Fred Dellray too had learned more about bombs than he’d ever intended. His longtime partner and friend, Toby Doolittle, had been on the ground floor of the Oklahoma City federal building several years ago. He’d been killed instantly in the fertilizer bomb explosion.

But Rhyme shook his head. “It’s all off-the-shelf stuff, Fred. Except for the explosives and the detonator cord. Hansen probably supplied them. Hell, the Dancer could’ve gotten everything he needed at Radio Shack.”

“What?” Sachs asked, surprised.

“Oh, yeah,” Cooper said, adding, “we call it the Bomber’s Store.”

Rhyme wheeled along the table over to a piece of steel housing twisted like crumpled paper, stared at it for a long moment.

Then he backed up and looked at the ceiling. “But why plant it outside?” he pondered. “Percey said there were always lots of people around. And doesn’t the pilot walk around the plane before they take off, look at the wheels and things?”

“I think so,” Sellitto said.

“Why didn’t Ed Carney or his copilot see it?”

“Because,” Sachs said suddenly, “the Dancer couldn’t put the bomb on board until he knew for sure who was going to be in the plane.”

Rhyme swiveled around to her. “That’s it, Sachs! He was there watching. When he saw Carney get on board he knew he had at least one of the victims. He slipped it on somewhere after Carney got on board and before the plane took off. You’ve got to find out where, Sachs. And search it. Better get going.”

“Only have an hour—well, less now,” said cool-eyed Amelia Sachs as she started toward the door.

“One thing,” Rhyme said.

She paused.

“The Dancer’s a little different from everybody else you’ve ever been up against.” How could he explain it? “With him, what you see isn’t necessarily what is.”

She cocked an eyebrow, meaning, Get to the point.

“He’s probably not up there, at the airport. But if you see anyone make a move for you, well . . . shoot first.”

“What?” She laughed.

“Worry about yourself first, the scene second.”

“I’m just CS,” she answered, walking through the door. “He’s not going to care about me.”

“Amelia, listen . . . ”

But he heard her footsteps receding. The familiar pattern: the hollow thud on the oak, the mute steps as she crossed the Oriental carpet, then the tap on the marble entryway. Finally, the coda—as the front door closed with a snap.

. . . Chapter Nine

Hour 3 of 45

The best soldiers are patient soldiers.

Sir, I’ll remember that, sir.

Stephen Kall was sitting at Sheila’s kitchen table, deciding how much he disliked Essie, the mangy cat, or whoever the fuck it was, and listening to a long conversation on his tape recorder. At first he’d decided to find the cats and kill them but he’d noticed that they occasionally gave an unearthly howl. If neighbors were used to the sound they might become suspicious if they heard only silence from Sheila Horowitz’s apartment.