The Coffin Dancer

“But the hijacking,” Talbot said, “when he killed those soldiers and stole the guns. Everybody knows he’s a murderer.”

“Oh, he probably is,” Rhyme agreed. “But he didn’t fly his airplane over Long Island Sound and play bombardier with those phone books. Somebody else did.”

Percey stirred uneasily.

Rhyme continued, “Somebody who never thought we’d find the duffel bags.”

“Who?” Talbot demanded.

“Sachs?”

She pulled three large evidence envelopes out of a canvas bag and rested them on the table.

Inside two of them were accounting books. The third contained a stack of white envelopes.

“Those came from your office, Talbot.”

He gave a weak laugh. “I don’t think you can just take those without a warrant.”

Percey Clay frowned. “I gave them permission. I’m still head of the Company, Ron. But what’re you saying, Lincoln?”

Rhyme regretted not sharing his suspicions with Percey before this; it was coming as a terrible shock. But he couldn’t risk that she might tip their hand to Talbot. He’d covered his tracks so well until now.

Rhyme glanced at Mel Cooper, who said, “The green fiber that we found with the particles of key came from a ledger sheet. The white ones from an envelope. There’s no doubt they match.”

Rhyme continued, “They all came from your office, Talbot.”

“What do you mean, Lincoln?” Percey gasped.

Rhyme said to Talbot, “Everybody at the airport knew Hansen was under investigation. You thought you’d use that fact. So you waited until one night when Percey and Ed and Brit Hale were working late. You stole Hansen’s plane for the flight, you dumped the fake duffel bags. You hired the Dancer. I assume you’d heard about him on your jobs in Africa or the Far East. I made a few calls. You worked for the Botswana air force and the Burmese government advising them in buying used military airplanes. The Dancer told me he was paid a million for the hit.” Rhyme shook his head. “That should have tipped me right there. Hansen could have had all three witnesses killed for a couple hundred thousand. Professional killing’s definitely a buyer’s market nowadays. A million told me that the man ordering the hit was an amateur. And that he had a lot of money at his disposal.”

The scream rose from Percey Clay’s mouth and she leapt for him. Talbot stood, backed up. “How could you?” she screamed. “Why?”

Dellray said, “My boys from financial crimes’re looking over your books now. What we think we’re go

Rhyme continued. “Hudson Air’s a lot more successful than you were thinking, Percey. Only most of it was going into Talbot’s pocket. He knew he was going to get caught someday and he needed to get you and Ed out of the way and buy the Company himself.”

“The stock purchase option,” she said. “As a partner he had a right to buy our interest from our estates at a discount if we die.”

“This’s bullshit. That guy was shooting at me too, remember.”

“But you didn’t hire Kall,” Rhyme reminded. “You hired Jodie – the Coffin Dancer – and he subcontracted the work with Kall. Who didn’t know you from beans.”

“How could you?” Percey repeated in a hollow voice. “Why? Why?”

Talbot raged, “Because I loved you!”

“What?” Percey gasped.

Talbot continued. “You laughed when I said I wanted to marry you.”

“Ron, no. I -”

“And you went back to him.” He sneered. “Ed Carney, the handsome fighter pilot. Top gun… He treated you like shit and you still wanted him. Then…” His face was purple with fury. “Then… then I lost the last thing I had – I was grounded. I couldn’t fly anymore. I watched the two of you logging hundreds of hours a month while all I could do was sit at a desk and push papers. You had each other, you had flying… You don’t have a clue what it’s like to lose everything you love. You just don’t have a clue!”

Sachs and Sellitto saw him tense. They anticipated his trying something, but they hadn’t guessed Talbot’s strength. As Sachs stepped forward, unholstering her weapon, Talbot scooped the tall woman completely off her feet and flung her into the evidence table, scattering microscopes and equipment, knocking Mel Cooper back into the wall. Talbot pulled the Glock from her hand.

He swung it toward Bell, Sellitto, and Dellray. “All right, throw your guns on the floor. Do it now. Now!”

“Come on, man,” Dellray said, rolling his eyes. “What’re you go

He shoved the gun toward Dellray’s face. “I’m not going to say it again.”

His eyes were desperate. He reminded Rhyme of a cornered bear. The agent and the cops tossed their guns onto the floor. Bell dropped both of his.

“Where does that door lead?” He nodded to the wall. He’d have seen Eliopolos’s guards outside and knew there was no escape that way.

“That’s a closet,” Rhyme said quickly.

He opened it, eyed the tiny elevator.

“Fuck you,” Talbot whispered, pointing the gun at Rhyme.

“No,” Sachs shouted.

Talbot swung the weapon her way.

“Ron,” Percey cried, “think about it. Please…”

Sachs, embarrassed but unhurt, was on her feet, looking at the pistols that lay on the floor ten feet away.

No, Sachs, Rhyme thought. Don’t!

She’d survived the coolest professional killer in the country and now was about to get shot by a panicked amateur.

Talbot’s eyes were flicking back and forth from Dellray and Sellitto to the elevator, trying to figure out the switch pad.

No, Sachs, don’t do it.

Rhyme was trying to catch her attention, but her eyes were judging distances and angles. She’d never make it in time.

Sellitto said, “Let’s just talk, Talbot. Come on, put the gun down.”

Please, Sachs, don’t do it… He’ll see you. He’ll go for a head shot – amateurs always do – and you’ll die.

She tensed, eyes on Dellray’s Sig-Sauer.

No…

The instant Talbot looked back at the elevator Sachs leapt for the floor and snagged Dellray’s weapon as she rolled. But Talbot saw her. Before she could lift the large automatic he shoved the Glock at her face, squinting as he started to pull the trigger in panic.

“No!” Rhyme shouted.

The gunshot was deafening. Windows rattled and the falcons took off into the sky.

Sellitto scrambled for his weapon. The door burst open and Eliopolos’s officers ran into the room, their own pistols drawn.

Ron Talbot, the tiny red hole in his temple, stood perfectly still for an instant, then dropped in a spiral to the ground.

“Oh, brother,” said Mel Cooper, frozen in position, holding an evidence bag and staring down at his ski

Sachs rose to her feet and lifted her Glock out of Talbot’s hand. She felt for a pulse, shook her head.

The wailing filled the room as Percey Clay dropped to her knees over the body and, sobbing, pounded her fist into Talbot’s dense shoulder again and again. No one moved for a long moment. Then both Amelia Sachs and Roland Bell started toward her. They paused and it was Sachs who backed away and let the lanky detective put his arm around the petite woman and lead her from the body of her friend and enemy.