What was he doing here? He was supposed to be in the safe house.

She heard a soft crying and looked into the conference room. There was Percey Clay sitting next to Lauren, the pretty brunette who Sachs remembered was Ron Talbot’s assistant. Lauren was crying and Percey, resolute in her own sorrow, was trying to comfort her. She glanced up, saw Sachs, and nodded to her.

No, no, no . . .

Then the third shock.

“Hi, Amelia,” Jerry Banks said cheerfully, sipping coffee and standing by a window, where he’d been admiring the Learjet parked in the hangar. “That plane’s something, isn’t it?”

“What’re they doing here?” Sachs snapped, pointing at Hale and Percey, forgetting that Banks outranked her.

“They had some problem or other about a mechanic,” Banks said. “Percey wanted to stop by here. Try to find—”

“Rhyme,” Sachs shouted into the microphone. “She’s here!”

“Who?” he asked acerbically. “And where is there?”

“Percey. And Hale too. At the airport.”

“No! They’re supposed to be at the safe house.”

“Well, they’re not. They’re right here in front of me.”

“No, no, no!” Rhyme raged. A moment passed. Then he said, “Ask Banks if they followed evasive driving procedures.”

Banks, uncomfortable, responded that they hadn’t. “She was real insistent that they stop here first. I tried to talk her—”

“Jesus, Sachs. He’s there someplace. The Dancer. I know he’s there.”

“How could he be?” Sachs’s eyes strayed to the window.

“Keep ’em down,” Rhyme said. “I’ll have Dellray get an armored van from the Bureau’s White Plains field office.”

Percey heard the commotion. “I’ll go to the safe house in an hour or so. I have to find a mechanic to work on—”

Sachs waved her silent, then said, “Jerry, keep them here.” She ran to the door and looked out over the gray expanse of the airfield as a noisy prop plane charged down the runway. She pulled the stalk mike closer to her mouth. “How, Rhyme?” she asked. “How’ll he come at us?”

“I don’t have a clue. He could do anything.”

Sachs tried to reenter the Dancer’s mind, but couldn’t. All she thought was, Deception . . .

“How secure is the area?” Rhyme asked.

“Pretty tight. Chain-link fence. Troopers at a road-block at the entrance, checking tickets and IDs.”

Rhyme asked, “But they’re not checking IDs of police, right?”

Sachs looked at the uniformed officers, recalling how casually they’d waved her through. “Oh, hell, Rhyme, there’re a dozen marked cars here. A couple unmarkeds too. I don’t know the troopers or detectives . . . He could be any one of them.”

“Okay, Sachs. Listen, find out if any local cops’re missing. In the past two or three hours. The Dancer might’ve killed one and stolen his ID and uniform.”

Sachs called a state trooper up to the door, examined him and his ID closely, and decided he was the real article. She said, “We think the killer may be nearby, maybe impersonating an officer. I need you to check out everybody here. If you don’t recognize ’em, let me know. Also, find out from your dispatcher if any cops from around the area’ve gone missing in the past few hours.”