The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme 2)

"Okay, good."

Sachs then noticed some uneasiness in Sellitto's eyes. He leaned forward toward Rhyme's chair, sweat dripping down his broad, creased forehead. In a voice only Rhyme and Sachs could hear, he whispered, "You're sure about this, Lincoln. I mean, you thought about it?"

Rhyme's eyes swiveled toward Percey. A look passed between the two of them. Sachs didn't know what it meant. She knew only that she didn't like it.

"Yes," Rhyme said. "I'm sure."

Though to Sachs he didn't seem very sure at all.

. . . Chapter Thirteen

Hour 6 of 45

"Lots of trace, I see."

Rhyme looked approvingly at the plastic bags Sachs had brought back from the airport crime scenes.

Trace evidence was Rhyme's favorite--the bits and pieces, sometimes microscopic, left by perps at crime scenes, or picked up there by them unwittingly. It was trace evidence that even the cleverest of perps didn't think to alter or plant and it was trace that even the most industrious couldn't dispose of altogether.

"The first bag, Sachs? Where did it come from?"

She flipped angrily through her notes.

What was eating at her? he wondered. Something was wrong, Rhyme could see. Maybe it had to do with her anger at Percey Clay, maybe her concern for Jerry Banks. But maybe not. He could tell from the cool glances that she didn't want to talk about it. Which was fine with him. The Dancer had to be caught. It was their only priority at the moment.

"This's from the hangar where the Dancer waited for the plane." She held up two of the bags. She nodded at three others. "This's from the sniper's nest. This's from the painting van. This's from the catering van."

"Thom . . . Thom!" Rhyme shouted, startling everyone in the room.

The aide appeared in the doorway. He asked a belabored "Yes? I'm trying to fix some food here, Lincoln."

"Food?" Rhyme asked, exasperated. "We don't need to eat. We need more charts. Write: 'CS-Two. Hangar.' Yes, 'CS-Two. Hangar.' That's good. Then another one. 'CS-Three.' That's where he fired fro

m. His grassy knoll."

"I should write that? 'Grassy Knoll'?"

"Of course not. It's a joke. I do have a sense of humor, you know. Write: 'CS-Three. Sniper's Nest.' Now, let's look at the hangar first. What do you have?"

"Bits of glass," Cooper said, spilling the contents out on a porcelain tray like a diamond merchant. Sachs added, "And some vacuumed trace, a few fibers from the windowsill. No FR."

Friction ridge prints, she meant. Finger or palm.

"He's too careful with prints," Sellitto said glumly.

"No, that's encouraging," Rhyme said, irritated--as he often was--that no one else drew conclusions as quickly as he could.

"Why?" the detective asked.

"He's careful because he's on file somewhere! So when we do find a print we'll stand a good chance of ID'ing him. Okay, okay, cotton glove prints, they're no help . . . No boot prints because he scattered gravel on the hangar floor. He's a smart one. But if he were stupid, nobody'd need us, right? Now, what does the glass tell us?"

"What could it tell us," Sachs asked shortly, "except he broke in the window to get into the hangar?"

"I wonder," Rhyme said. "Let's look at it."

Mel Cooper mounted several shards on a slide and placed it under the lens of the compound 'scope at low magnification. He clicked the video camera on to send the image to Rhyme's computer.

Rhyme motored back to it. He instructed, "Command mode." Hearing his voice, the computer dutifully slipped a menu onto the glowing screen. He couldn't control the microscope itself but he could capture the image on the computer screen and manipulate it--magnify or shrink it, for instance. "Cursor left. Double click."