Now, at the wheel of an Investigation and Resources Division rapid response vehicle--a crime scene station wagon--she punched the accelerator, swerved onto the shoulder, and passed a van that sported an upside-down Garfield cat suctioned to the rear window. She made the turnoff that took her deep into Westchester County.
Lifting her hand off the wheel she compulsively poked her finger into her hair and worried her scalp. Then she gripped the plastic wheel of the RRV once again and shoved the accelerator down until she burst into the suburban civilization of strip malls, sloppy commercial buildings, and fast-food franchises.
She was thinking about bombs, about Percey Clay.
And about Lincoln Rhyme.
Something was different about him today. Something significant. They'd been working together for a year now, ever since he'd shanghaied her away from a coveted assignment with Public Affairs to help him catch a serial kidnapper. At the time Sachs had been at a low point in her life--an affair gone bad and a corruption scandal in the department that disillusioned her so much that she wanted out of patrol altogether. But Rhyme wouldn't let her. Simple as that. Even though he was a civilian consultant he'd arranged for her transfer to Crime Scene. She protested some but soon gave up the pretense of reluctance; the fact was that she loved the work. And she loved working with Rhyme, whose brilliance was exhilarating and intimidating and--an admission she made to no one--goddamn sexy.
Which wasn't to say that she could read him perfectly. Lincoln Rhyme played life close to his chest and he wasn't revealing all to her.
Shoot first . . .
What was that all about? You never discharged a weapon at a crime scene if there was any way to avoid it. A single gunshot would contaminate a scene with carbon, sulfur, mercury, antimony, lead, copper, and arsenic, and the discharge and blowback could destroy vital trace evidence. Rhyme himself told her of the time he'd had to shoot a perp hiding at a scene, his biggest concern being that the shots had ruined much of the evidence. (And when Sachs, believing she'd at last outthought him, said, "But what did it matter, Rhyme? You got the perp, right?" he'd pointed out acerbically, "But what if he'd had partners, hm? What then?")
What was so different about the Coffin Dancer, other than the stupid name and the fact he seemed marginally smarter than the typical mafioso or Westie triggerman?
And working the scene at the hangar in an hour? It seemed to Sachs that he'd agreed to that as a favor for Percey. Which was completely unlike him. Rhyme would keep a scene sealed for days if he thought it was necessary.
These questions nagged and Amelia Sachs didn't like unanswered questions.
Though she had no more time for speculation. Sachs spun the wheel of the RRV and turned into the wide entrance to the Mamaroneck Regional Airport. It was a busy place, nestled into a woody area of Westchester County, north of Manhattan. The big airlines had affiliated companies with service here--United Express, American Eagle--but most of the planes parked here were corporate jets, all of them unmarked, for security reasons, she guessed.
At the entrance were several state troopers, checking IDs. They did a double take when she pulled up--seeing the beautiful redhead driving an NYPD crime scene RRV and wearing blue jeans, a windbreaker, and a Mets cap. They waved her through. She followed signs to Hudson Air Charters and found the small cinder-block building at the end of a row of commercial airline terminals.
She parked in front of the building and leapt out. She introduced herself to two officers who were standing guard over the hangar and the sleek, silver airplane that was inside. She was pleased that the local cops had run police tape around the hangar and the apron in front of it to secure the scene. But she was dismayed by the size of the area.
An hour to search? She could've spent an entire day here.
Thanks loads, Rhyme.
She hurried into the office.
A dozen men and women, some in business suits, some in overalls, stood in clusters. They were mostly in their twenties and thirties. Sachs supposed they'd been a young and enthusiastic group until last night. Now their faces revealed a collective sorrow that had aged them quickly.
"Is there someone named Ron Talbot here?" she asked, displaying her silver shield.
The oldest person in the room--a woman in her fifties, with spun and sprayed hair and wearing a frumpy suit--walked up to Sachs. "I'm Sally Anne McCay," she said. "I'm the office manager. Oh, how's Percey?"
"She's all right," Sachs said guardedly. "Where's Mr. Talbot?"
A brunette in her thirties wearing a wrinkled blue dress stepped out of an office and put her arm around Sally Anne's shoulders. The older woman squeezed the younger's hand. "Lauren, you okay?"
Lauren, her puffy face a mask of shock, asked Sachs, "Do they know what happened yet?"
"We're just starting the investigation . . . Now, Mr. Talbot?"
Sally Anne wiped tears then glanced toward an office in the corner. Sachs walked to the doorway. Inside was a bearish man with a stubbled chin and tangle of uncombed black-and-gray hair. He was poring over computer printouts, breathing heavily. He looked up, a dismal expression on his face. He'd been crying too, it seemed.
"I'm Officer Sachs," she said. "I'm with the NYPD."
He nodded. "You have him yet?" he asked, looking out the window as if he expected to see Ed Carney's ghost float past. He turned back to her. "The killer?"
"We're following up on several leads." Amelia Sachs, second-generation cop, had the art of evasion down cold.
Lauren appeared in Talbot's doorway. "I can't believe he's gone," she gasped, an edgy panic in her voice. "Who'd do something like that? Who?" As a patrol officer--a beat cop--Sachs had delivered her share of bad news to loved ones. She never got used to the despair she heard in the voices of surviving friends and family.
"Lauren." Sally Anne took her colleague's arm. "Lauren, go on home."
"No! I don't want to go home. I want to know who the hell did it? Oh, Ed . . . "
Stepping farther into Talbot's office, Sachs said, "I need your help. It looks like the killer mounted the bomb outside the plane underneath the cockpit. We have to find out where."
"Outside?" Talbot was frowning. "How?"
"Magnetized and glued. The glue wasn't completely set before the blast so it had to've been not long before takeoff."
Talbot nodded. "Whatever I can do. Sure."
She tapped the walkie-talkie on her hip. "I'm going to go on-line with my boss. He's in Manhattan. We're going to ask you some questions." Hooked up the Motorola, headset, and stalk mike.
"Okay, Rhyme, I'm here. Can you hear me?"
Though they were on an areawide Special Ops frequency and should have been ten-fiveing and K'ing, according to Communications Department procedures, Sachs and Rhyme rarely bothered with radioese. And they didn't now. His voice grumbled through the earphone, bouncing off who knew how many satellites. "Got it. Took you long enough."
Don't push it, Rhyme.
She asked Talbot, "Where was the plane before it took off? Say, an hour, hour and a quarter?"
"In the hangar," Talbot said.
"You think he could've gotten to the plane there? After the--what do you call it? When the pilot inspects the plane?"
"The walkaround. I suppose it's possible."
"But there were people around all the time," Lauren said. The crying fit was over and she'd wiped her face. She was calmer now and determination had replaced despair in her eyes.
"Who are you, please?"
"Lauren Simmons."
"Lauren's our assistant operations manager," Talbot said. "She works for me."
Lauren continued. "We'd been working with Stu--our chief mechanic, our former chief mechanic--to outfit the aircraft, working round the clock. We would've seen anybody near the plane."
"So," she said, "he mounted the bomb after the plane left the hangar."
"Chronology!" Rhyme's voice crackled through the headset. "Where was it from the moment it left the hangar until takeoff?"
/>
When she relayed this question Talbot and Lauren led her into a conference room. It was filled with charts and scheduling boards, hundreds of books and notebooks and stacks of papers. Lauren unrolled a large map of the airport. It contained a thousand numbers and symbols Sachs didn't understand, though the buildings and roadways were clearly outlined.
"No plane moves an inch," Talbot explained in a gruff baritone, "unless Ground Control gives the okay. Charlie Juliet was--"
"What? Charlie . . . ?"
"The number of the plane. We refer to planes by the last two letters on the registration number. See on the fuselage? CJ. So we called it Charlie Juliet. It was parked in the hangar here . . . " He tapped the map. "We finished loading--"
"When?" Rhyme called; so loud she wouldn't have been surprised if Talbot had heard. "We need times! Exact times."
The logbook in Charlie Juliet'd been burned to a cinder and the time-stamped FAA tape hadn't been transcribed yet. But Lauren examined the company's internal records. "Tower gave 'em push-back clearance at seven-sixteen. And they reported wheels up at seven-thirty."
Rhyme had heard. "Fourteen minutes. Ask them if the plane was ever both out of sight and stopped during that time."
Sachs did and Lauren answered, "Probably there." She pointed.
A narrow portion of taxiway about two hundred feet long. The row of hangars hid it from the rest of the airport. It ended at a T intersection.
Lauren said, "Oh, and it's an ATC No Vis area."
"That's right," Talbot said, as if this were significant.
"Translation!" Rhyme called.
"Meaning?" Sachs asked.
"Out of visibility from Air Traffic Control," Lauren answered. "A blind spot."
"Yes!" came the voice through her earphone. "Okay, Sachs. Seal and search. Release the hangar."
To Talbot she said, "We're not going to bother with the hangar. I'm releasing it. But I want to seal off that taxiway. Can you call the tower? Have them divert traffic?"
"I can," he said doubtfully. "They aren't going to like it."
She said, "If there's any problem have them call Thomas Perkins. He's head of the FBI's Manhattan office. He'll clear it with FAA HQ."
"FAA? In Washington?" Lauren asked.
"That's the one."
Talbot gave a faint smile. "Well, okay."
Sachs started for the main door then paused, looking out at the busy airport. "Oh, I've got a car," she called to Talbot. "Is there anything special you do when you drive around an airport?"
"Yeah," he said, "try not to run into any airplanes."
II
The Kill Zone
A falconer's bird, however tame and affectionate, is as close to a wild animal in condition and habit as an animal that lives with man can be. Above all, it hunts.
A Rage for Falcons,
Stephen Bodio
. . . Chapter Ten
Hour 3 of 45
"I'm here, Rhyme," she announced.
Sachs climbed out of the RRV wagon and pulled latex gloves on her hands and wound rubber bands around her shoes--to make certain her footprints wouldn't be confused with the perp's, as Rhyme had taught her.
"And where, Sachs," he asked, "is here?"
"At the intersection of taxiways. Between a row of hangars. It's where Carney's plane would've stopped."
Sachs glanced uneasily at a line of trees in the distance. It was an overcast, dank day. Another storm was threatening. She felt exposed. The Dancer might be here now--maybe he'd returned to destroy evidence he'd left behind, maybe to kill a cop and slow down the investigation. Like the bomb in Wall Street a few years ago, the one that killed Rhyme's techs.
Shoot first . . .
Damn it, Rhyme, you're spooking me! Why're you acting like this guy walks through walls and spits poison?
Sachs took the PoliLight box and a large suitcase from the back of the RRV. She opened the suitcase. Inside were a hundred tools of the trade: screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, wire cutters, knives, friction ridge collection equipment, ninhydrin, tweezers, brushes, tongs, scissors, flex-claw pickups, a gunshot residue kit, pencils, plastic and paper bags, evidence collection tape . . .
One, establish the perimeter.
She ran yellow police line tape around the entire area.
Two, consider media and range of camera lenses and microphones.
No media. Not yet. Thank you, Lord.
"What's that, Sachs?"
"I'm thanking God there're no reporters."
"A fine prayer. But tell me what you're doing."
"Still securing the scene."
"Look for the--"
"Entrance and exit," she said.
Step three, determine the perpetrator's entrance and exit routes--they will be secondary crime scenes.
But she didn't have a clue as to where they might be. He could've come from anywhere. Snuck around the corners, driven here in a luggage cart, a gas truck . . .
Sachs donned goggles and began sweeping the PoliLight wand over the taxiway. It didn't work as well outside as in a dark room, but with the heavy overcast she could see flecks and streaks glowing under the eerie green-yellow light. There were, however, no footprints.
"Sprayed her down last night," the voice called behind her.
Sachs spun around, hand on her Glock, a half draw from the holster.
I'm never this edgy, Rhyme. It's all your fault.
Several men in coveralls were standing at the yellow tape. She walked up to them cautiously and checked their picture IDs. They matched the men's faces. Her hand slipped off the gun.
"They hose the place down every night. If you're looking for something. Thought you were."
"High-pressure hose," another one added.
Great. Every bit of trace, every footprint, every fiber sloughed off the Dancer was gone.
"You see anybody here last night?"
"This have to do with the bomb?"
"Around seven-fifteen?" she persisted.
"Nope. Nobody comes up here. These hangars're deserted. Probably gonna tear 'em down someday."
"What're you doing here now?"
"Saw a cop. You are a cop, right? And just thought we'd have a look-see. This is about that bomb, right? Who did it? Arabs? Or them militia shits?"
She shooed them off. Into the microphone she said, "They cleaned the taxiway last night, Rhyme. High-pressure water, looks like."
"Oh, no."
"They--"
"Hey there."
She sighed, turning again, expecting to find the workmen back. But the new visitor was a cocky county trooper, wearing a blocked Smokey the Bear hat and razor-creased gray slacks. He ducked under the tape.
"Excuse me," she protested. "This is a secure area."
He slowed but didn't stop. She checked his ID. It matched. The picture showed him looking off slightly, a cover boy on a men's fashion magazine.
"You're that officer from New York, right?" He laughed generously. "Nice uniforms they have down there." Eyeing her tight jeans.
"This area's sealed off."
"I can help. I took the forensics course. Mostly I'm highway detail but I've got major crimes experience. You have some hair. Bet you've heard that before."
"I really will have to ask you--"
"Jim Everts."
Don't go into first-name territory; it sticks like flypaper. "I'm Officer Sachs."
"Big hubbub, this. A bomb. Messy."
"See, Jim, this tape here's to keep people out of the scene. Now, you gonna be helpful and step back behind it?"
"Wait. You mean officers too?"
"That I do, yes."
"You mean me too?"
"Exactly."
There were five classic crime scene contaminators: weather, relatives of the victim, suspects, souvenir collectors, and--the all-time worst--fellow cops.
"I won't touch a thing. Cross my heart. Just be a pleasure to watch you work, honey."
"Sachs," Rhyme whispered, "tell him to
get the fuck out of your crime scene."
"Jim, get the fuck out of my crime scene."
"Or you'll report him."
"Or I'll report you."
"Oooo, gonna be that way, is it?" He held his hands up in surrender. The last of the flirt drained from his slick grin.
"Get going, Sachs."
The trooper ambled away slowly enough to drag some of his pride with him. He looked back once but a scathing retort eluded him.
Amelia Sachs began to walk the grid.
There were several different ways to search crime scenes. A strip search--walking in a serpentine pattern--was usually used for outdoor scenes because it covered the most ground quickly. But Rhyme wouldn't hear of that. He used the grid pattern--covering the entire area back and forth in one direction, walking one foot at a time, then turning perpendicular and walking back and forth the other way. When he was running IRD, "walking the grid" became synonymous with searching a crime scene, and heaven help any cops Rhyme caught taking shortcuts or daydreaming when they were on the grid.
Sachs now spent an hour moving back and forth. While the spray truck might've eliminated prints and trace evidence, it wouldn't destroy anything larger that the Dancer might've dropped, nor would it ruin footprints or body impressions left in the mud beside the taxiway.
But she found nothing.
"Hell, Rhyme, not a thing."
"Ah, Sachs, I'll bet there is. I'll bet there's plenty. Just takes a little bit more effort than most scenes. The Dancer's not like other perps, remember."
Oh, that again.
"Sachs." His voice low and seductive. She felt a shiver. "Get into him," Rhyme whispered. "You know what I mean."
She knew exactly what he meant. Hated the thought. But, oh, yes, Sachs knew. The best criminalists were able to find a place in their minds where the line between hunter and hunted was virtually nonexistent. They moved through the crime scene not as cops tracking down clues but as the perp himself, feeling his desires, lusts, fears. Rhyme had this talent. And though she tried to deny it, Sachs did too. (She'd searched a scene a month ago--a father had murdered his wife and child--and managed to find the murder weapon when no one else had. After the case she hadn't been able to work for a week and had been plagued by flashbacks that she'd been the one who stabbed the victims to death. Saw their faces, heard their screams.) Another pause. "Talk to me," he said. And finally the edginess in his voice was gone. "You're him. You're walking where he's walked, you're thinking the way he thinks . . . "