“At Shoreham?” the attorney responded uncertainly. “Well, you bet we do. Uh-huh.”

“You’ve briefed them about security? About how dangerous the Dancer is?” Innocent as a babe.

A pause. “I’ve briefed them.”

“And what exactly are their orders?”

“Orders?” Eliopolos asked lamely. He wasn’t a stupid man. He knew that he’d been caught.

Rhyme laughed. He glanced at Sellitto and Dellray. “See, our U.S. attorney friend here has three witnesses he hopes can nail Hansen.”

“Three?”

“Percey, Hale . . . and the Dancer himself,” Rhyme scoffed. “He wants to capture him so he’ll turn evidence.” He looked at Eliopolos. “So you’re using Percey as bait too.”

“Only,” Dellray chuckled, “he’s putting her in a Havaheart trap. Got it, got it.”

“You’re thinking,” Rhyme said, “that your case against Hansen’s not so good, whatever Percey and Hale saw.”

Mr. Uh-huh tried sincerity. “They saw him ditch some goddamn evidence. Hell, they didn’t even actually see him do that. If we find the duffel bags and they link him to the killings of those two soldiers last spring, fine, we’ve got a case. Maybe. But, A, we might not find the bags, and, B, the evidence inside them might be damaged.”

Then, C, call me, Rhyme thought. I can find evidence in the clear night wind.

Sellitto said, “But you get Hansen’s hit man alive, he can dime his boss.”

“Exactly.” Eliopolos crossed his arms the way he must have done in court when he was delivering closing statements.

Sachs had been listening from the doorway. She asked the question Rhyme had just been about to. “And what would you plea the Dancer out to?”

Eliopolos asked, “Who’re you?”

“Officer Sachs. IRD.”

“It’s not really a crime scene tech’s place to question—”

“Then I’m asking the fuckin’ question,” Sellitto barked, “and if I don’t get an answer, the mayor’s gonna be asking it too.”

Eliopolos had a political career ahead of him, Rhyme supposed. And a successful one, most likely. He said, “It’s important that we successfully prosecute Hansen. He’s the greater of the two evils. The more potential for harm.”

“That’s a pretty answer,” Dellray said, scrunching up his face. “But it don’t do a thing for the question. What’re you gonna agree to give the Dancer if he snitches on Hansen?”

“I don’t know,” the attorney said evasively. “That hasn’t been discussed.”

“Ten years in medium security?” Sachs muttered.

“It hasn’t been discussed.”

Rhyme was thinking about the trap that they’d planned so carefully until 4 A.M. If Percey and Hale were moved now, the Dancer would learn of it. He’d regroup. He’d find out they were at Shoreham and, against guards with orders to take him alive, he’d waltz in, kill Percey and Hale—and a half dozen U.S. marshals—and leave.

The attorney began, “We don’t have much time—”

Rhyme interrupted with, “You have paper?”

“I was hoping you’d be willing to cooperate.”

“We aren’t.”

“You’re a civilian.”

“I’m not,” said Sellitto.

“Uh-huh. I see.” He looked at Dellray but didn’t even bother asking the agent whose side he was on. The attorney said, “I can get an order to show cause for protective custody in three or four hours.”