The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

Eyes on her, Eliopolos spoke to Sellitto. "Guess you do things different on the city level. Federal, our people know their places."

Rhyme snapped, "You're a fool if you treat him like a gangsta or some has-been mafioso. Nobody can hide from him. The only way is to stop him."

"Yeah, Rhyme, that's been your war cry all along. Well, we're not sacrificing any more troops because you've got a hard-on for a guy killed two of your techs five years ago. Assuming you can get a hard-on--"

Eliopolos was a large man and so he was surprised to find himself slammed so lithely to the floor, gasping for breath and staring up into Sellitto's purple face, the lieutenant's fist drawn back.

"Do that, Officer," the attorney wheezed, "and you'll be arraigned within a half hour."

"Lon," Rhyme said

, "let it go, let it go . . . "

The detective calmed, glared at the man, walked away. Eliopolos climbed to his feet.

The insult in fact meant nothing. He wasn't even thinking of Eliopolos. Or the Dancer for that matter. For he'd happened to glance at Amelia Sachs, at the hollowness in her eyes, the despair. And he knew what she was feeling: the desperation at losing her prey. Eliopolos was stealing away her chance to get the Dancer. As with Lincoln Rhyme, the killer had come to be the dark focus of her life.

All because of a single misstep--the incident at the airport, her going for cover. A small thing, minuscule to everyone but her. But what was the expression? A fool can throw a stone into a pond that a dozen wise men can't recover. And what was Rhyme's life now but the result of a piece of wood breaking a tiny piece of bone? Sachs's life had been snapped in that single moment of what she saw as cowardice. But unlike Rhyme's case, there was--he believed--a chance for her to mend.

Oh, Sachs, how it hurts to do this, but I have no choice. He said to Eliopolos, "All right, but you have to do one thing in exchange."

"Or you'll what?" Eliopolos snickered.

"Or I won't tell you where Percey is," Rhyme said simply. "We're the only ones who know."

Eliopolos's face, no longer flushed from his World Wrestling pin, gazed icily at Rhyme. "What do you want?"

Rhyme inhaled deeply. "The Dancer's shown an interest in targeting the people looking for him. If you're going to protect Percey, I want you to protect the chief forensic investigator in the case too."

"You?" the lawyer asked.

"No, Amelia Sachs," Rhyme replied.

"Rhyme, no," she said, frowning.

Reckless Amelia Sachs . . . And I'm putting her square in the kill zone.

He motioned her over to him.

"I want to stay here," she said. "I want to find him."

He whispered, "Oh, don't worry about that, Sachs. He'll find you. We'll try to figure out his new identity, Mel and me. But if he makes a move out on Long Island, I want you there. I want you with Percey. You're the only one who understands him. Well, you and me. And I won't be doing any shooting in the near future."

"He could come back here--"

"I don't think so. There's a chance this is the first fish of his that's going to get away and he doesn't like that one bit. He's going after Percey. He's desperate to. I know it."

She debated for a moment, then nodded.

"Okay," Eliopolos said, "you'll come with us. We've got a van waiting."

Rhyme said, "Sachs?"

She paused.

Eliopolos said, "We really should move."

"I'll be down in a minute."