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him. “We don’t know and we won’t until we find the seat of the bomb. It might’ve been planted in the cargo, in a flight bag, a coffeepot.”
    Or a wastebasket, he thought grimly, again recalling the Wall Street bombing.
    “I want every single bit of that bomb here as soon as possible. We have to have it,” Rhyme said.
    “Well, Linc,” Sellitto said slowly, “the plane was a mile up when it blew. The wreckage’s scattered over a whole fucking subdivision.”
    “I don’t care,” Rhyme said, neck muscles aching. “Are they still searching?”
    Local rescue workers searched crash sites but investigations were federal, so it was Fred Dellray who placed a call to the FBI special agent at the site.
    “Tell him we need every piece of wreckage that tests positive for explosive. I’m talking nanograms. I want that bomb.”
    Dellray relayed this. Then he looked up, shook his head. “Scene’s released.”
    “What?” Rhyme snapped. “After twelve hours? Ridiculous. Inexcusable!”
    “They had to get the streets open. He said—”
    “Fire trucks!” Rhyme called.
    “What?”
    “Every fire truck, ambulance, police car . . . every emergency vehicle that responded to the crash. I want the tires scraped.”
    Dellray’s long, black face stared at him. “You wanna repeat that? For my ex–good friend here?” The agent pushed the phone at him.
    Rhyme ignored the receiver and said to Dellray, “Emergency vehicle tires’re one of the best sources for good evidence at contaminated crime scenes. They were first on the scene, they usually have new tires with deep tread grooves, and they probably didn’t drive anywhere but to and from the crash site. I want all the tires scraped and the trace sent here.”
    Dellray managed to get a promise from Chicago that the tires of as many emergency vehicles as they could get to would be scraped.
    “Not ‘as many as,’ ” Rhyme called. “ All of them.”
    Dellray rolled his eyes and relayed that information too, then hung up.
    Suddenly Rhyme cried, “Thom! Thom, where are you?”
    The belabored aide appeared at the door a moment later. “In the laundry room, that’s where.”
    “Forget laundry. We need a time chart. Write, write . . . ”
    “Write what , Lincoln?”
    “On that chalkboard, right there. The big one.” Rhyme looked at Sellitto. “When’s the grand jury convening?”
    “Nine on Monday.”
    “The prosecutor’ll want them there a couple hours early—the van’ll pick ’em up between six and seven.”He looked at the wall clock. It was now 10 A.M. Saturday.
    “We’ve got exactly forty-five hours. Thom, write, ‘Hour one of forty-five.’ ”
    The aide hesitated.
    “Write!”
    He did.
    Rhyme glanced at the others in the room. He saw their eyes flickering uncertainly among them, a skeptical frown on Sachs’s face. Her hand rose to her scalp and she scratched absently.
    “Think I’m being melodramatic?” he asked finally. “Think we don’t need a reminder?”
    No one spoke for a moment. Finally Sellitto said, “Well, Linc, I mean, it’s not like anything’s going to happen by then.”
    “Oh, yes, something’s going to happen,” Rhyme said, eyes on the male falcon as the muscular bird launched himself effortlessly into the air over Central Park. “By seven o’clock on Monday morning, either we’ll’ve nailed the Dancer or both our witnesses’ll be dead. There’re no other options.”
    The dense silence was broken by the chirp of Banks’s cell phone. He listened for a minute, then looked up. “Here’s something,” he said.
    “What?” Rhyme asked.
    “Those uniforms guarding Mrs. Clay and the other witness? Britton Hale?”
    “What about them?”
    “They’re at her town house. One of ’em just called in. Seems Mrs. Clay says there was a black van she’d never seen before parked on the block outside thehouse for the last couple days. Out-of-state plates.”
    “She get the tag? Or state?”
    “No,” Banks