The Coffin Dancer

day.”
    “Did not.”
    Thom continued. “That box there”—he pointed to a beige contraption—“that goes to the computer.”
    “Whoa, two hundred megahertz?” Banks asked, nodding at the computer. To escape Rhyme’s scowl he’d grabbed the question like an owl snagging a frog.
    “Yep,” Thom said.
    But Lincoln Rhyme was not interested in computers. At the moment Lincoln Rhyme was interested only in microscopic rings of sculpted calamari and the sand they nestled in.
    Thom continued. “The microphone goes into the computer. Whatever he says, the computer recognizes. It took the thing a while to learn his voice. He mumbled a lot.”
    In truth Rhyme was quite pleased with the system—the lightning-fast computer, a specially made ECU box—environmental control unit—and voice-recognition software. Merely by speaking he could command the cursor to do whatever a person using a mouse and keyboard could do. And he could dictate too. Now, with words, he could turn the heat up or down and the lights on or off, play the stereo or TV, write on his word processor, and make phone calls and send faxes.
    “He can even write music,” Thom said to the visitors. “He tells the computer what notes to mark down on the staff.”
    “Now that’s useful,” Rhyme said sourly. “Music.”
    For a C4 quad—Rhyme’s injury was at the fourth cervical vertebra—nodding was easy. He could also shrug, though not as dismissingly as he’d have liked. His other circus trick was moving his left ring finger a few millimeters in any direction he chose. That had been his entire physical repertoire for the past several years; composing a sonata for the violin was probably not in the offing.
    “He can play games too,” Thom said.
    “I hate games. I don’t play games.”
    Sellitto, who reminded Rhyme of a large unmade bed, gazed at the computer and seemed unimpressed. “Lincoln,” he began gravely. “There’s a task-forced case. Us ’n’ the feds. Ran into a problem last night.”
    “Ran into a brick wall,” Banks ventured to say.
    “We thought . . . well, I thought you’d want to help us out on this one.”
    Want to help them out?
    “I’m working on something now,” Rhyme explained. “For Perkins, in fact.” Thomas Perkins, special agent in charge of the Manhattan office of the FBI. “One of Fred Dellray’s runners is missing.”
    Special Agent Fred Dellray, a longtime veteran with the Bureau, was a handler for most of the Manhattan office’s undercover agents. Dellray himself had been one of the Bureau’s top undercover ops. He’d earned commendations from the director himself for his work. One of Dellray’s agents, Tony Panelli, had gone missing a few days earlier.
    “Perkins told us,” Banks said. “Pretty weird.”
    Rhyme rolled his eyes at the unartful phrase.Though he couldn’t dispute it. The agent had disappeared from his car across from the Federal Building in downtown Manhattan around 9 P.M. The streets weren’t crowded but they weren’t deserted either. The engine of the Bureau’s Crown Victoria was running, the door open. There was no blood, no gunshot residue, no scuff marks indicating struggle. No witnesses—at least no witnesses willing to talk.
    Pretty weird indeed.
    Perkins had a fine crime scene unit at his disposal, including the Bureau’s Physical Evidence Response Team. But it had been Rhyme who’d set up PERT and it was Rhyme whom Dellray had asked to work the scene of the disappearance. The crime scene officer who worked as Rhyme’s partner had spent hours at Panelli’s car and had come away with no unidentified fingerprints, ten bags of meaningless trace evidence, and—the only possible lead—a few dozen grains of this very odd sand.
    The grains that now glowed on his computer screen, as smooth and huge as heavenly bodies.
    Sellitto continued. “Perkins’s gonna put other people on the Panelli case, Lincoln, if you’ll help us. Anyway, I think you’ll want this one.”
    That verb again— want. What was this all about?
    Rhyme and Sellitto had worked together on major homicide investigations some years ago. Hard cases—and public cases. He knew Sellitto as well as he knew any cop. Rhyme generally distrusted his own ability to read people (his ex-wife, Blaine, had said—often, and heatedly—that Rhyme could spot a shell casing a mile away and miss a human beingstanding in front of him) but he could see now that Sellitto was holding back.
    “Okay, Lon. What is