Lifting her hand off the wheel she compulsively poked her finger into her hair and worried her scalp. Then she gripped the plastic wheel of the RRV once again and shoved the accelerator down until she burst into the suburban civilization of strip malls, sloppy commercial buildings, and fast-food franchises.

She was thinking about bombs, about Percey Clay.

And about Lincoln Rhyme.

Something was different about him today. Something significant. They’d been working together for a year now, ever since he’d shanghaied her away from a coveted assignment with Public Affairs to help him catch a serial kidnapper. At the time Sachs had been at a low point in her life – an affair gone bad and a corruption scandal in the department that disillusioned her so much that she wanted out of patrol altogether. But Rhyme wouldn’t let her. Simple as that. Even though he was a civilian consultant he’d arranged for her transfer to Crime Scene. She protested some but soon gave up the pretense of reluctance; the fact was that she loved the work. And she loved working with Rhyme, whose brilliance was exhilarating and intimidating and – an admission she made to no one – goddamn sexy.

Which wasn’t to say that she could read him perfectly. Lincoln Rhyme played life close to his chest and he wasn’t revealing all to her.

Shoot first…

What was that all about? You never discharged a weapon at a crime scene if there was any way to avoid it. A single gunshot would contaminate a scene with carbon, sulfur, mercury, antimony, lead, copper, and arsenic, and the discharge and blowback could destroy vital trace evidence. Rhyme himself told her of the time he’d had to shoot a perp hiding at a scene, his biggest concern being that the shots had ruined much of the evidence. (And when Sachs, believing she’d at last outthought him, said, “But what did it matter, Rhyme? You got the perp, right?” he’d pointed out acerbically, “But what if he’d had partners, hm? What then?”)

What was so different about the Coffin Dancer, other than the stupid name and the fact he seemed marginally smarter than the typical mafioso or Westie triggerman?

And working the scene at the hangar in an hour? It seemed to Sachs that he’d agreed to that as a favor for Percey. Which was completely unlike him. Rhyme would keep a scene sealed for days if he thought it was necessary.

These questions nagged and Amelia Sachs didn’t like unanswered questions.

Though she had no more time for speculation. Sachs spun the wheel of the RRV and turned into the wide entrance to the Mamaroneck Regional Airport. It was a busy place, nestled into a woody area of Westchester County, north of Manhattan. The big airlines had affiliated companies with service here – United Express, American Eagle – but most of the planes parked here were corporate jets, all of them unmarked, for security reasons, she guessed.

At the entrance were several state troopers, checking IDs. They did a double take when she pulled up – seeing the beautiful redhead driving an NYPD crime scene RRV and wearing blue jeans, a wind-breaker, and a Mets cap. They waved her through. She followed signs to Hudson Air Charters and found the small cinder-block building at the end of a row of commercial airline terminals.

She parked in front of the building and leapt out. She introduced herself to two officers who were standing guard over the hangar and the sleek, silver airplane that was inside. She was pleased that the local cops had run police tape around the hangar and the apron in front of it to secure the scene. But she was dismayed by the size of the area.

An hour to search? She could’ve spent an entire day here.

Thanks loads, Rhyme.

She hurried into the office.

A dozen men and women, some in business suits, some in overalls, stood in clusters. They were mostly in their twenties and thirties. Sachs supposed they’d been a young and enthusiastic group until last night. Now their faces revealed a collective sorrow that had aged them quickly.

“Is there someone named Ron Talbot here?” she asked, displaying her silver shield.

The oldest person in the room – a woman in her fifties, with spun and sprayed hair and wearing a frumpy suit – walked up to Sachs. “I’m Sally Anne McCay,” she said. “I’m the office manager. Oh, how’s Percey?”

“She’s all right,” Sachs said guardedly. “Where’s Mr. Talbot?”

A brunette in her thirties wearing a wrinkled blue dress stepped out of an office and put her arm around Sally Anne’s shoulders. The older woman squeezed the younger’s hand. “Lauren, you okay?”

Lauren, her puffy face a mask of shock, asked Sachs, “Do they know what happened yet?”

“We’re just starting the investigation… Now, Mr. Talbot?”

Sally Anne wiped tears then glanced toward an office in the corner. Sachs walked to the doorway. Inside was a bearish man with a stubbled chin and tangle of uncombed black-and-gray hair. He was poring over computer printouts, breathing heavily. He looked up, a dismal expression on his face. He’d been crying too, it seemed.

“I’m Officer Sachs,” she said. “I’m with the NYPD.”

He nodded. “You have him yet?” he asked, looking out the window as if he expected to see Ed Carney’s ghost float past. He turned back to her. “The killer?”

“We’re following up on several leads.” Amelia Sachs, second-generation cop, had the art of evasion down cold.

Lauren appeared in Talbot’s doorway. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” she gasped, an edgy panic in her voice. “Who’d do something like that? Who?” As a patrol officer – a beat cop – Sachs had delivered her share of bad news to loved ones. She never got used to the despair she heard in the voices of surviving friends and family.

“Lauren.” Sally Anne took her colleague’s arm. “Lauren, go on home.”

“No! I don’t want to go home. I want to know who the hell did it? Oh, Ed…”

Stepping farther into Talbot’s office, Sachs said, “I need your help. It looks like the killer mounted the bomb outside the plane underneath the cockpit. We have to find out where.”

“Outside?” Talbot was frowning. “How?”

“Magnetized and glued. The glue wasn’t completely set before the blast so it had to’ve been not long before takeoff.”

Talbot nodded. “Whatever I can do. Sure.”

She tapped the walkie-talkie on her hip. “I’m going to go on-line with my boss. He’s in Manhattan. We’re going to ask you some questions.” Hooked up the Motorola, headset, and stalk mike.

“Okay, Rhyme, I’m here. Can you hear me?”

Though they were on an areawide Special Ops frequency and should have been ten-fiveing and K’ing, according to Communications Department procedures, Sachs and Rhyme rarely bothered with radioese. And they didn’t now. His voice grumbled through the earphone, bouncing off who knew how many satellites. “Got it. Took you long enough.”

Don’t push it, Rhyme.

She asked Talbot, “Where was the plane before it took off? Say, an hour, hour and a quarter?”

“In the hangar,” Talbot said.

“You think he could’ve gotten to the plane there? After the – what do you call it? When the pilot inspects the plane?”

“The walkaround. I suppose it’s possible.”

“But there were people around all the time,” Lauren said. The crying fit was over and she’d wiped her face. She was calmer now and determination had replaced despair in her eyes.

“Who are you, please?”

“Lauren Simmons.”

“Lauren’s our assistant operations manager,” Talbot said. “She works for me.”

Lauren continued. “We’d been working with Stu – our chief mechanic, our former chief mechanic – to outfit the aircraft, working round the clock. We would’ve seen anybody near the plane.”

“So,” she said, “he mounted the bomb after the plane left the hangar.”

“Chronology!” Rhyme’s voice crackled through the headset. “Where was it from the moment it left the hangar until takeoff?”