The Coffin Dancer

the needle? He won’t care. He’s not afraid of anything. Not a single thing.”
    What was nagging? Rhyme wondered. Something seemed wrong here. Very wrong.
    He decided it was the phone books . . .
    Phone books and rocks.
    Rhyme was lost in thought, staring at the evidence chart on the wall. He heard a jingle, glanced up. One of the agents with Eliopolos actually pulled out his handcuffs and was proceeding toward the Clinitron. Rhyme laughed to himself. Better shackle the old feet. Might run away.
    “Come on, Reggie,” Sellitto said.
    The green fiber, phone books, and rocks.
    He remembered something the Dancer had told him. Sitting in the very chair Eliopolos stood beside now.
    A million dollars  . . .
    Rhyme was vaguely aware of the agent trying to figure out how to best subdue a crip. And he was vaguely aware of Sachs stepping forward trying to figure out how to subdue the agent. Suddenly he barked, “Wait,” in a voice commanding enough to freeze everyone in the room.
    The green fiber . . .
    He stared at it on the chart.
    People were talking to him. The agent was still eyeing Rhyme’s hands, brandishing the tinkling cuffs. But Rhyme ignored them all. He said to Eliopolos, “Give me a half hour.”
    “Why should I?”
    “Come on, what’s it going to hurt? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.” And before the attorney could agree or disagree, Rhyme was shouting, “Thom! Thom , I need to make a phone call. Are you going to help me, or not? I don’t know where he gets to sometimes. Lon, will you call for me?”

    Percey Clay had just returned from burying her husband when Lon Sellitto tracked her down. Wearing black she sat in the crinkly wicker chair beside Lincoln Rhyme’s bed. Standing nearby was Roland Bell, in a tan suit, badly cut—thanks to the size of the two guns he wore. He pushed his thinning brown hair straight back over the crown of his head.
    Eliopolos was gone, though his two goons were outside, guarding the hallway. Apparently they actually did believe that, given a chance, Thom would wheel Rhyme out the door and he’d make a getaway in the Storm Arrow, top speed 7.5 miles per hour.
    Percey’s outfit chafed at collar and waist, and Rhyme bet that it was the only dress she owned. She began to lift ankle to knee as she sat back, realized askirt was wrong for this pose, and sat up formally, knees together.
    She eyed him with impatient curiosity and Rhyme realized that no one else—Sellitto and Sachs had fetched her—had delivered the news.
    Cowards, he thought grumpily.
    “Percey . . . They won’t be presenting the case against Hansen to the grand jury.”
    For an instant there was a flash of relief. Then she understood the implication. “No!” she gasped.
    “That flight Hansen made? To dump those duffel bags? The bags were fake. There was nothing in them.”
    Her face grew pallid. “They’re letting him go?”
    “They can’t find any connection between the Dancer and Hansen. Until we do, he’s free.”
    Her hands rose to her face. “It was all a waste then? Ed . . . and Brit? They died for nothing.”
    He asked her, “What’s happening to your company now?”
    Percey wasn’t expecting the question. She wasn’t sure she heard him. “I’m sorry?”
    “Your company? What’s going to happen to Hudson Air now?”
    “We’ll sell it, probably. We’ve had an offer from another company. They can carry the debt. We can’t. Or maybe we’ll just liquidate.” It was the first time he’d heard resignation in her voice. A Gypsy in defeat.
    “What other company?”
    “I frankly don’t remember. Ron’s been talking to them.”
    “That’s Ron Talbot, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Would he know about the financial condition of the Company?”
    “Sure. As much as the lawyers and accountants. More than me.”
    “Could you call him, ask him to come down here as soon as possible?”
    “I suppose I could. He was at the cemetery. He’s probably home by now. I’ll call him.”
    “And, Sachs?” he said, turning to her, “We’ve got another crime scene. I need you to search it. As fast as possible.”

    Rhyme looked over the big man coming through the doorway, wearing a dark blue suit. It was shiny and had the color and cut of a uniform about it. Rhyme supposed it was what he’d worn when he flew.
    Percey introduced them.
    “So you got that son of a bitch,” Talbot grumbled. “Think he’ll get the chair?”
    “I collect the trash,” Rhyme said, pleased