The Coffin Dancer

by Jeffery Deaver

  She looked down and gave a faint laugh.

  "I don't believe it."

  On the computer beside the Clinitron was a chess program.

  "You don't play games," she said. "I mean, I've never seen you play games."

  "Hold on," he said to her.

  On the screen: I did not understand what you just said. Please try again.

  In a clear voice he said, "Rook to queen's bishop four. Checkmate."

  A pause. The computer said, Congratulations, followed by a digitized version of Sousa's "Washington Post" march.

  "It's not for entertainment," he said churlishly. "Keeps the mind sharp. It's my Nautilus machine. You want to play sometime, Sachs?"

  "I don't play chess," she said after a swallow of the fine wine. "Some damn knight goes for my king, I'd rather blow him away than figure out how to outsmart him. How much did they find?"

  "Money? That Talbot had hidden? Over five million."

  After the auditors had gone through the second set of books, the real books, they found that Hudson Air was an extremely profitable company. Losing the aircraft and the U.S. Medical contract would sting, but there was plenty of cash to keep the company, as Percey told him, "aloft."

  "Where's the Dancer?"

  "In SD."

  Special Detention was a little-known facility in the Criminal Courts Building. Rhyme had never seen the place--few cops had--but in thirty-five years no one had ever broken out of it.

  "Coped his talons pretty good," Percey Clay had said when Rhyme told her this. Which means, she explained, the filing down of a hunting falcon's claws.

  Rhyme--given his special interest in the case--insisted on being informed about the Dancer's tenure in SD. He'd heard from the guards that he'd been asking about windows in the facility, what floor they were on, what part of town the facility was located in.

  "Do I smell a service station nearby?" he'd asked cryptically.

  When he'd heard this, Rhyme had immediately called Lon Sellitto and asked him to call the head of the detention center and double the guard.

  Amelia Sachs took another fortifying sip of wine, and whatever was coming was coming now.

  She inhaled deeply then blurted, "Rhyme, you should go for it." Another sip. "I wasn't sure I was going to say that."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "She's right for you. It could be real good."

  They rarely had trouble looking at each other's eyes. But, rough water ahead, Sachs looked down at the floor.

  What was this all about?

  When she glanced up and saw her words weren't registering, she said, "I know how you feel about her. And she doesn't admit it, but I know how she feels about you."

  "Who?"

  "You know who. Percey Clay. You're thinking she's a widow, she's not going to want someone in her life right now. But . . . You heard what Talbot said--Carney had a girlfriend. A woman in the office. Percey knew about it. They stayed together because they were friends. And because of the Company."

  "I never--"

  "Go for it, Rhyme. Come on. I really mean that. You think it'd never work. But she doesn't care about your situation. Hell, look at what she said the other day. She was right--you're both real similar."

  There are times when you just need to lift your hands and let them flop into your lap in frustration. Rhyme settled for nestling his head in his luxurious down pillow. "Sachs, where on earth did you get this idea?"

  "Oh, please. It's so obvious. I've seen how you've been since she showed up. How you look at her. How obsessed you've been to save her. I know what's going on."

  "What is going on?"

  "She's like Claire Trilling, the woman who left you a few years ago. That's who you want."

  Oh . . . He nodded. So that's it.

  He smiled. Said, "Sure, Sachs, I have been thinking about Claire a lot the past few days. I lied when I said I hadn't been."

  "Whenever you mentioned her I could tell you were still in love with her. I know that after the accident she never saw you again. I figured it was still an open book for you. Like me and Nick after he left me. You met Percey and she reminded you of Claire all over again. You realized that you could be with someone again. With her, I mean. Not . . . not with me. Hey, that's life."

  "Sachs," he began, "it's not Percey you should've been jealous of. She's not the one that booted you out of bed the other night."

  "No?"

  "It was the Dancer."

  Another splash of wine in her glass. She swirled it and looked down at the pale liquid. "I don't understand."

  "The other night?" He sighed. "I had to draw the line between us, Sachs. I'm already too close to you for my own good. If we're going to keep working together, I had to keep that barrier up. Don't you see? I can't be close to you, not that close, and still send you in harm's way. I can't let it happen again."

  "Again?" She was frowning, then her face flooded with understanding.

  Ah, that's my Amelia, he thought. A fine criminalist. A good shot. And she's quick as a fox.

  "Oh no, Lincoln, Claire was . . . "

  He was nodding. "She was the tech I assigned to search the crime scene in Wall Street after the Dancer's hit five years ago. She was the one who reached into the wastebasket and pulled out the paper that set off the bomb."

  Which is why he'd been so obsessed with the man. Why he'd wanted, so uncharacteristically, to debrief the killer. He wanted to catch the man who'd killed his lover. Wanted to know all about him.

  It was revenge, undiluted revenge. When Lon Sellitto--who'd known about Claire--had wondered if it might not be better for Percey and Hale to leave town, he was asking if Rhyme's personal feelings weren't intruding into the case.

  Well, yes, they were. But Lincoln Rhyme, for all the overwhelming stasis of his present life, was as much a hunter as the falcons on his window ledge. Every criminalist is. And when he scented his prey he wouldn't be stopped.

  "So, that's it, Sachs. It has nothing to do with Percey. And as much as I wanted you to spend the night--to spend every night--I can't risk loving you any more than I do."

  It was so astonishing--bewildering--to Lincoln Rhyme to be having this conversation. After the accident he'd come to believe that the oak beam that had snapped his spine actually did its worst damage to his heart, killing all sensation within it. And his ability to love and be loved were as crushed as the thin fiber of his spinal cord. But the other night, Sachs close to him, he'd realized how wrong he was.

  "You understand, don't you, Amelia?" Rhyme whispered.

  "Last names only," she said, smiling, walking close to the bed.

  She bent down and kissed him on the mouth. He pressed back into his pillow for a moment then returned the kiss.

  "No, no," he persisted. But he kissed her hard once again.

  Her purse dropped to the floor. Her jacket and watch went on the bedside table, followed by the last of the fashion accessories to come off--her Glock 9.

  They kissed again.

  But he pulled away. "Sachs . . . It's too risky!"

  "God don't give out certain," she said, their eyes locked on each other's. Then she stood and walked across the room to the light switch.

  "Wait," he said.

  She paused, looked back. Her red hair fell over her face, obscuring one eye.

  Into the microphone hanging on the bed frame Rhyme commanded, "Lights out."

  The room went dark.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER PROUDLY PRESENTS

  GARDEN OF BEASTS

  JEFFERY DEAVER

  Now available in hardcover from Simon & Schuster

  Turn the page for a preview of Garden of Beasts . . . .

  Chapter One

  As soon as he stepped into the dim apartment he knew he was dead.

  He wiped sweat off his palm, looking around the place, which was quiet as a morgue, except for the faint sounds of Hell's Kitchen traffic late at night and the ripple of the greasy shade when the swiveling Monkey Ward fan turned its hot breath to
ward the window.

  The whole scene was off.

  Out of kilter . . .

  Malone was supposed to be here, smoked on booze, sleeping off a binge. But he wasn't. No bottles of corn anywhere, not even the smell of bourbon, the punk's only drink. And it looked like he hadn't been around for a while. The New York Sun on the table was two days old. It sat next to a cold ashtray and a glass with a blue halo of dried milk halfway up the side.

  He clicked the light on.

  Well, there was a side door, like he'd noted yesterday from the hallway, looking over the place. But it was nailed shut. And the window that led onto the fire escape? Brother, sealed nice and tight with chicken wire he hadn't been able to see from the alley. The other window was open but was also forty feet above cobblestones.

  No way out . . .

  And where was Malone? Paul Schumann wondered.

  Malone was on the lam, Malone was drinking beer in Jersey, Malone was a statue on a concrete base underneath a Red Hook pier.

  Didn't matter.

  Whatever'd happened to the boozehound, Paul realized, the punk had been nothing more than bait, and the wire that he'd be here tonight was pure bunk.

  In the hallway outside, a scuffle of feet. A clink of metal.

  Out of kilter . . .

  Paul set his pistol on the room's one table, took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. The searing air from the deadly Midwest heat wave had made its way to New York. But a man can't walk around without a jacket when he's carrying a 1911 Colt .45 in his back waistband and so Paul was condemned to wear a suit. It was his single-button, single-breasted gray linen. The white-cotton, collar-attached shirt was drenched.

  Another shuffle from outside in the hallway, where they'd be getting ready for him. A whisper, another clink.

  Paul thought about looking out the window but was afraid he'd get shot in the face. He wanted an open casket at his wake and he didn't know any morticians good enough to fix bullet or bird-shot damage.

  Who was gunning for him?

  It wasn't Luciano, of course, the man who'd hired him to touch off Malone. It wasn't Meyer Lansky either. They were dangerous, yeah, but not snakes. Paul'd always done top-notch work for them, never leaving a bit of evidence that could link them to the touch-off. Besides, if either of them wanted Paul gone, they wouldn't need to set him up with a bum job. He'd simply be gone.

  So who'd snagged him? If it was O'Banion or Rothstein from Williamsburg or Valenti from Bay Ridge, well, he'd be dead in a few minutes.

  If it was dapper Tom Dewey, the death would take a bit longer--whatever time was involved to convict him and get him into the electric chair up in Sing-Sing.

  More voices in the hall. More clicks, metal seating against metal.

  But looking at it one way, he reflected wryly, everything was silk so far; he was still alive.

  And thirsty as hell.

  He walked to the Kelvinator and opened it. Three bottles of milk--two of them curdled--and a box of Kraft cheese and one of Sunsweet tenderized peaches. Several Royal Crown colas. He found an opener and removed the cap from a bottle of the soft drink.

  From somewhere he heard a radio. It was playing "Stormy Weather."

  Sitting down at the table again, he noticed himself in the dusty mirror on the wall above a chipped enamel washbasin. His pale blue eyes weren't as alarmed as they ought to be, he supposed. His face, though, was weary. He was a large man--over six feet and weighing more than two hundred pounds. His hair was from his mother's side, reddish brown; his fair complexion from his father's German ancestors. The skin was a bit marred--not from pox but from knuckles in his younger days and Everlast gloves more recently. Concrete and canvas too.

  Sipping the soda pop. Spicier than Coca-Cola. He liked it.

  Paul considered his situation. If it was O'Banion or Rothstein or Valenti, well, none of them gave a good goddamn about Malone, a crazy riveter from the shipyards turned punk mobster, who'd killed a beat cop's wife and done so in a pretty unpleasant way. He'd threatened more of the same to any law that gave him trouble. Every boss in the area, from the Bronx to Jersey, was shocked at what he'd done. So even if one of them wanted to touch off Paul, why not wait until after he'd knocked off Malone?

  Which meant it was probably Dewey.

  The idea of being stuck in the caboose till he was executed depressed him. Yet, truth be told, in his heart Paul wasn't too torn up about getting nabbed. Like when he was a kid and would jump impulsively into fights against two or three kids bigger than he was, sooner or later he'd eventually pick the wrong punks and end up with a broken bone. He'd known the same thing about his present career: that ultimately a Dewey or an O'Banion would bring him down.

  Thinking of one of his father's favorite expressions: "On the best day, on the worst day, the sun finally sets." The round man would snap his colorful suspenders and add, "Cheer up, P.S. Tomorrow's a whole new horse race."

  He jumped when the phone rang.

  Paul looked at the black Bakelite for a long moment. On the seventh ring, or the eighth, he answered. "Yeah?"

  "Paul," a crisp, young voice said. No neighborhood slur.

  "You know who it is."

  "I'm up the hall in another apartment. There're six of us here. Another half dozen on the street."

  Twelve? Paul felt an odd calm. Nothing he could do about twelve. They'd get him one way or the other. He sipped more of the Royal Crown. He was so damn thirsty. The fan wasn't doing anything but moving the heat from one side of the room to the other. He asked, "You working for the boys from Brooklyn or the West Side? Just curious."

  "Listen to me, Paul. Here's what you're going to do. You only have two guns on you, right? The Colt. And that little twenty-two. The others are back in your apartment?"

  Paul laughed. "That's right."

  "You're going to unload them and lock the slide of the Colt open. Then walk to the window that's not sealed and pitch them out. Then you're going to take your jacket off, drop it on the floor, open the door and stand in the middle of the room with your hands up in the air. Stretch 'em way up high."

  "You'll shoot me," he said.

  "You're living on borrowed time anyway, Paul. But if you do what I say you might stay alive a little longer."

  The caller hung up.

  He dropped the hand piece into the cradle. He sat motionless for a moment, recalling a very pleasant night a few weeks ago. Marion and he had gone to Coney Island for miniature golf and hot dogs and beer, to beat the heat. Laughing, she'd dragged him to a fortune teller at the amusement park. The fake gypsy had read his cards and told him a lot of things. The woman had missed this particular event, though, which you'd think should've showed up somewhere in the reading, if she was worth her salt.

  Marion . . . He'd never told her what he did for a living. Only that he owned a gym and he did business occasionally with some guys who had questionable pasts. But he'd never told her more. He realized suddenly that he'd been looking forward to some kind of future with her. She was a dime-a-dance girl at a club on the West Side, studying fashion design during the day. She'd be working now; she usually went till 1 or 2 A.M. How would she find out what happened to him?

  If it was Dewey he'd probably be able to call her.

  If it was the boys from Williamsburg, no call. Nothing.

  The phone began ringing again.

  Paul ignored it. He slipped the clip from his big gun and unchambered the round that was in the receiver, then he emptied the cartridges out of the revolver. He walked to the window and tossed the pistols out one at a time. He didn't hear them land.

  Finishing the soda pop, he took his jacket off, dropped it on the floor. He started for the door but paused. He went back to the Kelvinator and got another Royal Crown. He drank it down. Then he wiped his face again, opened the front door, stepped back and lifted his arms.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  "This's called The Room," said the gray-haired man in a pressed white uniform, taking a
seat on a small couch.

  "You were never here," he added with a cheerful confidence that meant there was no debate. He added, "And you never heard about it."

  It was 11 P.M. They'd brought Paul here directly from Malone's. It was a private town house on the Upper East Side, though most of the rooms on the ground floor contained desks and telephones and Teletype machines, like in an office. Only in the parlor were there divans and armchairs. On the walls here were pictures of new and old navy ships. A globe sat in the corner. FDR looked down at him from a spot above a marble mantel. The room was wonderfully cold. A private house that had air-conditioning. Imagine.

  Still handcuffed, Paul had been deposited in a comfortable leather armchair. The two younger men who'd escorted him out of Malone's apartment, also in white uniforms, sat beside him and slightly behind. The one who'd spoken to him on the phone was named Andrew Avery, a man with rosy cheeks and deliberate, sharp eyes. Eyes of a boxer, though Paul knew he'd never been in a fistfight in his life. The other was Vincent Manielli, dark, with a voice that told Paul they'd probably grown up in the same section of Brooklyn. Manielli and Avery didn't look much older than the stickball kids in front of Paul's building, but they were, of all things, lieutenants in the navy. When Paul had been in France, the lieutenants he'd served under had been grown men.

  Their pistols were in holsters but the leather flaps were undone and they kept their hands near their weapons.

  The older officer, sitting across from him on the couch, was pretty high up--a naval commander, if the gingerbread on his uniform was the same as it'd been twenty years ago.

  The door opened and an attractive woman in a white navy uniform entered. The name on her blouse was Ruth Willets. She handed him a file. "Everything's in there."

  "Thank you, Yeoman."

  As she left, without glancing at Paul, the officer opened the file, extracted two pieces of thin paper, and read them carefully. When he finished, he looked up. "I'm James Gordon. Office of Naval Intelligence. They call me Bull."

  "This is your headquarters?" Paul asked. "'The Room'?"

  The commander ignored him and glanced at the other two. "You introduced yourselves yet?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "There was no trouble?"

  "None, sir." Avery was doing the talking.

  "Take his cuffs off."

  Avery did so while Manielli stood with his hand near his gun, edgily eyeing Paul's gnarled knuckles. Manielli had fighter's hands too. Avery's were pink as a dry-goods clerk's.