I'll bet you know how safe you'll be there."

The little man tried to be angry but was just too scared. His face shriveled. "Oh, Jesus."

"You're not going to have enough protection," Rhyme said to Eliopolos. "We know him. Let us protect them."

"Oh, and Rhyme?" Eliopolos turned to him. "Because of the incident with the plane, I'm charging you with interference with a criminal investigation."

"The fuck you are," Sellitto said.

"The fuck I am," the round man snapped back. "He could've ruined the case, letting her make that flight. I'm having the warrant served Monday. And I'm going to supervise the prosecution myself. He--"

Rhyme said softly, "He's been here, you know."

The assistant U.S. attorney stopped speaking. After a moment he asked, "Who?"

Though he knew who.

"He was right outside that window not an hour ago, pointing a sniper rifle, loaded with explosive shells, into this room." Rhyme's eyes dipped to the floor. "Probably the very spot where you're standing."

Eliopolos wouldn't have stepped back for the world. But his eyes flickered to the windows to make certain the shades were closed.

"Why . . . ?"

Rhyme finished the sentence. "Didn't he shoot? Because he had a better idea."

"What's that?"

"Ah," Rhyme said. "That's the million-dollar question. All we know is he's killed somebody else--some young man in Central Park--and stripped him. He's ID-proofed the body and taken over his identity. I don't doubt for one minute that he knows the bomb didn't kill Percey and that he's on his way to finish the job. And he'll make you a coconspirator."

"He doesn't even know I exist."

"If that's what you want to believe."

"Jesus, Reggie Boy," Dellray said. "Get with the picture!"

"Don't call me that."

Sachs joined in. "Aren't you figuring it out? You've never been up against anybody like him."