The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme Series #2)

The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme Series #2)

4.3 131
by Jeffery Deaver
     
 

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Detective Lincoln Rhyme, the foremost criminalist in the NYPD, is on the hunt for an elusive murderer, the Coffin Dancer. He's a brilliant hitman who changes his appearance even faster than he adds to his trail of victims, only one of whom has lived long enough to offer a clue: the assassin has an eerie tattoo on his arm of the Grim Reaper waltzing with a woman in

Overview

Detective Lincoln Rhyme, the foremost criminalist in the NYPD, is on the hunt for an elusive murderer, the Coffin Dancer. He's a brilliant hitman who changes his appearance even faster than he adds to his trail of victims, only one of whom has lived long enough to offer a clue: the assassin has an eerie tattoo on his arm of the Grim Reaper waltzing with a woman in front of a casket.
Like his previous bestselling novels A Maiden's Grave and The Bone Collector, Jeffery Deaver's latest psychological thriller combines spine-chilling forensic detail with a turbocharged plot. In The Coffin Dancer, Rhyme, tragically paralyzed from a line-of-duty accident, continues to tutor his beautiful protégé, Detective Amelia Sachs, in the art of criminal hunting. Rhyme is certain he's seen this killer before, and his suspicion of an earlier encounter fuels a bitter taste for vengeance. When the chameleonlike assassin targets three federal witnesses for death, the stakes reach a new high. Rhyme's brainpower and Sachs's legwork are the only tools they have to track the cunning murderer through the subways, parks, and airports of a darkly painted New York City. And they have only forty-eight hours before the Coffin Dancer strikes again.
With The Coffin Dancer, Deaver -- already an internationally bestselling author whose acclaimed novels have been translated into a dozen languages -- uses his trademark plot twists to keep this fast-paced, masterly thriller steamrolling along with breathtaking speed. This is page-turning suspense of the highest order.

Editorial Reviews

The Barnes & Noble Review
Jeffery Deaver has, over the course of fewer than a dozen novels, made a major reputation for himself in the world of forensic thrillers. His writing is lean and crisp, and his characters seem all too real. The fun of the books is the way Deaver throws them into extraordinary situations. Fans of Jeffery Deaver will be thrilled by the return of Lincoln Rhyme in this new offering. Rhyme is the forensics expert who made a strong showing in Deaver's fascinating novel The Bone Collector. Unique among his forensics peers, Rhyme is a quadriplegic, but he still manages to be more involved in his cases than his colleagues.

Before we catch up with Rhyme, we're in the cockpit of a jet with pilot Edward Carney. Carney and his crew are taking a charter flight out of Mamaroneck Regional Airport in New York.The suspense builds all too quickly as Carney, worried about his wife, Percey, tries to reach her via phone before takeoff. When he calls her from the air and hears her voice, he is relieved. But seconds later, the chartered jet he's piloting gets blown out of the sky. On the ground, Percey gets the news. Fairly quickly, the feds and the cops realize that someone is eliminating witnesses to a crime. Percey may well be the next victim.

Enter Lincoln Rhyme. Rhyme's entire house is computerized, and when we first meet him, he is examining grains of sand for traces of murder. Rhyme has thoroughly adapted to his life without the use of limbs, and the electronic world that enables him to operate more than functionally is almost an outward metaphor for the inner workings of his mind.Brilliantly,Deaver has created something that few police procedural writers have managed to do: He can show through action the intellectual processes of a detective without ever having his detective lift a finger. Not to suggest that The Coffin Dancer is not an action-oriented story. Rhyme still manages to get around in a somewhat souped-up wheelchair. He has attained a certain strength of spirit since The Bone Collector, too.

What sets this story off and running is Stephen Kall. Kall is a psychologically twisted man, a hired assassin whose job is to kill the two remaining witnesses to criminal activity. It seems that a very bad man is behind bars awaiting a trial that is coming all too soon. With his strong connections, he has hired Kall to off those who would speak out against him.

Kall has a tattoo on his arm of the Grim Reaper dancing with a woman on a coffin to prove it (hence the novel's title). In his mind, Kall reenacts his military training even while he aims to kill an innocent woman as she stands at her living room window. A worthy adversary to Rhyme, Kall is a chameleon who manages to blend into any environment, who can charm a lonely woman into providing a cover for him, or become virtually invisible on a street crowded with cops.

Accompanying Rhyme is Amelia Sachs, criminologist and Rhyme's apprentice of sorts. Sachs and Rhyme share an unusual meeting of minds, a kind of intimacy that is beyond the sexual. They are truly soulmates, and their work together attests to that fact.

From this point, the story zooms into hyperdrive, with Rhyme and Sachs on the trail of serial killer Kall, trying to catch this most elusive of psychos. The plot twists and turns and leads, ultimately, to a shattering and heart-pounding climax that is worthy of such a tense and entertaining story.

Entertainment Weekly
Spellbinding crime thriller...
Anthony Smith
...Deaver builds on the classic detective tradition of the mental puzzler....For pure plot and adrenaline, for brain teasing, for being in the company of characters as interesting as Lincoln Rhyme and his friends, I can recommend The Coffin Dancer highly....[I] thought it was great and look forward to the next one. At least, I hope there's a next one. I hope this is one series that will stick around.
Mystery Magazine Online
Sue Johnson
Be prepared for a fast and bumpy ride. This book and these characters will draw you in and grab you up till you come screaming out the other side. Yes, Lincoln Rhymes is definitely back!
Over My Dead Body.com
Denver Post
Tightly written. . .unexpected plot twists. . .nearly impossible to put down.
Pam Lambert
A breakneck thriller....Deaver is a master of ticking-bomb suspense.
People Magazine
San Jose Mercury
As good as it gets. There is no thriller today like Jeffery Deaver.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Deaver has come a long way since his Rune novels (Manhattan Is My Beat; Death of a Blue Movie Star), and the measure of his growth as a writer is on display in this taut sequel to the bestselling The Bone Collector, starring quadriplegic forensic specialist Lincoln Rhyme. Rhyme is called in to track down a contract killer, known as the Coffin Dancer, who has been hired to eliminate three witnesses in the upcoming federal trial of Philip Hansen. The trial is set to begin just 48 hours from the novel's (literally) explosive beginning. Rhyme and his beautiful assistant, detective Amelia Sachs, have just that much time to ID the Dancer and keep him from murdering the remaining witnesses. Yet Rhyme has personal reasons to track the Dancer, which come out in just one of the revelations and reversals that punctuate this thriller like a string of firecrackers. The pace, energized by Deaver's precise attention, never flags; and if the romantic angle is a little obvious (Rhyme's seeming concern for one of the Dancer's female targets sparks Amelia's jealousy), Deaver manages to renovate many of the hoariest conventions of the ticking-clock-serial-murder subgenre. Another original renovation is his Nero Wolfe-ish Rhyme--a detective who lives the life of the mind by necessity, not choice, and who thinks of everything but can't even pick up a phone without help. Trust Deaver's superb plotting and brisk, no-nonsense prose to spin fresh gold from tired straw. Literary Guild main selection; Doubleday Book Club featured alternate; Reader's Digest Condensed Book Club. (Aug.)
Library Journal
If you could imagine James Bond as Brenda K. Starr and Sherlock Holmes as a quadriplegic with a penchant for solving arcane forensic clues, this suspenseful cat-and-mouse exercise should be easy to enjoy. This is Deaver's second title (after The Bone Collector) featuring the dynamic duo of detective Lincoln Rhyme and the gutsy redhead Amelia Sachs. After a suspicious bombing of a company aircraft, the New York metropolitan area becomes the stomping ground of the crafty hit-man-of-many-faces, The Coffin Dancer. He matches wits with officers Rhyme and Sachs as he comes ever closer to his next targets.

Quick to the punch, The Coffin Dancer is diabolically packed with the good stuff: cover-ups, mystery, action. -- Ahmad Wright

Kirkus Reviews
Lincoln Rhyme, the quadriplegic criminalist of The Bone Collector (1997), returns to confront the uncannily resourceful killer who's been hired to eliminate three witnesses in the last hours before their grand jury testimony. The first witness is no challenge for the Coffin Dancer, so dubbed after his distinctive tattoo: He simply plants a bomb on Hudson Air pilot/vice-president Edward Carney's flight to Chicago and waits for the TV news. But Ed's murder alerts the two other witnesses against millionaire entrepreneur-cum-weapons-stealer Phillip Hansen, and also alerts the NYPD and the FBI that both those witnesses—Ed's widow, Hudson Air president Percey Clay, and her old friend and fellow-pilot Brit Hale'are on the hot seat. With 45 hours left before they're scheduled to testify against Hansen, they bring Rhyme and his eyes and ears, New York cop Amelia Sachs, into the case. Their job: to gather enough information about the Coffin Dancer from trace evidence at the crime scene (for a start, scrapings from the tires of the emergency vehicles that responded to the Chicago crash) to nail him, or at least to predict his next move and head him off. The resulting game of cat and mouse is even more far-fetched than in The Bone Collector—both Rhyme and the Dancer are constantly subject to unbelievably timely hunches and brain waves that keep their deadly shuttlecock in play down to the wire—but just as grueling, as the Dancer keeps on inching closer to his targets by killing bystanders whose death scenes in turn provide Rhyme and Sachs with new, ever more precise evidence against him. Fair warning to newcomers: Author Deaver is just as cunning anddeceptive as his killer; don't assume he's run out of tricks until you've run out of pages. For forensics buffs: Patricia Cornwell attached to a time bomb. For everybody else: irresistibly overheated melodrama, with more twists than Chubby Checker.

From the Publisher
San Jose Mercury News This is as good as it gets....The Lincoln Rhyme series is simply outstanding.

People Deaver is a master of ticking-bomb suspense.

Booklist Intense and heart-stopping...leaves readers gasping at the stunning climax.

People Deaver...is a master of ticking-bomb suspense... Rhyme, now a forensic consultant, is more relentless than ever. Especially when, as in his chilling new case, he has a personal score to settle.

USA Today Deaver revs up the already supercharged tension by cramming all of the action in The Coffin Dancer into forty-eight hours.

Publishers Weekly Revelations and reversals punctuate this thriller like a string of firecrackers....Superb plotting and brisk, no-nonsense prose.

Library Journal Quick to the punch, The Coffin Dancer is diabolically packed with the good stuff: coverups, mystery, action.

Kirkus Reviews Fair warning to newcomers: Author Deaver is just as cunning and deceptive as his killer; don't assume he's run out of tricks until you've run out of pages.

St. Petersburg Times Readers who like "insider information" on police and FBI lingo will enjoy details Deaver adds to the dialogue.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780684868059
Publisher:
Simon & Schuster
Publication date:
07/15/1999
Series:
Lincoln Rhyme Series , #2
Sold by:
SIMON & SCHUSTER
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
352
Sales rank:
9,024
File size:
3 MB

Read an Excerpt


Chapter One

When Edward Carney said good-bye to his wife, Percey, he never thought it would be the last time he'd see her.

He climbed into his car, which was parked in a precious space on East Eighty-first Street in Manhattan, and pulled into traffic. Carney, an observant man by nature, noticed a black van parked near their town house. A van with mud-flecked, mirrored windows. He glanced at the battered vehicle and recognized the West Virginia plates, realizing he'd seen the van on the street several times in the past few days. But then the traffic in front of him sped up. He caught the end of the yellow light and forgot the van completely. He was soon on the FDR Drive, cruising north.

Twenty minutes later he juggled the car phone and called his wife. He was troubled when she didn't answer. Percey'd been scheduled to make the flight with him -- they'd flipped a coin last night for the left-hand seat and she'd won, then given him one of her trademark victory grins. But then she'd wakened at 3 a.m. with a blinding migraine, which had stayed with her all day. After a few phone calls they'd found a substitute copilot and Percey'd taken a Fiorinal and gone back to bed.

A migraine was the only malady that would ground her.

Lanky Edward Carney, forty-five years old and still wearing a military hairstyle, cocked his head as he listened to the phone ringing miles away. Their answering machine clicked on and he returned the phone to the cradle, mildly concerned.

He kept the car at exactly sixty miles per hour, centered perfectly in the right lane; like most pilots he was conservative in his car. He trusted other airmen but thought most drivers were crazy.

In the office of Hudson Air Charters, on the grounds of Mamaroneck Regional Airport, in Westchester, a cake awaited. Prim and assembled Sally Anne, smelling like the perfume department at Macy's, had baked it herself to commemorate the company's new contract. Wearing the ugly rhinestone biplane brooch her grandchildren had given her last Christmas, she scanned the room to make sure each of the dozen or so employees had a piece of devil's food sized just right for them. Ed Carney ate a few bites of cake and talked about tonight's flight with Ron Talbot, whose massive belly suggested he loved cake though in fact he survived mostly on cigarettes and coffee. Talbot wore the dual hats of operations and business manager and he worried out loud if the shipment would be on time, if the fuel usage for the flight had been calculated correctly, if they'd priced the job right. Carney handed him the remains of his cake and told him to relax.

He thought again about Percey and stepped away into his office, picked up the phone.

Still no answer at their town house.

Now concern became worry. People with children and people with their own business always pick up a ringing phone. He slapped the receiver down, thought about calling a neighbor to check up on her. But then the large white truck pulled up in front of the hangar next to the office and it was time to go to work. Six p.m.

Talbot gave Carney a dozen documents to sign just as young Tim Randolph arrived, wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie. Tim referred to himself as a "copilot" and Carney liked that. "First officers" were company people, airline creations, and while Carney respected any man who was competent in the right-hand seat, pretension put him off.

Tall, brunette Lauren, Talbot's assistant, had worn her lucky dress, whose blue color matched the hue of the Hudson Air logo -- a silhouette of a falcon flying over a gridded globe. She leaned close to Carney and whispered, "It's going to be okay now, won't it?"

"It'll be fine," he assured her. They embraced for a moment. Sally Anne hugged him too and offered him some cake for the flight. He demurred. Ed Carney wanted to be gone. Away from the sentiment, away from the festivities. Away from the ground.

And soon he was. Sailing three miles above the earth, piloting a Lear 35A, the finest private jet ever made, clear of markings or insignia except for its N registration number, polished silver, sleek as a pike.

They flew toward a stunning sunset -- a perfect orange disk easing into big, rambunctious clouds, pink and purple, leaking bolts of sunlight.

Only dawn was as beautiful. And only thunderstorms more spectacular.

It was 723 miles to O'Hare and they covered that distance in less than two hours. Air Traffic Control's Chicago Center politely asked them to descend to fourteen thousand feet, then handed them off to Chicago Approach Control.

Tim made the call. "Chicago Approach. Lear Four Niner Charlie Juliet with you at one four thousand."

"Evening, Niner Charlie Juliet," said yet another placid air traffic controller. "Descend and maintain eight thousand. Chicago altimeter thirty point one one. Expect vectors to twenty-seven L."

"Roger, Chicago. Niner Charlie Juliet out of fourteen for eight."

O'Hare is the busiest airport in the world and ATC put them in a holding pattern out over the western suburbs of the city, where they'd circle, awaiting their turn to land.

Ten minutes later the pleasant, staticky voice requested, "Niner Charlie Juliet, heading zero nine zero over the numbers downwind for twenty-seven L."

"Zero nine zero. Nine Charlie Juliet," Tim responded.

Carney glanced up at the bright points of constellations in the stunning gunmetal sky and thought, Look, Percey, it's all the stars of evening...

And with that he had what was the only unprofessional urge of perhaps his entire career. His concern for Percey arose like a fever. He needed desperately to speak to her.

"Take the aircraft," he said to Tim.

"Roger," the young man responded, hands going unquestioningly to the yoke.

Air Traffic Control crackled, "Niner Charlie Juliet, descend to four thousand. Maintain heading."

"Roger, Chicago," Tim said. "Niner Charlie Juliet out of eight for four."

Carney changed the frequency of his radio to make a unicom call. Tim glanced at him. "Calling the Company," Carney explained. When he got Talbot he asked to be patched through the telephone to his home.

As he waited, Carney and Tim went through the litany of the pre-landing check.

"Flaps approach...twenty degrees."

"Twenty, twenty, green," Carney responded.

"Speed check."

"One hundred eighty knots."

As Tim spoke into his mike -- "Chicago, Niner Charlie Juliet, crossing the numbers; through five for four" -- Carney heard the phone start to ring in their Manhattan town house, seven hundred miles away.

Come on, Percey. Pick up! Where are you?

Please...

ATC said, "Niner Charlie Juliet, reduce speed to one eight zero. Contact tower. Good evening."

"Roger, Chicago. One eight zero knots. Evening."

Three rings.

Where the hell is she? What's wrong?

The knot in his gut grew tighter.

The turbofan sang, a grinding sound. Hydraulics moaned. Static crackled in Carney's headset.

Tim sang out, "Flaps thirty. Gear down."

"Flaps, thirty, thirty, green. Gear down. Three green."

And then, at last -- in his earphone -- a sharp click.

His wife's voice saying, "Hello?"

He laughed out loud in relief.

Carney started to speak but, before he could, the aircraft gave a huge jolt -- so vicious that in a fraction of a second the force of the explosion ripped the bulky headset from his ears and the men were flung forward into the control panel. Shrapnel and sparks exploded around them.

Stunned, Carney instinctively grabbed the unresponsive yoke with his left hand; he no longer had a right one. He turned toward Tim just as the man's bloody, rag-doll body disappeared out of the gaping hole in the side of the fuselage.

"Oh, God. No, no..."

Then the entire cockpit broke away from the disintegrating plane and rose into the air, leaving the fuselage and wings and engines of the Lear behind, engulfed in a ball of gassy fire.

"Oh, Percey," he whispered, "Percey..." Though there was no longer a microphone to speak into.

Copyright © 1998 by Jeffery Deaver

Chapter Two

Big as asteroids, bone yellow.

The grains of sand glowed on the computer screen. The man was sitting forward, neck aching, eyes in a hard squint -- from concentration, not from any flaw in vision.

In the distance, thunder. The early morning sky was yellow and green and a storm was due at any moment. This had been the wettest spring on record.

Grains of sand...

"Enlarge," he commanded, and dutifully the image on the computer doubled in size.

Strange, he thought.

"Cursor down...stop."

Leaning forward again, straining, studying the screen.

Sand, Lincoln Rhyme reflected, is a criminalist's delight: bits of rock, sometimes mixed with other material, ranging from .05 to 2 millimeters (larger than that is gravel, smaller is silt). It adheres to a perp's clothing like sticky paint and conveniently leaps off at crime scenes and hideouts to link murderer and murdered. It also can tell a great deal about where a suspect has been. Opaque sand means he's been in the desert. Clear means beaches. Hornblende means Canada. Obsidian, Hawaii. Quartz and opaque igneous rock, New England. Smooth gray magnetite, the western Great Lakes.

But where this particular sand had come from, Rhyme didn't have a clue. Most of the sand in the New York area was quartz and feldspar. Rocky on Long Island Sound, dusty on the Atlantic, muddy on the Hudson. But this was white, glistening, ragged, mixed with tiny red spheres. And what are those rings? White stone rings like microscopic slices of calamari. He'd never seen anything like this.

The puzzle had kept Rhyme up till 4 a.m. He'd just sent a sample of the sand to a colleague at the FBI's crime lab in Washington. He'd had it shipped off with great reluctance -- Lincoln Rhyme hated someone else's answering his own questions.

Motion at the window beside his bed. He glanced toward it. His neighbors -- two compact peregrine falcons -- were awake and about to go hunting. Pigeons beware, Rhyme thought. Then he cocked his head, muttering, "Damn," though he was referring not to his frustration with this uncooperative evidence but at the impending interruption.

Urgent footsteps were on the stairs. Thom had let visitors in and Rhyme didn't want visitors. He glanced toward the hallway angrily. "Oh, not now, for God's sake."

But they didn't hear, of course, and wouldn't have paused even if they had.

Two of them...

One was heavy. One not.

A fast knock on the open door and they entered.

"Lincoln."

Rhyme grunted.

Lon Sellitto was a detective first grade, NYPD, and the one responsible for the giant steps. Padding along beside him was his slimmer, younger partner, Jerry Banks, spiffy in his pork gray suit of fine plaid. He'd doused his cowlick with spray -- Rhyme could smell propane, isobutane, and vinyl acetate -- but the charming spike still stuck up like Dagwood's.

The rotund man looked around the second-floor bedroom, which measured twenty by twenty. Not a picture on the wall. "What's different, Linc? About the place?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, hey, I know -- it's clean," Banks said, then stopped abruptly as he ran into his faux pas.

"Clean, sure," said Thom, immaculate in ironed tan slacks, white shirt, and the flowery tie that Rhyme thought was pointlessly gaudy though he himself had bought it, mail order, for the man. The aide had been with Rhyme for several years now -- and though he'd been fired by Rhyme twice, and quit once, the criminalist had rehired the unflappable nurse/assistant an equal number of times. Thom knew enough about quadriplegia to be a doctor and had learned enough forensics from Lincoln Rhyme to be a detective. But he was content to be what the insurance company called a "caregiver," though both Rhyme and Thom disparaged the term. Rhyme called him, variously, his "mother hen" or "nemesis," both of which delighted the aide no end. He now maneuvered around the visitors. "He didn't like it but I hired Molly Maids and got the place scrubbed down. Practically needed to be fumigated. He wouldn't talk to me for a whole day afterwards."

"It didn't need to be cleaned. I can't find anything."

"But then he doesn't have to find anything, does he?" Thom countered. "That's what I'm for."

No mood for banter. "Well?" Rhyme cast his handsome face toward Sellitto. "What?"

"Got a case. Thought you might wanta help."

"I'm busy."

"What's all that?" Banks asked, motioning toward a new computer sitting beside Rhyme's bed.

"Oh," Thom said with infuriating cheer, "he's state of the art now. Show them, Lincoln. Show them."

"I don't want to show them."

More thunder but not a drop of rain. Nature, as often, was teasing today.

Thom persisted. "Show them how it works."

"Don't want to."

"He's just embarrassed."

"Thom," Rhyme muttered.

But the young aide was as oblivious to threats as he was to recrimination. He tugged his hideous, or stylish, silk tie. "I don't know why he's behaving this way. He seemed very proud of the whole setup the other day."

"Did not."

Thom continued. "That box there" -- he pointed to a beige contraption -- "that goes to the computer."

"Whoa, two hundred megahertz?" Banks asked, nodding at the computer. To escape Rhyme's scowl he'd grabbed the question like an owl snagging a frog.

"Yep," Thom said.

But Lincoln Rhyme was not interested in computers. At the moment Lincoln Rhyme was interested only in microscopic rings of sculpted calamari and the sand they nestled in.

Thom continued. "The microphone goes into the computer. Whatever he says, the computer recognizes. It took the thing a while to learn his voice. He mumbled a lot."

In truth Rhyme was quite pleased with the system -- the lightning-fast computer, a specially made ECU box -- environmental control unit -- and voice-recognition software. Merely by speaking he could command the cursor to do whatever a person using a mouse and keyboard could do. And he could dictate too. Now, with words, he could turn the heat up or down and the lights on or off, play the stereo or TV, write on his word processor, and make phone calls and send faxes.

"He can even write music," Thom said to the visitors. "He tells the computer what notes to mark down on the staff."

"Now that's useful," Rhyme said sourly. "Music."

For a C4 quad -- Rhyme's injury was at the fourth cervical vertebra -- nodding was easy. He could also shrug, though not as dismissingly as he'd have liked. His other circus trick was moving his left ring finger a few millimeters in any direction he chose. That had been his entire physical repertoire for the past several years; composing a sonata for the violin was probably not in the offing.

"He can play games too," Thom said.

"I hate games. I don't play games."

Sellitto, who reminded Rhyme of a large unmade bed, gazed at the computer and seemed unimpressed. "Lincoln," he began gravely. "There's a task-forced case. Us 'n' the feds. Ran into a problem last night."

"Ran into a brick wall," Banks ventured to say.

"We thought...well, I thought you'd want to help us out on this one."

Want to help them out?

"I'm working on something now," Rhyme explained. "For Perkins, in fact." Thomas Perkins, special agent in charge of the Manhattan office of the FBI. "One of Fred Dellray's runners is missing."

Special Agent Fred Dellray, a longtime veteran with the Bureau, was a handler for most of the Manhattan office's undercover agents. Dellray himself had been one of the Bureau's top undercover ops. He'd earned commendations from the director himself for his work. One of Dellray's agents, Tony Panelli, had gone missing a few days earlier.

"Perkins told us," Banks said. "Pretty weird."

Rhyme rolled his eyes at the unartful phrase. Though he couldn't dispute it. The agent had disappeared from his car across from the Federal Building in downtown Manhattan around 9 p.m. The streets weren't crowded but they weren't deserted either. The engine of the Bureau's Crown Victoria was running, the door open. There was no blood, no gunshot residue, no scuff marks indicating struggle. No witnesses -- at least no witnesses willing to talk.

Pretty weird indeed.

Perkins had a fine crime scene unit at his disposal, including the Bureau's Physical Evidence Response Team. But it had been Rhyme who'd set up PERT and it was Rhyme whom Dellray had asked to work the scene of the disappearance. The crime scene officer who worked as Rhyme's partner had spent hours at Panelli's car and had come away with no unidentified fingerprints, ten bags of meaningless trace evidence, and -- the only possible lead -- a few dozen grains of this very odd sand.

The grains that now glowed on his computer screen, as smooth and huge as heavenly bodies.

Sellitto continued. "Perkins's gonna put other people on the Panelli case, Lincoln, if you'll help us. Anyway, I think you'll want this one."

That verb again -- want. What was this all about?

Rhyme and Sellitto had worked together on major homicide investigations some years ago. Hard cases -- and public cases. He knew Sellitto as well as he knew any cop. Rhyme generally distrusted his own ability to read people (his ex-wife Blaine had said -- often, and heatedly -- that Rhyme could spot a shell casing a mile away and miss a human being standing in front of him) but he could see now that Sellitto was holding back.

"Okay, Lon. What is it? Tell me."

Sellitto nodded toward Banks.

"Phillip Hansen," the young detective said significantly, lifting a puny eyebrow.

Rhyme knew the name only from newspaper articles. Hansen -- a large, hard-living businessman originally from Tampa, Florida -- owned a wholesale company in Armonk, New York. It was remarkably successful and he'd become a multimillionaire thanks to it. Hansen had a good deal for a small-time entrepreneur. He never had to look for customers, never advertised, never had receivables problems. In fact, if there was any downside to PH Distributors, Inc., it was that the federal government and New York State were expending great energy to shut it down and throw its president in jail. Because the product Hansen's company sold was not, as he claimed, secondhand military surplus vehicles but weaponry, more often than not stolen from military bases or imported illegally. Earlier in the year two army privates had been killed when a truckload of small arms was hijacked near the George Washington Bridge on its way to New Jersey. Hansen was behind it -- a fact the U.S. attorney and the New York attorney general knew but couldn't prove.

"Perkins and us're hammering together a case," Sellitto said. "Working with the army CID. But it's been a bitch."

"And nobody ever dimes him," said Banks. "Ever."

Rhyme supposed that, no, no one would dare snitch on a man like Hansen.

The young detective continued. "But finally, last week, we got a break. See, Hansen's a pilot. His company's got warehouses at Mamaroneck Airport -- that one near White Plains? A judge issued paper to check 'em out. Naturally we didn't find anything. But then last week, it's midnight? The airport's closed but there're some people there, working late. They see a guy fitting Hansen's description drive out to this private plane, load some big duffel bags into it, and take off. Unauthorized. No flight plan, just takes off. Comes back forty minutes later, lands, gets back into his car, and burns rubber out of there. No duffel bags. The witnesses give the registration number to the FAA. Turns out it's Hansen's private plane, not his company's."

Rhyme said, "So he knew you were getting close and he wanted to ditch something linking him to the killings." He was beginning to see why they wanted him. Some seeds of interest here. "Air Traffic Control track him?"

"LaGuardia had him for a while. Straight out over Long Island Sound. Then he dropped below radar for ten minutes or so."

"And you drew a line to see how far he could get over the Sound. There're divers out?"

"Right. Now, we knew that soon as Hansen heard we had the three witnesses he was gonna rabbit. So we managed to put him away till Monday. Federal Detention."

Rhyme laughed. "You got a judge to buy probable cause on that?"

"Yeah, with the risk of flight," Sellitto said. "And some bullshit FAA violations and reckless endangerment thrown in. No flight plan, flying below FAA minimums."

"What'd Mis-ter Han-sen say?"

"He knows the drill. Not a word to the arrestings, not a word to the prosecutors. Lawyer denies everything and's preparing suit for wrongful arrest, yadda, yadda, yadda...So if we find the fucking bags we go to the grand jury on Monday and, bang, he's away."

"Provided," Rhyme pointed out, "there's anything incriminating in the bags."

"Oh, there's something incriminating."

"How do you know?"

"Because Hansen's scared. He's hired somebody to kill the witnesses. He's already got one of 'em. Blew up his plane last night outside of Chicago."

And, Rhyme thought, they want me to find the duffel bags...Fascinating questions were now floating into his mind. Was it possible to place the plane at a particular location over the water because of a certain type of precipitation or saline deposit or insect found crushed on the leading edge of the wing? Could one calculate the time of death of an insect? What about salt concentrations and pollutants in the water? Flying that low to the water, would the engines or wings pick up algae and deposit it on the fuselage or tail?

"I'll need some maps of the Sound," Rhyme began. "Engineering drawings of his plane -- "

"Uhm, Lincoln, that's not why we're here," Sellitto said.

"Not to find the bags," Banks added.

"No? Then?" Rhyme tossed an irritating tickle of black hair off his forehead and frowned the young man down.

Sellitto's eyes again scanned the beige ECU box. The wires that sprouted from it were dull red and yellow and black and lay curled on the floor like sunning snakes.

"We want you to help us find the killer. The guy Hansen hired. Stop him before he gets the other two wits."

"And?" For Rhyme saw that Sellitto still had not mentioned what he was holding in reserve.

With a glance out the window the detective said, "Looks like it's the Dancer, Lincoln."

"The Coffin Dancer?"

Sellitto looked back and nodded.

"You're sure?"

"We heard he'd done a job in D.C. a few weeks ago. Killed a congressional aide mixed up in arms deals. We got pen registers and found calls from a pay phone outside Hansen's house to the hotel where the Dancer was staying. It's gotta be him, Lincoln."

On the screen the grains of sand, big as asteroids, smooth as a woman's shoulders, lost their grip on Rhyme's interest.

"Well," he said softly, "that's a problem now, isn't it?"

Copyright © 1998 by Jeffery Deaver

Meet the Author

Jeffery Deaver is the international, #1 bestselling author of more than twenty-seven suspense novels, including The Bone Collector, which was made into a film starring Denzel Washington. He lives in North Carolina.

Brief Biography

Hometown:
Washington, D.C.
Date of Birth:
May 6, 1950
Place of Birth:
Chicago, Illinois
Education:
B.A., University of Missouri; Juris Doctor, cum laude, Fordham University School of Law
Website:
http://www.jefferydeaver.com/

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The Coffin Dancer (Lincoln Rhyme Series #2) 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 131 reviews.
scully60 More than 1 year ago
This was a reread. I first read this book in 2000 and decided to read it again last year. I gained more insights into the story on the second read. Jeffery Deaver is a master of suspense. This book has you constantly turning the pages unable to put it down. If you want a excellent suspense read this is a great choice.
Neil_Collins More than 1 year ago
This is the second Jeffery Deaver book I've read, and also the second of his Lincoln Rhyme series. (The Bone Collector was first). I think I enjoyed The Coffin Dancer even more than The Bone Collector, and I saw some real development in the characters, mainly Lincoln and Amelia Sachs, the primary protagonists. I found the story very well constructed and the telling quite good. I also really liked the way the reader is drawn to a certain perspective regarding the antagonist, setting the stage for a totally unexpected plot twist as the story reaches its climax. In short, Deaver did a great job steering us exactly where he wanted us to go, letting us discover the truth along with Lincoln and Amelia. No formulaic predictable ending here! As always, Deaver's understanding of his topic and the locations add greatly to his story telling. There is much visual detail that brings the reader into the scene. My one complaint is a minor one. Deaver goes into some detail about the ammunition the killer is using in his M-40 sniper rifle, as well as some technical detail about the rifle and the sniper's technique. He relates how the killer transformed "M118 Match Rounds" into "explosive" bullets by drilling into the core, filling it with an explosive charge, and then topping it with a ceramic tip "that would pierce most kinds of body armor." While the M118 (Military designation for a .308 cartridge firing a 173 grain boat-tailed projectile) was a correct long range round used by military snipers, the more common "Match round" in use today is the 168 grain boat-tail hollow-point. Both of these rounds, without alteration, will defeat common body armor as worn by many street cops; the purpose of which is to protect from handgun rounds. The idea of drilling out a "match" bullet is ridiculous, as it would require machining with micrometer precision to tolerances greater than .0001 of an inch; and it would still render the bullet far less accurate, especially if some substance were loaded into the tiny cavity. Adding a "ceramic nose" would further diminish the uniformity and accuracy. To then load a magazine full (five) of these "explosive rounds" into the rifle and slam them into the chamber, one after another, is asking to have the whole thing blow up in your face. Probably why no such rounds exist. I point this out only because it was unnecessary to the story, and made me wonder what other technical items that I'm not versed in might be made up. I realize it's fiction, but I want to be able to believe the story could happen. That issue aside, I loved The Coffin Dancer and will be reading more from Jeffery Deaver soon!
Guest More than 1 year ago
A very entertaining read! Deaver has quickly turned into one of my favorite authors. I'd give it 4 1/2 stars if possible, but I save the 5 star rating for the absolute best of the best... Never a dull moment in this book!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
You will be on the edge of your seat the entire book.
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Outstanding, remarkable, best read, highly recommend. Lots of twists and turns, keep you guessing till the end.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Deaver is one of the very best mystery writers. Lincoln Rhyme is a quadriplegic former cop. He does all his work using a mobile chair and several really good detectives. He always gets his "man" but you'd never guess it until the very end.
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Awesome book its for everyone who loves reading mysteries/ crime.
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1dachsmom More than 1 year ago
Highly recommend this book. Couldn't put it down. Can't wait for the next book.
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RapJR More than 1 year ago
Very interesting, had some good twists.
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grannytyjac More than 1 year ago
Could not stop reading! read it in two days. Was amazed that I didn't figure out the who the Coffin Dancer was. when you read as many mysteries as I have over the years, you usual can figure them out. I'm ordering the restnofmthe series. I'm hooked
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