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 Streeta 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
“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 Streeta 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
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