“Flaps, ten, ten, green.”

The radio crackled, “Lear Niner Five Foxtrot Bravo, turn left heading two four zero, descend, and maintain four thousand.”

“Five Foxtrot Bravo, out of ten for four. Heading two four zero.”

She eased back on the throttle and the plane settled slightly, the grinding sound of the engines diminished, and she could hear the woosh of the air like a whisper of wind over bedsheets beside an open window at night.

Percey yelled back to Bell, “You’re about to have your first landing in a Lear. Let’s see if I can set her down without rippling your coffee.”

“In one piece’s all I’m asking for,” Bell said and cinched his seat belt tight as a bungee cord harness.

“Nothing, Rhyme.”

The criminalist closed his eyes in disgust. “I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.”

“He’s gone. He was there, they’re pretty sure. But the mikes didn’t pick up a sound.”

Rhyme glanced up at the big mirror he’d ordered Thom to prop up across the room. They’d been waiting for the explosive rounds to crash into it. Central Park was peppered with Haumann’s and Dellray’s tactical officers, just waiting for a gunshot.

“Where’s Jodie?” Rhyme asked.

Dellray snickered. “Hiding in the alley. Saw some car go by and spooked.”

“What car?” Rhyme asked.

The agent laughed. “If it was the Dancer, then he turned hisself into four fat Puerto Rican girls. Little shit said he won’t come out till somebody shuts off the streetlight in front of your building.”

“Leave him. He’ll come back when he gets cold.”

“Or to get his money,” Sachs reminded.

Rhyme scowled. He was bitterly disappointed that this trick too hadn’t worked.

Was it his failing? Or was there some uncanny instinct that the Dancer had? A sixth sense? The idea was repugnant to Lincoln Rhyme, the scientist, but he couldn’t discount it completely. After all, even the NYPD used psychics from time to time.

Sachs started toward the window.

“No,” Rhyme said to her. “We still don’t know for certain he’s gone.” Sellitto stood away from the glass as he drew the drapes shut.

Oddly, it was scarier not knowing exactly where the Dancer was than thinking he was pointing a large rifle through a window twenty feet away.

It was then that Cooper’s phone rang. He took the call.

“Lincoln, it’s the Bureau’s bomb people. They’ve checked the Explosives Reference Collection. They say they’ve got a possible match on those bits of latex.”

“What do they say?”

Cooper listened to the agent for a moment.

“No leads on the specific type of rubber, but they say it’s not inconsistent with a material used in altimeter detonators. There’s a latex balloon filled with air. It expands when the plane goes up because of the low pressure at higher altitudes, and at a certain height the balloon presses into a switch on the side of the bomb wall. Contact’s completed. The bomb goes off.”