The Coffin Dancer (7 page)

“We got a call from the task force,” the detective explained. “They think the man who killed Mr. Carney has been back. Probably to come after you two. Mr. Rhyme thinks the killer was the one driving that black van you saw today.”

“Well, we have
those
men to guard us,” Percey snapped, tossing her head to the cops who’d arrived earlier.

“Jesus,” Hale muttered, looking outside. “There must be twenty cops out there.”

“Away from the window, please, sir,” the detective said firmly. “He could be on a rooftop. The site’s not secure yet.”

Percey heard footsteps running up the stairs. “The roof?” she asked sourly. “Maybe he’s tunneling into the basement.” She put her arm around Mrs. Carney. “You all right, Mother?”

“What’s going on, what is all this?”

“They think you might be in danger,” the officer said. “Not you, ma’am,” he added to Ed’s mother. “Mrs. Clay and Mr. Hale here. Because they’re witnesses in that case. We were told to secure the premises and take them to the command post.”

“They talk to him yet?” Hale asked.

“Don’t know who that’d be, sir.”

The lean man answered, “The guy we’re witnesses
against.
Hansen.” Hale’s world was the world of logic. Of reasonable people. Of machines and numbers and hydraulics. His three marriages had failed because the only place where his heart poked out was in the science of flight and the irrefutable sense of the cockpit. He now swiped his hair off his forehead and said, “Just ask him. He’ll tell you where the killer is.
He
hired him.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite as easy as that.”

Another officer appeared in the doorway. “Street’s secure, sir.”

“If you’ll come with us, please. Both of you.”

“What about Ed’s mother?”

“Do you live in the area?” the officer asked.

“No. I’m staying with my sister,” Mrs. Carney answered. “In Saddle River.”

“We’ll drive you back there, have a New Jersey trooper stay outside the house. You’re not involved in this, so I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, Percey.”

The women hugged. “It’ll be okay, Mother.” Percey struggled to hold back the tears.

“No, it won’t,” the frail woman said. “It’ll never be okay ...”

An officer led her off to a squad car.

Percey watched the car drive off, then asked the cop beside her, “Where’re we going?”

“To see Lincoln Rhyme.”

Another officer said, “We’re going to walk out together, an officer on either side of you. Keep your heads down and don’t look up under any circumstance. We’re going to walk fast to that second van there. See it? You jump in. Don’t look out the windows, and get your belts on. We’ll be driving fast. Any questions?”

Percey opened the flask and took a sip of bourbon. “Yeah, who the hell is Lincoln Rhyme?”

“You sewed that? Yourself?”

“I did,” the woman said, tugging at the embroidered vest, which, like the plaid skirt she wore, was slightly too large, calculated to obscure her substantial figure. The stitching reminded him of the rings around a worm’s body. He shivered, felt sick.

But he smiled and said, “That’s amazing.” He’d sopped up the tea and apologized like the gentleman his stepfather could sometimes be.

He asked if she minded if he sat down with her.

“Uhm ... no,” she said and hid the
Vogue
in her canvas bag as if it were porn.

“Oh, by the way,” Stephen said, “I’m Sam Levine.” Her eyes flickered at his surname and took in his Aryan features. “Well, it’s Sammie mostly,” he added. “To Mom I’m Samuel but only if I’ve done something wrong.” A chuckle.

“I’ll call you ‘friend,’ ” she announced. “I’m Sheila Horowitz.”

He glanced out the window to avoid having to shake her moist hand, tipped with five white squooshy worms.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, turning back, sipping his new cup of tea, which he found disgusting. Sheila noticed that two of her stubby nails were dirty. She tried unobtrusively to dig the crud from under them.

“It’s relaxing,” she explained. “Sewing. I have an old Singer. One of those old black ones. Got it from my grams.” She tried to straighten her shiny, short hair, wishing undoubtedly that today of all days she’d washed it.

“I don’t know any girls who sew anymore,” Stephen said. “Girl I dated in college did. Made most of her own clothes. Was
I
impressed.”

“Uhm, in New York, like, nobody, and I mean nobody, sews.” She sneered emphatically.

“My mother used to sew all the time, hours on end,” Stephen said. “Every stitch had to be just perfect. I mean perfect. A thirty-second of an inch apart.” This was true. “I still have some of the things she made. Stupid, but I kept ’em just ’cause she made them.” This was not.

Stephen could still hear the start and stop of the Singer motor coming from his mother’s tiny, hot room. Day and night. Get those stitches right. One thirty-second of an inch. Why? Because it’s
important!
Here comes the ruler, here comes the belt, here comes the cock ...

“Most men”—the stress she put on the word explained a deal about Sheila Horowitz’s life—“don’t care doodles for sewing. They want girls to do sports or know movies.” She added quickly, “And I do. I mean, I’ve been skiing. I’m not as good as you, I’ll bet. And I like to go to the movies. Some movies.”

Stephen said, “Oh, I don’t ski. I don’t like sports much.” He looked outside and saw the cops everywhere. Looking in every car. A swarm of blue worms ...

Sir, I don’t understand why they’re mounting this offensive, sir.

Soldier, your job is not to understand. Your job is to infiltrate, evaluate, delegate, isolate, and eliminate. That is your only job.

“Sorry?” he asked, missing what she’d said.

“I said, oh, don’t give me that. I mean, I’d have to work out for, like, months to get in shape like you. I’m going to join the Health & Racquet Club. I’ve been planning to. Only, I’ve got back problems. But I really, really am going to join.”

Stephen laughed. “Aw, I get so tired of—geez, all these girls look so sick. You know? All thin and pale. Take one of those skinny girls you see on TV and send her back to King Arthur’s day and, bang, they’d call for the court surgeon and say, ‘She must be dying, m’lord.’ ”

Sheila blinked, then roared with laughter, revealing unfortunate teeth. The joke gave her an excuse to rest her hand on his arm. He felt the five worms kneading his skin and fought down the nausea. “My daddy,” she said, “he was a career army officer, traveled a lot. He told me in other countries they think American girls are way skinny.”

“He was a soldier?” Sam Sammie Samuel Levine asked, smiling.

“Retired colonel.”

“Well ...”

Too much? he wondered. No. He said, “I’m service. Sergeant. Army.”

“No! Where you stationed?”

“Special Operations. In New Jersey.” She’d know enough not to ask any more about Special Ops activities. “I’m glad you’ve got a soldier in the family. I sometimes don’t tell people what I do. It’s not too cool. ’Specially around here. New York, I mean.”

“Don’t you worry about that. I think it’s
very
cool, friend.” She nodded at the Fender case. “And you’re a musician, too?”

“Not really. I volunteer at a day care center. Teach kids music. It’s something the base does.”

Looking outside. Flashing lights. Blue white. A squad car streaked past.

She scooted her chair closer and he detected a repulsive scent. It made him go cringey again and the image came to mind of worms oozing through her greasy hair. He nearly vomited. He excused himself for a moment and spent three minutes scrubbing his hands. When he returned he noticed two things: that the top button of her blouse had been undone and that the back of her vest contained about a thousand cat hairs. Cats, to Stephen, were just four-legged worms.

He looked outside and saw that the line of cops was getting closer. Stephen glanced at his watch and said, “Say, I’ve gotta pick up my cat. He’s at the vet—”

“Oh, you have a cat? What’s his name?” She leaned forward.

“Buddy.”

Her eyes glowed. “Oh, cutey cutey cute. You have a picture?”

Of a fucking cat?

“Not on me,” Stephen said, clicked his tongue regretfully.

“Is poor Buddy sicky-wicky?”

“Just a checkup.”

“Oh, good for you. Watch out for those worms.”

“How’s that?” he asked, alarmed.

“You know, like heartworm.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Uhm, if you’re good, friend,” Sheila said, singsongy again, “maybe I’ll introduce you to Garfield, Andrea, and Essie. Well, it’s
really
Esmeralda but she’d never approve of that, of course.”

“They sound so wonderful,” he said, gazing at the pictures Sheila’d dug from her wallet. “I’d love to meet them.”

“You know,” she blurted, “I only live three blocks away.”

“Hey, got an idea.” He looked bright. “Maybe I could drop this stuff off and meet your babies. Then you could help me collect Buddy.”

“Neat-o,” Sheila said.

“Let’s go.”

Outside, she said, “Ooo, look at all the police. What’s going on?”

“Wow. Dunno.” Stephen slung the backpack over his shoulder. Something metal clinked. Maybe a flash grenade banged against his Beretta.

“What’s in there?”

“Musical instruments. For the kids.”

“Oh, like triangles?”

“Yeah, like triangles.”

“You want me to carry your guitar?”

“You mind?”

“Uhm, I think it’d be neat.”

She took the Fender case and slipped her arm through his and they walked past a cluster of cops, blind to the loving couple, and continued down the street, laughing and talking about those crazy cats.

chapter six

Hour 1 of 45

Thom appeared in Lincoln Rhyme’s doorway and motioned someone inside.

A trim, crew-cut man in his fifties. Captain Bo Haumann, head of the NYPD’s Emergency Services Unit—the police’s SWAT team. Grizzled and tendony, Haumann looked like the drill sergeant he’d been in the service. He spoke slowly and reasonably, and he looked you dead in the eye, with a faint smile, when he talked. In tactical operations he was often suited up in flak jacket and Nomex hood and was usually one of the first officers through the door in a dynamic barricade entry.

“It’s really him?” the captain asked. “The Dancer?”

“S’what we heard,” Sellitto said.

The slight pause, which from the gray-haired cop was like a loud sigh from anyone else. Then he said, “I’ve got a couple of Thirty-two-E teams dedicated.”

Thirty-two-E officers, nicknamed after their operations room at Police Plaza, were an unkept secret Officially called Special Procedures Officers of the Emergency Services Unit, the men and women were mostly ex-military and had been relentlessly instructed in full S&S procedures—search and surveillance—as well as assault, sniping, and hostage rescue. There weren’t many of them. The city’s tough reputation notwithstanding, there were relatively few tactical operations in New York and the city’s hostage negotiators—considered the best in the country—usually resolved standoffs before an assault was necessary. Haumann’s committing two teams, which totaled ten officers, to the Dancer would have used up most of the 32-Es.

A moment later a slight, balding man wearing very unstylish glasses entered the room. Mel Cooper was the best lab man in IRD, the department’s Investigation and Resources Division, which Rhyme used to head. He’d never searched a crime scene, never arrested a perp, had probably forgotten how to fire the slim pistol he grudgingly wore on the back of his old leather belt. Cooper had no desire to be anywhere in the world except sitting on a lab stool, peering into microscopes and analyzing friction ridge prints (well, there and on the ballroom dance floor, where he was an award-winning tango dancer).

“Detective,” Cooper said, using the tide that Rhyme had carried when he’d hired Cooper away from Albany PD some years ago, “thought I was going to be looking at sand. But I hear it’s the Dancer.” There’s only one place the word travels faster than on the street, Rhyme reflected, and that’s inside the Police Department itself. “We’ll get him this time, Lincoln. We’ll get him.”

As Banks briefed the newcomers Rhyme happened to look up. He saw a woman in the doorway of the lab. Dark eyes scanning the room, taking it all in. Not cautious, not uneasy.

“Mrs. Clay?” he asked.

She nodded. A lean man appeared in the doorway beside her. Britton Hale, Rhyme assumed.

“Please come in,” the criminalist said.

She stepped into the middle of the room, glancing at Rhyme, then at the wall of forensic equipment near Mel Cooper.

“Percey,” she said. “Call me Percey. You’re Lincoln Rhyme?”

“That’s right. I’m very sorry about your husband.”

She nodded briskly, seemed uncomfortable with the sympathy.

Just like me, Rhyme thought.

He asked the man standing beside Percey, “And you’re Mr. Hale?”

The lanky pilot nodded and stepped forward to shake hands, then noticed Rhyme’s arms were strapped to the wheelchair. “Oh,” he muttered, then blushed. He stepped back.

Rhyme introduced them to the rest of the team, everyone except Amelia Sachs, who—at Rhyme’s insistence—was changing out of her uniform and putting on the jeans and sweatshirt that happened to be hanging upstairs in Rhyme’s closet. He’d explained that the Dancer often killed or wounded cops as a diversion; he wanted her to look as civilian as possible.

Percey pulled a flask from her slacks pocket, a silver flask, and took a short sip. She drank the liquor—Rhyme smelled expensive bourbon—as if it were medicine.

Betrayed by his own body, Rhyme rarely paid attention to the physical qualities in others, except victims and perps. But Percey Clay was hard to ignore. She wasn’t much over five feet tall. Yet she radiated a distilled intensity. Her eyes, black as midnight, were captivating. Only after you managed to look away from them did you notice her face, which was un-pretty—pug and tomboyish. She had a tangle of black curly hair, cropped short, though Rhyme thought that long tresses would soften the angular shape of her face. She didn’t adopt the cloaking mannerisms of some short people—hands on hips, crossed arms, hands hovering in front of the mouth. She offered as few gratuitous gestures as Rhyme did, he realized.