The Coffin Dancer Read Online Free PDF

somewhere, deep, Rhyme felt an empty despair, replaying the horrid crime scene of the explosion, seeing the burnt, shattered bodies of his officers.
    Sachs asked, “The guy who hired him, he was willing to dime the Dancer?”
    “Was willing to, sure. But there wasn’t much he could say. He delivered cash to a drop box with written instructions. No electronic transfers, no account numbers. They never met in person.” Rhyme inhaled deeply. “But the worst part was that the banker who’d paid for the hit changed his mind. He lost his nerve. But he had no way to get in touch with the Dancer. It didn’t matter anyway. The Dancer’d told him right up front: ‘Recall is not an option.’ ”
    Sellitto briefed Sachs about the case against Phillip Hansen, the witnesses who’d seen his plane make its midnight run, and the bomb last night.
    “Who are the other wits?” she asked.
    “Percey Clay, the wife of this Carney guy killed last night in the plane. She’s the president of their company, Hudson Air Charters. Her husband was VP. The other wit’s Britton Hale. He’s a pilot works for them. I sent baby-sitters to keep an eye on ’em both.”
    Rhyme said, “I’ve called Mel Cooper in. He’ll be working the lab downstairs. The Hansen case is task-forced so we’re getting Fred Dellray to represent the feds. He’ll have agents for us if we need them and’s clearing one of U.S. Marshal’s wit-protection safe houses for the Clay woman and Hale.”
    Lincoln Rhyme’s opulent memory intruded momentarily and he lost track of what the detective was saying. An image of the office where the Dancer had left the bomb five years ago came to mind again.
    Remembering: The trash can, blown open like a black rose. The smell of the explosive—the choking chemical scent, nothing at all like wood-fire smoke. The silky alligatoring on the charred wood. The seared bodies of his techs, drawn into the pugilistic altitude by the flames.
    He was saved from this horrid reverie by the buzz of the fax machine. Jerry Banks snagged the first sheet. “Crime scene report from the crash,” he announced.
    Rhyme’s head snapped toward the machine eagerly. “Time to go to work, boys and girls!”
     
    Wash ’em. Wash ’em off.
    Soldier, are those hands clean?
    Sir, they’re getting there, sir.
    The solid man, in his mid-thirties, stood in the washroom of a coffee shop on Lexington Avenue, lost in his task.
    Scrub, scrub, scrub ...
    He paused and looked out the men’s room door. Nobody seemed interested that he’d been in here for nearly ten minutes.
    Back to scrubbing.
    Stephen Kall examined his cuticles and big red knuckles.
    Lookin’ clean, lookin’ clean. No worms. Not a single one.
    He’d been feeling fine as he moved the black van off the street and parked it deep in an underground garage. Stephen had taken what tools he needed from the back of the vehicle and climbed the ramp, slipping out onto the busy street. He’d worked in New York several times before but he could never get used to all the people, a thousand people on this block alone.
    Makes me feel cringey.
    Makes me feel wormy.
    And so he stopped here in the men’s room for a little scrub.
    Soldier, aren’t you through with that yet? You’ve got two targets left to eliminate.
    Sir, almost, sir. Have to remove the risk of any trace evidence prior to proceeding with the operation, sir.
    Oh, for the luva Christ ...
    The hot water pouring over his hands. Scrubbing with a brush he carried with him in a plastic Baggie. Squirting the pink soap from the dispenser. And scrubbing some more.
    Finally he examined the ruddy hands and dried them under the hot air of the blower. No towels, no telltale fibers.
    No worms either.
    Stephen wore camouflage today though not military olive drab or Desert Storm beige. He was in jeans, Reeboks, a work shin, a gray windbreaker speckled with paint drips. On his belt was his cell phone and a large tape measure. He looked like any other contractor