The Coffin Dancer

broken.”
    “Is it dirty, the glass that’s still in the window?”
    “Filthy.”
    “And the edges?”
    “No, they’re clean.” She understood why he’d asked the question. “The glass was broken recently!”
    “Right. Push the board. Hard.”
    It fell inward without any resistance and hit the floor with a huge bang.
    “What was that?” Rhyme shouted. “Sachs, are you all right?”
    “Just the plywood,” she answered, once more spooked by his uneasiness.
    She shone her halogen flashlight through the hangar. It was deserted.
    “What do you see, Sachs?”
    “It’s empty. A few dusty boxes. There’s gravel on the floor—”
    “That was him!” Rhyme answered. “He broke in the window and threw gravel inside, so he could stand on the floor and not leave footprints. It’s an old trick. Any footprints in front of the window? Bet it’s more gravel,” he added sourly.
    “Is.”
    “Okay. Search the window. Then climb inside. But be sure to look for booby traps first. Remember the trash can a few years ago.”
    Stop it, Rhyme! Stop it.
    Sachs shined the light around the space again. “It’s clean, Rhyme. No traps. I’m examining the window frame.”
    The PoliLight showed nothing other than a faint mark left by a finger in a cotton glove. “No fiber, just the cotton pattern.”
    “Anything in the hangar? Anything worth stealing?”
    “No. It’s empty.”
    “Good,” Rhyme said.
    “Why good?” she asked. “I said there’s no print.”
    “Ah, but it means it’s him , Sachs. It’s not logical for someone to break in wearing cotton gloves when there’s nothing to steal.”
    She searched carefully. No footprints, no fingerprints, no visible evidence. She ran the Dustbuster and bagged the trace.
    “The glass and gravel?” she asked. “Paper bag?”
    “Yes.”
    Moisture often destroyed trace and though it looked unprofessional certain evidence was best transported in brown paper bags rather than in plastic.
    “Okay, Rhyme. I’ll have it back to you in forty minutes.”
    They disconnected.
    As she packed the bags carefully into the RRV, Sachs felt edgy, as she often did just after searching a scene where she’d found no obvious evidence—guns or knives or the perp’s wallet. The trace she’d collected might have a clue as to who the Dancer was and where he was hiding. But the whole effort could have been a bust too. She was anxious to get back to Rhyme’s lab and see what he could find.
    Sachs climbed into the station wagon and sped back to the Hudson Air office. She hurried into RonTalbot’s office. He was talking to a tall man whose back was to the door. Sachs said, “I found where he was, Mr. Talbot. The scene’s released. You can have the tower—”
    The man turned around. It was Brit Hale. He frowned, trying to think of her name, remembered it. “Oh. Officer Sachs. Hey. How you doing?”
    She started to nod an automatic greeting, then stopped.
    What was he doing here? He was supposed to be in the safe house.
    She heard a soft crying and looked into the conference room. There was Percey Clay sitting next to Lauren, the pretty brunette who Sachs remembered was Ron Talbot’s assistant. Lauren was crying and Percey, resolute in her own sorrow, was trying to comfort her. She glanced up, saw Sachs, and nodded to her.
    No, no, no . . .
    Then the third shock.
    “Hi, Amelia,” Jerry Banks said cheerfully, sipping coffee and standing by a window, where he’d been admiring the Learjet parked in the hangar. “That plane’s something, isn’t it?”
    “What’re they doing here?” Sachs snapped, pointing at Hale and Percey, forgetting that Banks outranked her.
    “They had some problem or other about a mechanic,” Banks said. “Percey wanted to stop by here. Try to find—”
    “Rhyme,” Sachs shouted into the microphone. “She’s here!”
    “Who?” he asked acerbically. “And where is there?”
    “Percey. And Hale too. At the airport.”
    “No! They’re supposed to be at the safe house.”
    “Well, they’re not. They’re right here in front of me.”
    “No, no, no!” Rhyme raged. A moment passed. Then he said, “Ask Banks if they followed evasive driving procedures.”
    Banks, uncomfortable, responded that they hadn’t. “She was real insistent that they stop here first. I tried to talk her—”
    “Jesus, Sachs. He’s there someplace. The Dancer. I know he’s there.”
    “How could he be?” Sachs’s eyes strayed to the window.
    “Keep ’em