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The Coffin Dancer

The Coffin Dancer

Titel: The Coffin Dancer Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Jeffery Deaver
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skull.”
    The medic’s round form eased into the doorway. “We woulda found that,” he said defensively. “I mean, we were in such an all-fire hurry to get here, thanks to you folks.”
    Rhyme said to Sachs, “Describe him.”
    “He’s overweight, big gut. Lotta flab.”
    “Tan or sunburn?”
    “On his arms and torso only. Not legs. He’s got untrimmed toenails and a cheap earring—steel posts, not gold. His briefs are Sears and they’ve got holes in them.”
    “Okay, he’s looking blue collar,” Rhyme said. “Workman, deliveryman. We’re closing in. Check his throat.”
    “What?”
    “For his wallet or papers. If you want to keep a corpse anonymous for a few hours you shove his IDs down his throat. It doesn’t get spotted till the autopsy.”
    A chortle of laughter from outside.
    Which Sachs ended quickly when she grabbed the man’s jaws, pulled wide, and started reaching inside.
    “Jesus,” Earl muttered. “What’re you doing?”
    “Nothing there, Rhyme.”
    “You better cut. The throat. Go deeper.”
    Sachs had bridled at some of Rhyme’s more macabre requests in the past. But today she glanced at the grinning boys behind her and lifted her illegal but cherished switchblade from her jeans pocket, clicked it open.
    Took the grins off both faces.
    “Say, honey, what’re you doing?”
    “Little surgery. Gotta look inside.” Like she did this every day.
    “I mean, I can’t deliver no corpse to the coroner cut up by some New York City cop.”
    “Then you do it.”
    She offered him the handle of the knife.
    “Aw, she’s shitting us, Jim.”
    She lifted an eyebrow and slipped the knife into the man’s Adam’s apple like a fisherman gutting a trout.
    “Oh, Jesus, Jim, lookit what she’s doing. Stop her.”
    “I’m outa here, Earl. I didn’t see that.” The trooper walked off.
    She finished the tidy incision and gazed inside, sighed. “Nothing.”
    “What the hell is he up to?” Rhyme asked. “Let’s think . . . . What if he isn’t ID-proofing the body? If he’d wanted to he would’ve taken the teeth. What if there’s something else he’s trying to hide from us?”
    “Something on the vic’s hands?” Sachs suggested.
    “Maybe,” Rhyme responded. “Something that he couldn’t wash off the corpse easily. And something that’d tell us what he was up to.”
    “Oil? Grease?”
    “Maybe he was delivering jet fuel,” Rhyme said. “Or maybe he was a caterer—maybe his hands smelled of garlic.”
    Sachs looked around the airport. There were dozens of gasoline deliverymen, ground crews, repairmen, construction workers building a new wing on one of the terminals.
    Rhyme continued, “He’s a big guy?”
    “Yep.”
    “He was probably sweating today. Maybe he wiped his head. Or scratched it.”
    I ’ve been doing that all day myself, Sachs thought, and felt an urge to dig into her hair, hurt her skin as she always did when she felt frustrated and tense.
    “Check his scalp, Sachs. Behind the hairline.”
    She did.
    And there she found it.
    “I see streaks of color. Blue. Bits of white too. On the hair and skin. Oh, hell, Rhyme. It’s paint! He’s a painting contractor. And there’re about twenty construction workers on the grounds.”
    “The line on the neck,” Rhyme continued. “The Dancer pulled off his necklace ID.”
    “But the picture’d be different.”
    “Hell, the ID’s probably covered with paint or he faked it somehow. He’s on the field somewhere, Sachs. Get Percey and Hale down on the floor. Put a guard on ’em and get everybody else out, looking for the Dancer. SWAT’s on its way.”

    Problems.
    He was watching the red-haired cop in the back of the ambulance. Through the Redfield telescope he couldn’t see clearly what she was doing. But he suddenly felt uneasy.
    He felt she was doing something to him. Something to expose him, to tie him down.
    The worms were getting closer. The face at the window, the wormy face, was looking for him.
    Stephen shuddered.
    She jumped out of the ambulance, looking around the field.
    Something’s happening, Soldier.
    Sir, I am aware of that, sir.
    The redhead began shouting orders to other cops. Most of them looked at her, took her news grimly, then looked around. One ran to his car, then a second.
    He saw the redhead’s pretty face and her wormy eyes scanning the airport grounds. He rested the reticles on her perfect chin. What had she found? What was she looking for?
    She paused and he saw her

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