“Whatta you want?”

“Whatchu got, man?”

“Reds, bennies, dexies, yellow jackets, demmies.”

“Yeah, demmies’re good shit, man. I pay you. Fuck. I got money. I’m hurting inside. Got beat up. Where my money?” He slapped his pockets several times before realizing he was clutching the precious twenties in his left hand.

“But,” Jodie said, “you gotta do something for me first.”

“Yeah, whatta I gotta do that? You wanna blow job?”

“No,” Jodie snapped, horrified. “I want you to help me go through some trash.”

“Why I gotta do that shit?”

“Picking some cans.”

“Cans?” the man roared, scratching his nose compulsively. “The fuck you need a nickel for? I just give away a hunnerd cans find out where yo’ ass be. Fuck cans. I pay you money, man.”

“I give you the demmies for free, only you gotta help me get some bottles.”

“Free?” The man didn’t seem to understand this. “You mean, free like I don’t gotta pay?”

“Yeah.”

The Negro looked around as if he was trying to find somebody to explain this.

“Wait here,” Jodie said.

“Where I gotta look for bottles?”

“Just wait…”

“Where?” he demanded.

Jodie stepped back inside. He said to Stephen, “He’s gonna do it.”

“Good job.” Stephen smiled.

Jodie grinned back. He started to turn back to the door but Stephen said, “Hey.”

The little man paused.

Stephen blurted suddenly, “It’s good I met you.”

“I’m glad I met you too.” Jodie hesitated for a minute. “Partner.” He stuck his hand out.

“Partner,” Stephen echoed. He had a fierce urge to take his glove off, so he could feel Jodie’s skin on his. But he didn’t.

Craftsmanship had to come first.

Hour 25 of 45

THE DEBATE WAS FEVERISH.

“I think you’re wrong, Lincoln,” Lon Sellitto said. “We gotta move ’em. He’ll hit the safe house again, we leave ’em there.”

They weren’t the only ones considering the dilemma. Prosecutor Reg Eliopolos hadn’t checked in – not yet – but Thomas Perkins, the FBI special agent in charge of the Manhattan office, was here in person, representing the federal side of the debate. Rhyme wished Dellray were here – and Sachs too, though she was with the joint city/federal tactical force searching abandoned subway locations. So far they hadn’t found any trace of the Dancer or his compatriot.

“I’m being completely proactive in my take on the situation,” said earnest Perkins. “We have other facilities.” He was appalled that it had taken the Dancer only eight hours to find out where the witnesses were being held and to get within five yards of the disguised fire door of the safe house. “Better facilities,” he added quickly. “I think we should expedite immediate transferal. I’ve gotten a heads-up from high levels. Washington itself. They want the witnesses immunized.”

Meaning, Rhyme assumed, move ’em and move ’em now.

“No,” the criminalist said adamantly. “We have to leave them where they are.”

“Prioritizing the variables,” Perkins said, “I think the answer’s pretty clear. Move them.”

But Rhyme said, “He’ll come after them wherever they are, a new safe house or the existing one. We know the turf there, we know something about his approach. We’ve got good ambush coverage.”

“That’s a good point,” Sellitto conceded.

“It’ll also throw him off stride.”

“How so?” Perkins asked.

“He’s debating right now too, you know.”

“He is?”

“Oh, you bet,” Rhyme said. “He’s trying to figure out what we’re going to do. If we decide to keep them where they are, he’ll do one thing. If we move them – which I think is what he’s guessing we’ll do – he’ll try for a transport hit. And however good security is on the road, it’s always worse than fixed premises. No, we have to keep them where they are and be prepared for the next attempt. Anticipate it and be ready to move in. The last time -”

“The last time, an agent got killed.”

Rhyme snapped back to the SAC, “If Innelman had had a backup, it would’ve gone different.”

Perkins of the perfect suit was a self-protecting bureaucrat but he was reasonable. He nodded his concession.

But am I right? Rhyme wondered.

What is the Dancer thinking? Do I really know?

Oh, I can look over a silent bedroom or filthy alleyway and read perfectly the story that turned it into a crime scene. I can see, in the Rorschach of blood pasted to carpet and tile, how close the victim came to escaping or how little chance he had and what kind of death he died. I can look at the dust the killer leaves behind and know immediately where he comes from.

I can answer who, I can answer why.

But what’s the Dancer going to do?

That I can guess at but I can’t say for certain.

A figure appeared in the doorway, one of the officers from the front door. He handed Thom an envelope and stepped back to his guard post.

“What’s that?” Rhyme eyed it carefully. He wasn’t expecting any lab reports and he was all too conscious of the Dancer’s predilection for bombs. The package was no more than a sheet of paper thick, however, and was from the FBI.

Thom opened it and read.

“It’s from PERT. They tracked down a sand expert.”

Rhyme explained to Perkins, “It’s not for this case. It’s about that agent who disappeared the other night.”

“Tony?” the SAC asked. “We haven’t had a single lead so far.”

Rhyme glanced at the report.

Substance submitted for analysis is not technically sand. It is coral rubble from reef formations and contains spicules, cross sections of marine worm tubes, gastropod shells and foraminifers. Most likely source is the northern Caribbean: Cuba, the Bahamas.

Caribbean… Interesting. Well, he’d have to put the evidence on hold for the time being. After the Dancer was bagged and tagged he and Sachs would get back -

His headset crinkled.

“Rhyme, you there?” Sachs’s voice snapped.

“Yes! Where are you, Sachs? What do you have?”

“We’re outside an old subway station near City Hall. All boarded up. S &S says there’s somebody inside. At least one, maybe two.”

“Okay, Sachs,” he said, heart racing at the thought they might be close to the Dancer. “Report back.” Then he looked up at Sellitto and Perkins. “Looks like we may not have to decide about moving them from the safe house after all.”

“They found him?” the detective asked.

But the criminalist – a scientist foremost – refused to give voice to his hopes. Afraid he might jinx the operation – well, jinx Sachs, he was thinking. He muttered, “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”

Silently the ESU troops surrounded the subway station.

This was probably the place where the Dancer’s new partner lived, Amelia Sachs concluded. S &S had found several locals who’d reported a druggie selling pills out of the place. He was a slightly built man – in line with a size-eight shoe.

The station was, almost literally, a hole in the wall, supplanted years ago by the fancier City Hall stop a few blocks away.

The 32-E team went into position, while S &S began to set up their microphones and infrareds, and other officers cleared the street of traffic and the homeless men sitting on curbs or in doorways.

The commander moved Sachs away from the main entrance, out of the line of fire. They gave her the demeaning job of guarding a subway exit that had been barred and padlocked for years. She actually wondered if Rhyme had cut a deal with Haumann to keep her safe. Her anger from last night, in abeyance in their search for the Dancer, now bubbled up again.

Sachs nodded toward the rusty lock. “Hmm. He probably won’t be getting out this way,” she offered brightly.

“Gotta guard all entrances,” the masked ESU officer muttered, missing or ignoring her sarcasm, and returned to his comrades.