Rhyme could say nothing.

There was a knock on the door.

The transport had arrived.

“Can you take the shackles off my feet?” the Dancer asked the two officers in a pathetic voice, his good eye blinking and tearful. “Oh, please. I hurt so much. And it’s so hard to walk.”

One of the guards looked at him sympathetically then at Rhyme, who said matter-of-factly, “You loosen so much as one restraint and you’ll lose your job and never work in this city again.”

The trooper stared at Rhyme for a moment, then nodded at his partner. The Dancer laughed. “Not a problem,” he said, his eye on Rhyme. “Just a factor.”

The guards gripped him by his good arm and lifted him to his feet. He was dwarfed by the two tall men as they led him to the door. He looked back.

“Lincoln?”

“Yes?”

“You’re going to miss me. Without me, you’ll be bored.” His single eye burned into Rhyme’s. “Without me, you’re going to die.”

An hour later the heavy footsteps announced the arrival of Lon Sellitto. He was accompanied by Sachs and Dellray.

Rhyme knew immediately there was trouble. For a moment he wondered if the Dancer had escaped.

But that wasn’t the problem.

Sachs sighed.

Sellitto gave Dellray a look. The agent’s lean face grimaced.

“Okay, tell me,” Rhyme snapped.

Sachs delivered the news. “The duffel bags. PERT’s been through ’em.”

“Guess what was inside,” Sellitto said.

Rhyme sighed, exhausted, and not in the mood for games. “Detonators, plutonium, and Jimmy Hoffa’s body.”

Sachs said, “A bunch of Westchester County Yellow Pages and five pounds of rocks.”

“What?”

“There’s nothing, Lincoln. Zip.”

“You’re sure they were phone books, not encrypted business records?”

“Bureau cryptology looked ’em over good,” Dellray said. “Fuckin’ off-the-shelf Yellow Pages. And the rocks’re nothin’. Just added ’em to make it sink.”

“They’re gonna release Hansen’s fat ass,” Sellitto muttered darkly. “They’re doin’ the paperwork right now. They’re not even presenting it to the grand jury. All those people died for nothing.”

“Tell him the rest,” Sachs added.

“Eliopolos is on his way here now,” Sellitto said. “He’s got paper.”

“A warrant?” Rhyme asked shortly. “For what?”

“Oh. Like he said. To arrest you.”

. . . Chapter Forty

Reginald Eliopolos appeared at the doorway, backed up by two large agents.

Rhyme had thought of the attorney as middle aged. But in the daylight he seemed to be in his early thirties. The agents were young too and dressed as well as he was, but they reminded Rhyme of pissed-off longshoremen.

What exactly did he need them for? Against a man flat on his back?

“Well, Lincoln, I guess you didn’t believe me when I said there’d be repercussions. Uh-huh. You didn’t believe me.”

“What the fuck’re you bitchin’ about, Reggie?” Sellitto asked. “We caught him.”

“Uh-huh . . . uh-huh. I’ll tell you what I’m”—he lifted his hands and made imaginary quotation marks in the air—“bitchin’ for. The case against Hansen is kaput. No evidence in the duffel bags.”