The Coffin Dancer by Jeffery Deaver Page B

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.”
    “Hugh-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.