They placed the agent on a gurney and hurried down the corridor, Dellray with him, head down, muttering to himself and squeezing his dead cigarette between his fingers.

“Could he talk?” Rhyme asked. “Any clue where the Dancer went?”

“No. He was unconscious. I don’t know if they can save him. Jesus.”

“Don’t get rattled, Sachs. We’ve got a crime scene to analyze. We have to find out where the Dancer is, if he’s still around. Go back to the storeroom. See if there are exterior doors or windows.”

As she walked to it she asked, “How’d you know about the closet?”

“Because of the direction of the drops. He shoved Innelman inside and soaked a rag in the cop’s blood. He walked to the elevator, swinging the rag. The drops were moving in different directions when they fell. So they had a teardrop appearance. And since he tried leading us to the elevator, we should look in the opposite direction for his escape route. The storeroom. Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Describe it.”

“There’s a window looking out on the alley. Looks like he started to open it. But it’s puttied shut. No doors.” She looked out the window. “I can’t see any of the trooper’s positions, though. I don’t know what tipped him.”

“You can’t see any of the troopers,” Rhyme said cynically. “He could. Now, walk the grid and let’s see what we find.”

She searched the scene carefully, walking the grid, then vacuumed for trace and carefully bagged the filters.

“What do you see? Anything?”

She shone her light on the walls and she found two mismatched blocks. A tight squeeze, but someone limber could have fit through there.

“Got his exit route, Rhyme. He went through the wall. Some loose concrete blocks.”

“Don’t open it. Get SWAT there.”

She called several agents down to the room and they pulled the blocks out, sweeping the inner chamber with flashlights mounted on the barrels of their H&K submachine guns.

“Clear,” one agent called. Sachs drew her weapon and slipped into the cool, dank space.

It was a narrow declining ramp filled with rubble, leading through a hole in the foundation. Water dripped. She was careful to step on large chunks of concrete and leave the damp earth untouched.

“What do you see, Sachs? Tell me!”

She waved the PoliLight wand over the places where the Dancer would logically have gripped with his hands and stepped with his feet. “Whoa, Rhyme.”

“What?”

“Fingerprints. Fresh latents . . . Wait. But here’re the glove prints too. In blood. From holding the rag. I don’t get it. It’s like a cave . . . Maybe he took the gloves off for some reason. Maybe he thought he was safe in the tunnel.”

Then she looked down and shone the eerie glow of yellow-green light at her feet. “Oh.”

“What?”

“They’re not his prints. He’s with somebody else.”

“Somebody else? How do you know?”

“There’s another set of footprints too. They’re both fresh. One bigger than the other. They go off in the same direction, running. Jesus, Rhyme.”