Balzac returned to the computer, on which he was writing an article for the store's website about Jasper Maskelyne, the British magician who created a special military unit in World War Two, which used illusionist techniques against the Germans in North Africa. He was writing it from memory, without any notes or research; that was one thing about David Balzac--his knowledge of magic was as deep as his temperament was unstable and fiery.
"You hear that the Cirque Fantastique's in town?" she called. "Opens tonight."
The old illusionist grunted. He was exchanging his glasses for contact lenses; Balzac was extremely aware of the importance of a performer's image and always looked his best for any audience, even his customers.
"You going to go?" she persisted. "I think we should go."
Cirque Fantastique--a competitor to the older and bigger Cirque du Soleil--was part of the next generation of circuses. It combined traditional circus routines, ancient commedia dell'arte theater, contemporary music and dance, avant-garde performance art and street magic.
But David Balzac was old school: Vegas, Atlantic City, The Late Show. "Why change something that works?" he'd grumble.
Kara loved Cirque Fantastique, though, and was determined to get him to a performance. But before she could pitch her case to convince him to accompany her the store's front door opened and an attractive, redheaded policewoman walked in, asking for the owner.
"That's me. I'm David Balzac. What can I do for you?"
The officer said, "We're investigating a case involving someone who might've had some training in magic. We're talking to magic supply stores in town, hoping you might be able to help us."
"You mean, somebody's running a scam or something?" Balzac asked. He sounded defensive, a feeling Kara shared. In the past magic has often been linked to crooks--sleight-of-hand artists as pickpockets, for instance, and charlatan clairvoyants using illusionist techniques to convince bereaved family members that the spirits of their relatives are communicating with them.
But the policewoman's visit, it turned out, was prompted by something else.
"Actually," she said, glancing at Kara then back to Balzac. "The case is a homicide."
Chapter Seven "I have a list of some items we found at a crime scene," Amelia Sachs told the owner, "and was wondering if you might've sold them."
He took the sheet she handed him and read it as Sachs looked over Smoke & Mirrors. The black-painted cavern of a store in the photo district, part of Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood, smelled of mold and chemicals--plastic too, the petrochemical body odor from the hundreds of costumes that hung like a limp crowd from racks nearby. The grimy glass counters, half of them cracked and taped together, were filled with card decks and wands and phony coins and dusty boxes of magic tricks. A full-size replica of the creature from the Alien movies stood next to a Diana mask and costume. (BE THE PRINCESS OF THE PARTY! a card read. As if no one in the store even knew she was dead.) He tapped the list and then nodded at the counters. "I don't think I can help. We sell some of this, sure. But so does every magic store in the country. A lot of toy stores too."
She observed he hadn't spent more than a few seconds looking it over. "How about these?" Sachs showed him the printout of the photo of the old handcuffs.
He glanced at it quickly. "I don't know anything about escapology."
Was this an answer? "So that means you don't recognize them?"
"No."
"It's very important," Sachs persisted.
The young woman, with striking blue eyes and black fingernails, looked at the picture. "They're Darbys," she said. The man glanced at her coolly. She fell silent for a moment then: "Regulation Scotland Yard handcuffs from the eighteen hundreds. A lot of escapists use them. They were Houdini's favorites."
"Where could they've come from?"
Balzac rocked impatiently in his office chair. "We wouldn't know. Like I was saying, that's not a field we have any experience with."
The woman nodded, agreeing with him. "There're probably escapology museums somewhere you could get in touch with."
"And after you restock," Balzac said to his assistant, "I need you to process those orders. There were a dozen came in last night after you left." He lit a cigarette.
Sachs offered him the list again. "You did say you sold some of these products. Do you have records of customers?"
"I meant, products like them. And, no, we don't keep customer records."
After some questioning, Sachs finally got him to admit that there were recent records of mail-order and online sales. The young woman checked these, though, and found that nobody had bought any of the items on the evidence list.
"Sorry," Balzac said. "Wish we could be more help."
"You know, I wish you could be more help too," Sachs said, leaning forward. "Because, see, this guy killed a woman and escaped by using magic tricks. And we're afraid he's going to do it again."
Giving a frown of concern, Balzac said, "Terrible. . . . You know, you might try East Side Magic and Theatrical. They're bigger than us."
"We have another officer over there now."
"Ah, there you go."
She let a moment pass, silent. Then: "Well, if you can think of anything else, I'd appreciate a call." A good civil servant's smile, an NYPD sergeant's smile ("Remember: community relations are as important as criminal investigations").
"Good luck, Officer," Balzac said.
"Thanks," she said.
You apathetic son-of-a-bitch.
She nodded farewell to the young woman and glanced at a cardboard cup she was sipping from. "Hey, there anyplace around here to get some decent coffee?"
"Fifth and Nineteenth," she replied.
"Good bagels too," Balzac said, helpful now that there was no risk, or effort, involved.
Outside, Sachs turned toward Fifth Avenue and found the recommended coffee shop. She walked inside, bought a cappuccino. She leaned against a narrow mahogany bar in front of the flecked window, sipping the hot drink and watching the Saturday morning populace here in Chelsea--salespeople from the clothing stores in the area, commercial photographers and their assistants, rich yuppies who lived in the massive lofts, poor artists, lovers young and lovers old, a wacky notebook scribbler or two.
And one magic store clerk, now entering the shop.
"Hi," said the woman with short reddish-purple hair, carrying a battered faux zebra-skin purse over her shoulder. She ordered a large coffee, filled it with sugar and joined Sachs at the bar.
Back at Smoke & Mirrors the policewoman had asked about a venue for coffee because of a conspiratorial glance the assistant had shot Sachs; it seemed that she'd wanted to say something out of Balzac's presence.
Sipping her coffee thirstily, the woman said, "The thing about David is--"
"He's uncooperative?"
A frown of consideration. "Yeah. That says it pretty well. Anything outside his world he doesn't trust or want any part of. He was afraid we'd have to be witnesses or something. I'm not supposed to be distracted."
"From what?"
"From the profession."
"Magic?"
"Right. See, he's sort of my mentor more than my boss."
"What's your name?"
"Kara--it's my stage name but I use it most of the time." A pained smile. "Better than the one my parents were kind enough to give me."
Sachs lifted a curious eyebrow.
"We'll keep that a secret."
"So," Sachs said, "why'd you give me that look back at the store?"
"David's right about that list. You can buy those things anywhere, in any store. Or on the Internet in hundreds of places. But about the Darbys, the handcuffs? Those're rare. You should call the Houdini and Escapology Museum in New Orleans. It's the best in the world. Escapism's one of my things. I don't tell him, though." Reverent emphasis on the third-person pronoun. "David's kind of opinionated. . . . Can you tell me what happened? With that murder?"
Normally circumspect about what she gav
e away on an active case, Sachs knew they needed help and gave Kara an outline of the killing and the escape.
"Oh, that's horrible," the young woman whispered.
"Yeah," Sachs replied softly. "It is."
"The way he disappeared? There's something you ought to know, Officer--Wait, do I call you 'officer'? Or are you like a detective or something?"
"Amelia's fine." Enjoying a brief memory of how she'd aced the assessment exercise.
Bang, bang . . .
Kara sipped more coffee, decided that it wasn't sweet enough and unscrewed the top of the sugar bottle then poured more in. Sachs watched the young woman's deft hands then glanced down at her own fingernails, two of which were torn, the cuticles bloody. The girl's were perfectly filed and the glossy black finish reflected the overhead lights in exact miniature. A jealous twinge--at the nails and the self-control that kept them so perfect--flared momentarily and then was put quickly to sleep by Amelia Sachs.
Kara asked, "You know what illusion is?"
"David Copperfield," Sachs replied, shrugging. "Houdini."
"Copperfield, yes. Houdini, no--he was an escapist. Well, illusion's different from sleight of hand or close-in magic, we call it. Like . . ." Kara held up a quarter in her fingers, change from the coffee. She closed her palm and when she opened it again the coin was gone.
Sachs laughed. Where the hell had it gone?
"That was sleight of hand. Illusion is tricks involving large objects or people or animals. What you just described, what that killer did, is a classic illusionist trick. It's called the Vanished Man."
"Vanishing Man?"
"No, the Vanished Man. In magic we use 'vanish' to mean 'to make disappear.' Like, 'I just vanished the quarter.' "
"Go on."
"The way it's performed usually is a little different from what you described but basically it involves the illusionist getting out of a locked room. The audience sees him step into this little room onstage--they can see the back because of a big mirror behind it. They hear him pound on the walls. The assistants pull the walls down and he's gone. Then one of the assistants turns around and it's the illusionist."
"How does it work?"
"There was a door in the back of the room. The illusionist covers himself with a large piece of black silk so the audience can't see him in the mirror and slips through the back door just after he walks inside. There's a speaker built into one of the walls to make it sound like he was inside all the time and a gimmick that hits the walls and sounds like he's pounding. Once the illusionist's outside he does a quick change behind the silk into an assistant's costume."
Sachs nodded. "That's it, all right. Could we get a short list of people who know the routine?"
"No, sorry--it's pretty common."
The Vanished Man . . .
Sachs was recalling that the killer had changed disguises quickly to become an older man, recalling, too, Balzac's lack of cooperation and the cold look in his eyes--almost sadistic--when he was talking to Kara. She asked, "I need to ask--where was he this morning?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Balzac."
"Here. I mean, in the building. He lives there, above the store. . . . Wait, you're not thinking he was involved?"
"These're questions we need to ask," Sachs said noncommittally. The young woman seemed more amused than upset by the inquiry, though. She gave a laugh. "Look, I know he's gruff and he has this . . . I guess you'd call it an edge, you know. A temper. But he'd never hurt anybody."
Sachs nodded but then asked, "Still, you know where he was at eight this morning?"
Kara nodded. "Yeah, he was at the store. He got in early because some friend of his is in town doing a show and needed to borrow some equipment. I called to tell him I'd be a little late."
Sachs nodded. Then a moment later asked, "Can you take a little time off work?"
"Me? Oh, no way." An embarrassed laugh. "I was lucky to sneak out now. There're a thousand things to do around the store. Then I've got three or four hours of rehearsing with David for a show I'm doing tomorrow. He doesn't let me rest the day before a performance. I--"
Sachs held the woman's crisp blue eyes. "We're really afraid this person's going to kill someone else."
Kara's eyes swept the sticky mahogany bar.
"Please. Just for a few hours. Look over the evidence with us. Brainstorm."
"He won't let me. You don't know David."
"What I know is that I'm not letting anybody else get hurt if there's any way I can stop it."
Kara finished her coffee and absently played with the cup. "Using our tricks to kill people," she whispered in a dismayed voice.
Sachs said nothing and let silence do the arguing for her.
Finally the young woman grimaced. "My mother's in a home. She's been in and out of the infirmary. Mr. Balzac knows that. I guess I could tell him I have to go check on her."
"We really could use your help."
"Oh-oh. The sick mother excuse. . . . God's gonna get me for this one."
Sachs glanced down again at Kara's perfect, black nails. "Hey, one thing: What happened to that quarter?"
"Look under your coffee cup," the girl replied.
Impossible. "No way."
Sachs lifted up the cup. There sat the coin.
The bewildered policewoman asked, "How'd you do that?"
Kara's answer was an enigmatic smile. She nodded at the cups. "Let's get a couple more to go." She picked up the coin. "Heads you buy, tails it's on me. Two out of three." She flipped it into the air.
Sachs nodded. "Deal."
The young woman caught it and glanced into her cupped palm. She looked up. "We said two out of three, right?"
Sachs nodded.
Kara opened her fingers. Inside were two dimes and a nickel. The dimes were heads up. No sign of the quarter. "Guess this means you're buying."
Chapter Eight "Lincoln, meet Kara."
She'd been warned, Rhyme could see, but the young woman still blinked in surprise and glanced at him with the Look. The one he knew so well. Accompanied by the Smile.
It was the famous don't-look-at-his-body gaze, accompanied by the oh-you're-handicapped-I-never-noticed grin.
And Rhyme knew she'd be counting down the moments until she could get the hell out of his presence.
The sprightly young woman walked farther into the parlor lab in Rhyme's town house. "Hi. Nice to meet you." The eyes remained rooted in his. At least she didn't start forward with that minuscule lean that told him she was stifling an offered handshake and then cringe in horror at the faux pas.
Okay, Kara. Don't worry. You can give the gimp your insights then get the hell out.
He offered her a superficial smile that matched hers crease for crease and said how pleased he was to meet her too.
Which on a professional level, at least, wasn't sardonic--Kara was, it turned out, the only magician lead they'd snared. None of the employees at the other shops in town had been any help--and everyone had alibis for the time of the killing.
She was introduced to Lon Sellitto and Mel Cooper. Thom nodded and did one of the things he was known for, whether Rhyme wanted him to or not: offered refreshments.
"We're not really in a church social mode here, Thom," Rhyme muttered.
Kara said no that was all right but Thom said no he was insisting.
"Maybe coffee?" she asked.
"Coming up."
"Black. Sugar. Maybe a couple sugars?"
"We really--" Rhyme began.
"For the whole room," the aide announced. "I'll make a pot. Get some bagels too."
"Bagels?" Sellitto asked.
"You could open a restaurant in your spare time," Rhyme snapped to the aide. "Get it out of your system."
"What's spare time?" came the trim blond man's fast quip. He headed for the kitchen.
"Officer Sachs," he continued to Kara, "told us that you had some information you thought might help."
"I hope so." Another tight perusal
of Rhyme's face. The Look again. Closer this time. Oh, for Christ's sake, just say something. Ask me how it happened. Ask me if it hurts. Ask me what it's like to pee into a tube.
"Hey, what're we calling him?" Sellitto tapped the top of the evidence whiteboard. Until the identity of the unsub--for "unknown subject"--was learned, many law enforcers gave perps nicknames. "How 'bout the 'Magician'?"
"No, that sounds too tame," Rhyme said, looking at the pictures of the victim. "How's the 'Conjurer'?" Surprising himself by offering this decidedly right-brained suggestion.
"Works for me."
In handwriting far less elegant than Thom's the detective wrote the words on top of the chart.
The Conjurer . . .
"Now let's see if we can make him appear," Rhyme said.
Sachs said, "Tell them about the Vanished Man."
The young woman rubbed her hand over her boyish hair as she described an illusionist's trick that sounded almost identical to what the Conjurer had done at the music school.
She added the discouraging news, though, that most illusionists would know about it.
Rhyme asked, "Give us some idea about how he does the tricks. Techniques. So we'll know what to expect from him if he tries to target somebody else."
"You want me to tip the gaff, huh?"
"Tip the--?"
"Gaff," Kara said, then explained: "See, all magic tricks're made up of an effect and a method. The effect is what the audience sees. You know: the girl levitating, the coins falling through a solid tabletop. The method is the mechanism of how the magician does it--wires holding up the girl, palming the coins then dropping identical ones from a rig under the table."
Effect and method, Rhyme reflected. Kind of like what I do: the effect is catching a perp when it seems impossible. The method is the science and logic that let us do it.
Kara continued, "Tipping the gaff means giving away the method of a trick. Like I just did--explaining how the Vanished Man worked. It's a sensitive thing--Mr. Balzac, my mentor, he's always hounding magicians who tip the gaff in public and give away other people's methods."
Thom carted a tray into the room. He poured coffee for those who wanted some. Kara dumped sugar into hers and sipped it fast, even though to Rhyme it seemed scalding hot. He glanced at the Macallan eighteen-year-old single malt on a bookcase across the room. Thom noticed his eyes and said, "It's mid-morning. Don't even think about it."
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