The Coffin Dancer

keeping Percey and Hale in the safe house but in fact he hadn’t known that the Dancer was going for a transport hit. He was only leaning toward that conclusion. He might easily have decided to move Percey and Hale and they might have been killed as they drove to the new safe house.
    The tension gripped his jaw.
    “How do you think we should handle it, Lincoln?” Sellitto asked.
    This was tactical, not evidentiary. Rhyme looked at Dellray, who tugged his unlit cigarette out from behind his ear and smelled it for a moment. He finally said, “Have the mutt make the call and try to get whatever dope he can from the Dancer. We’ll set up a decoy car, send the Dancer after it. Have it full of our folks. Stop it fast, sandwich him in with a couple unmarkeds, and take him down.”
    Rhyme nodded reluctantly. He knew how dangerousa tactical assault on a city street would be. “Can we get him out of midtown?”
    “We could lead him over to the East River,” Sellitto suggested. “There’s plenty of room there for a takedown. Some of those old parking lots. We could make it look like we’re transferring them to another van. Doin’ a round-robin.”
    They agreed this would be the least dangerous approach.
    Sellitto nodded toward Jodie, whispered, “He’s diming the Coffin Dancer . . . what’re we gonna give him? Gotta be good to make it worth his while.”
    “Waive conspiracy and aiding and abetting,” Rhyme said. “Give him some money.”
    “Fuck,” said Dellray, though he was known for his generosity with the undercover CIs who worked for him. But finally he nodded. “Hokay, hokay. We’ll split the bill. Depending on how greedy the rodent is.”
    Sellitto called him over.
    “All right, here’s the deal. You help us, you make the call like he wanted and we get him, then we’ll drop all charges and get you some reward money.”
    “How much?” Jodie asked.
    “Yo, mutt, you’re not in any way, shape, or form to negotiate here.”
    “I need money for a drug rehab program. I need another ten thousand. Is there any way?”
    Sellitto looked at Dellray. “What’s your snitch fund look like?”
    “We could go there,” the agent said, “if you do halvsies. Yeah.”
    “Really?” Jodie repressed a smile. “Then I’ll do whatever you want.”
    Rhyme, Sellitto, and Dellray hashed out a plan. They’d set up a command post on the top floor of the safe house, where Jodie would be with the cell phone. Percey and Brit would be on the main floor, with troopers protecting them. Jodie would call the Dancer and tell him that the couple had just gotten into a van and were leaving. The van would move slowly through traffic to a deserted parking lot on the East Side. The Dancer’d follow. They’d take him in the lot.
    All right, let’s put it together, Sellitto said.
    “Wait,” Rhyme ordered. They stopped and looked at him. “We’re forgetting the most important part of all.”
    “Which is?”
    “Amelia searched the scene at the subway. I want to analyze what she found. It might tell us how he’s coming at us.”
    “We know how he’s coming at us, Linc,” Sellitto said, nodding at Jodie.
    “Humor an old crip, will you? Now, Sachs, let’s see what we’ve got.”

    The Worm.
    Stephen was moving through alleys, riding on buses, dodging the cops he saw and the Worm he couldn’t see.
    The Worm, watching him through every windowon every street. The Worm, getting closer and closer.
    He thought about the Wife and the Friend, he thought about the job, about how many bullets he had left, about whether the targets would be wearing body armor, what range he would shoot from, whether this time he should use a suppressor or not.
    But these were automatic thoughts. He didn’t control them any more than he controlled his breathing or heartbeat or the speed of the blood coursing through his body.
    What his conscious thoughts were consumed with was Jodie.
    What was there about him that was so fascinating?
    Stephen couldn’t say for certain. Maybe it was the way he lived by himself and didn’t seem to be lonely. Maybe the way he carried that little self-help book around with him and truly wanted to crawl out of the hole he was in. Or the way he hadn’t balked when Stephen told him to stand in the doorway and risk getting shot.
    Stephen felt funny. He—
    You feel what, Soldier?
    Sir, I—
    Funny, Soldier? What the fuck does “funny” mean? You going soft on me?
    No sir, I am not.
    It wasn’t too late to