The Coffin Dancer

it? Tell me.”
    Sellitto nodded toward Banks.
    “Phillip Hansen,” the young detective said significantly, lifting a puny eyebrow.
    Rhyme knew the name only from newspaper articles. Hansen—a large, hard-living businessman originally from Tampa, Florida—owned a wholesale company in Armonk, New York. It was remarkably successful and he’d become a multimillionaire thanks to it. Hansen had a good deal for a small-time entrepreneur. He never had to look for customers, never advertised, never had receivables problems. In fact, if there was any downside to PH Distributors, Inc., it was that the federal government and New York State were expending great energy to shut it down and throw its president in jail. Because the product Hansen’s company sold was not, as he claimed, secondhand military surplus vehicles but weaponry, more often than not stolen from military bases or imported illegally. Earlier in the year two army privates had been killed when a truckload of small arms was hijacked near the George Washington Bridge on its way to New Jersey. Hansen was behind it—a fact the U.S. attorney and the New York attorney general knew but couldn’t prove.
    “Perkins and us’re hammering together a case,” Sellitto said. “Working with the army CID. But it’s been a bitch.”
    “And nobody ever dimes him,” said Banks. “Ever.”
    Rhyme supposed that, no, no one would dare snitch on a man like Hansen.
    The young detective continued. “But finally, last week, we got a break. See, Hansen’s a pilot. His company’s got warehouses at Mamaroneck Airport—that one near White Plains? A judge issued paper to check ’em out. Naturally we didn’t find anything. But then last week, it’s midnight? The airport’s closed but there’re some people there, working late. They see a guy fitting Hansen’s description drive out to this private plane, load some big duffel bags into it, and take off. Unauthorized. No flight plan, just takes off. Comes back forty minutes later, lands, gets back into his car, and burns rubber out of there. No duffel bags. The witnesses give the registration number to the FAA. Turns out it’s Hansen’s private plane, not his company’s.”
    Rhyme said, “So he knew you were getting close and he wanted to ditch something linking him to the killings.” He was beginning to see why they wanted him. Some seeds of interest here. “Air Traffic Control track him?”
    “LaGuardia had him for a while. Straight out over Long Island Sound. Then he dropped below radar for ten minutes or so.”
    “And you drew a line to see how far he could get over the Sound. There’re divers out?”
    “Right. Now, we knew that soon as Hansen heard we had the three witnesses he was gonna rabbit. So we managed to put him away till Monday. Federal Detention.”
    Rhyme laughed. “You got a judge to buy probable cause on that?”
    “Yeah, with the risk of flight,” Sellitto said. “And some bullshit FAA violations and reckless endangerment thrown in. No flight plan, flying below FAA minimums.”
    “What’d Mis-ter Han-sen say?”
    “He knows the drill. Not a word to the arrestings, not a word to the prosecutors. Lawyer denies everything and’s preparing suit for wrongful arrest, yadda, yadda, yadda . . . So if we find the fucking bags we go to the grand jury on Monday and, bang, he’s away.”
    “Provided,” Rhyme pointed out, “there’s anything incriminating in the bags.”
    “Oh, there’s something incriminating.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because Hansen’s scared. He’s hired somebody to kill the witnesses. He’s already got one of ’em. Blew up his plane last night outside of Chicago.”
    And, Rhyme thought, they want me to find the duffel bags . . . Fascinating questions were now floating into his mind. Was it possible to place the plane at a particular location over the water because of a certain type of precipitation or saline deposit or insect found crushed on the leading edge of the wing? Could one calculate the time of death of an insect? What about salt concentrations and pollutants in the water? Flying that low to the water, would the engines or wings pick up algae and deposit it on the fuselage or tail?
    “I’ll need some maps of the Sound,” Rhyme began. “Engineering drawings of his plane—”
    “Uhm, Lincoln, that’s not why we’re here,” Sellitto said.
    “Not to find the bags,” Banks added.
    “No? Then?” Rhyme tossed an irritating tickle of black hair