The Vanished Man

by Jeffery Deaver

  Sachs suited up in the Tyvek overalls and walked the grid in the hall and the alleyway (where she found the strangest bit of evidence she'd ever come across: a toy black cat). She then ran the gruesome scene in the young man's apartment, processed the body and assembled the evidence.

  She was heading for her car when Sellitto stopped her.

  "Hey, hold on, Officer." He hung up his phone, on which he'd apparently just had a difficult conversation, to judge from his scowl. "I've gotta meet with the captain and dep com about the Conjurer case. But I need you to do something for me. We're going to add somebody to the team. I want you to pick him up."

  "Sure. But why somebody else?"

  " 'Cause we've had two bodies in four hours and there're no fucking suspects," he snapped. "And that means the brass aren't happy. And here's your first lesson about being a sergeant--when the brass ain't happy, you ain't happy."

  *

  The Bridge of Sighs.

  This was the aerial walkway connecting the two soaring towers of the Manhattan Detention Center on Centre Street in downtown Manhattan.

  The Bridge of Sighs--the route walked by the grandest Mafiosos with a hundred hired kills to their names. Walked by terrified young men who'd done nothing more than take a Sammy Sosa baseball bat to the asshole who'd knocked up their sister or cousin. By edgy cluckheads who'd killed a tourist for forty-two dollars 'cause I needed the crack, needed the rock, needed it, man, I needed it. . . .

  Amelia Sachs crossed the bridge now, on her way to detention--technically the Bernard B. Kerik Complex but still known informally as the Tombs, a nickname inherited from the original city jail located across the street. Here, high above the governmental 'hood of the city, Sachs gave her name to a guard, surrendered her Glock (she'd left her unofficial weapon--a switchblade--in the Camaro) and entered the secure lobby on the other side of a noisy, electric door. It groaned shut.

  A few minutes later the man she was here to pick up came out of a nearby prisoner interview room. Trim, in his late thirties, with thinning brown hair and a faint grin molded into his easygoing face. He wore a black sportscoat over a blue dress shirt and jeans.

  "Amelia, hey there," came the drawl. "So I can hitch a ride with you up to Lincoln's place?"

  "Hi, Rol. You bet."

  Detective Roland Bell unbuttoned his jacket and she caught a glimpse of his belt. He, too, in accordance with regs, was weaponless but she noticed two empty holsters on Bell's midriff. She remembered when they worked together they often compared stories of "driving nails," a southernism for shooting--one of his hobbies and for Sachs a competitive sport.

  Two men who'd also been in the prisoner interview room joined them. One was in a suit, a detective she'd met before. Crew cut Luis Martinez, a quiet man with fast, careful eyes.

  The second man wore Saturday business clothes: khaki slacks and a black Izod shirt, under a faded windbreaker. He was introduced to Sachs as Charles Grady though Sachs knew him by sight; the assistant district attorney was a celebrity among New York law enforcers. The lean, middle-aged Harvard Law grad had remained in the D.A.'s office long after most prosecutors had fled to more lucrative pastures. "Pit bull" and "tenacious" were just two of the many cliches the press regularly applied to him. He was likened favorably to Rudolph Giuliani; unlike the former mayor, however, Grady had no political aspirations. He was content to stay in the prosecutor's office and pursue his passion, which he described simply as "putting bad guys in jail."

  And which he happened to be damn good at; his conviction record was one of the best in the history of the city.

  Bell was here thanks to Grady's current case. The state was prosecuting a forty-five-year-old insurance agent who lived in a small rural town in upstate New York. Andrew Constable was known less for writing home-owner's policies, though, than for his local militia group, the Patriot Assembly. He was charged with conspiracy to commit murder and hate crimes and the case had been moved down here on a change of venue motion.

  As the trial date approached, Grady had begun to get death threats. Then a few days ago the prosecutor had received a call from the office of Fred Dellray, an FBI agent who often worked with Rhyme and Sellitto. Dellray was currently in parts unknown on a classified anti-terrorist assignment but fellow agents had learned that a serious attempt on Grady's life might be imminent. Thursday night or early Friday morning Grady's office had been burglarized. At that point the decision was made to call Roland Bell.

  The soft-spoken North Carolina native's official assignment was working Homicide and other major crimes with Lon Sellitto. But he also headed up an unofficial division of NYPD detectives known as SWAT, which wasn't the same famous acronym that every viewer of Cops knows; this version stood for the "Saving the Witness's Ass Team."

  Bell had, as he expressed it, "this sorta knack for keeping people alive other people want dead."

  The result was that in addition to his regular investigation caseload with Sellitto and Rhyme, Bell ended up doing double duty running the protection detail.

  But now Grady's bodyguards were in place and the brass downtown--the unhappy brass--had decided to gear up the effort to nail the Conjurer. More muscle was needed on the Sellitto-Rhyme team and Bell was a logical choice.

  "So that was Andrew Constable," Grady said to Bell, with a nod through the greasy window into the interview room.

  Sachs stepped to the window and saw a slim, rather distinguished-looking prisoner in an orange jumpsuit, sitting at a table, his head down, nodding slowly.

  "He what you expected?" Grady continued.

  "Don't reckon," Bell drawled. "Was thinkin' he'd be more hill country. More of a blueprint bigot, you know what I mean? But that fella, he's fair mannerable. Fact is, Charles, I have to say, he didn't feel guilty."

  "Sure doesn't." Grady grimaced. "Gonna be hard to get a conviction." Then a wry laugh. "But that's what they pay me the big bucks for." Grady's salary was less than that of a first-year associate at a Wall Street law firm.

  Bell asked, "Anything more about the break-in at your office? The preliminary crime scene report ready yet? I need to see it."

  "It's being expedited. We'll make sure you get a copy."

  Bell said, "We got another situation needs looking into. I'll leave my fellows and girls with you and your family. But I'll be a phone call away."

  "Thanks, Detective," Grady said. He then added, "My daughter says hi. We've got to get her together with your boys. And meet that lady friend of yours. Where's she live again?"

  "Lucy's down in North Carolina."

  "She's police too, right?"

  "Yep, acting head of the sheriff's department. Metropolis of Tanner's Corner."

  Luis Martinez noticed Grady start for the door and he was instantly at the prosecutor's side. "You just want to wait here for a minute, Charles?" The bodyguard left the secure area and retrieved his pistol from the guard who oversaw the lockbox behind the desk and looked over the hallway and bridge carefully.

  It was then that a soft voice sounded behind them.

  "Hello, miss."

  Sachs detected in the words a particular lilt, formed by a history of service labor and contact with the public. She turned and saw Andrew Constable standing next to a huge guard. The prisoner was quite tall, his posture completely erect. His salt-and-pepper hair was wavy and thick. His short, round lawyer stood next to him.

  He continued, "Are you part of the team looking out for Mr. Grady?"

  "Andrew," his lawyer cautioned.

  The prisoner nodded. But kept his eyebrow raised as he looked at Sachs.

  "It's not my case," she said to him dismissively.

  "Ah, no? Was just going to tell you what I told Detective Bell. I honestly don't know anything about those threats against Mr. Grady." He turned to Bell, who gazed back at the suspect. The Tarheel cop could sometimes look bashful and reserved but that was never the case when confronting a suspect. A cool glare was his response now.

  "You have to do your job.
I understand that. But believe me, I wouldn't hurt Mr. Grady. One of the things that made this country great is playing fair." A laugh. "I'll beat him at trial. Which I will do--thanks to my brilliant young friend here." A nod toward his lawyer. Then a look of curiosity at Bell. "One thing I wanted to mention, Detective. I was wondering if you might have some interest in what my Patriots've been doing up in Canton Falls."

  "Me?"

  "Oh, I don't mean that crazy conspiracy nonsense. I mean what we're really about."

  The prisoner's lawyer said, "Come on, Andrew. Better to keep quiet."

  "Just conversing here, Joe." A glance at Bell. "How 'bout it?"

  "How d'you mean, sir?" Bell asked stiffly.

  The expected allusion to racism and the detective's southern roots didn't rear its head. He said, "States' rights, working folk, local government versus federal. You should go to our website, Detective." He laughed. "People expect swastikas. They get Thomas Jefferson and George Mason." When Bell said nothing a thick silence filled the close air around them. The prisoner shook his head then he laughed and looked abashed. "Lord, sorry me. . . . Sometimes I just can't stop myself--all this ridiculous preaching. Get a few people around me and look what happens--I outstay my welcome."

  The guard said, "Lessgo."

  "All right then," the prisoner responded. A nod to Sachs, one to Bell. He shuffled down the hall to the faint clink of the shackles on his legs. His lawyer nodded to the prosecutor--two adversaries who respected and yet were wary of each other--and left the secure area.

  A moment later Grady, Bell and Sachs followed, and joined Martinez.

  The policewoman said, "Doesn't seem like a monster. What're the charges exactly?"

  Grady said, "Some ATF folk working undercover on a weapons sting upstate found out about this plot we think Constable was behind. Some of his people were going to lure state troopers to remote areas of the county on fake nine-one-one calls. If any of them were black they were going to kidnap them, strip them naked and lynch 'em. Oh, there was some suggestion of castration too."

  Sachs, who'd dealt with plenty of terrible crimes in her years on the force, blinked in shock at this horrific news. "Are you serious?"

  Grady nodded. "And that was just the start of it. It seems the lynchings were all part of a grand plan. They were hoping that if they murdered enough troopers and the media televised the hangings, the blacks'd rise up in some kind of revolt. That'd give the whites around the country the chance to retaliate and wipe them out. They were hoping the Latinos and Asians would join the blacks, and the white revolution could take them out too."

  "In this day and age?"

  "You'd be surprised."

  Bell nodded to Luis. "He's in your care now. Stay close."

  "You bet," the detective responded. Grady and the slim bodyguard left the detention lobby while Sachs and Bell retrieved their weapons from the check-in desk. As they returned to the courthouse portion of the Criminal Courts building, walking over the Bridge of Sighs, Sachs told Bell about the Conjurer and his victims.

  Bell winced, hearing about Anthony Calvert's gruesome death. "Motive?"

  "Don't know."

  "Pattern?"

  "Ditto."

  "What's the perp look like?" Bell asked.

  "Little dicey on that part too."

  "Nothin' at all?"

  "We think he's a white male, medium build."

  "So nobody's got a look at him, huh?"

  "Actually a lot of people have. Except the first time they did, he was a dark-haired, bearded male in his fifties. Next time he was a bald janitor in his sixties. Then he was a woman in her seventies."

  Bell waited for her to laugh, signifying that this was a joke. When she remained grim-faced he asked, "This for no foolin'?"

  " 'Fraid it is, Roland."

  "I'm good," Bell said, shaking his head and tapping the automatic pistol on his right hip. "But I need a target."

  Now there's a prayer for you, thought Amelia Sachs.

  Chapter Twelve The evidence from the second scene had arrived and Mel Cooper was arranging the bags and vials on examining tables in Rhyme's parlor.

  Sellitto had just returned from a tense meeting at the Big Building about the Conjurer case. The deputy commissioner and the mayor wanted details on the progress of a case about which there were few details and had been no progress.

  Rhyme had heard back about the Ukrainian illusionists with the Cirque Fantastique and learned that they had no record. The two police officers stationed at the tent had also been checking around the circus and reported no leads or suspicious activity.

  A moment later Sachs strode into the room, accompanied by the even-keeled Roland Bell. When Sellitto had been ordered to add another detective to the team Rhyme had immediately suggested Bell; he liked the idea of a streetwise cop, who was a crack shot, backing up Sachs in the field.

  Greetings and introductions all around. Bell hadn't been told about Kara and she answered his querying glance with: "I'm like him." A nod toward Rhyme. "Sort of a consultant."

  Bell said, "Nice to meetcha." And blinked to see her absently rolling three coins back and forth over her knuckles simultaneously.

  As Sachs went to work on the evidence with Cooper, Rhyme asked, "Who was he, the vic?"

  "Name was Anthony Calvert. Thirty-two. Unmarried. Well, no partner, in his case."

  "Any connection with the student at the music school?"

  "Doesn't seem to be," Sellitto answered. "Bedding and Saul've checked it out."

  "What was his job?" Cooper asked.

  "Makeup stylist on Broadway."

  And the first one was a musician and music student, Rhyme reflected. One straight female, one gay male victim. Lived and worked in different neighborhoods. What could link the killings? He asked, "Any feel-good stuff?"

  But since the first crime hadn't been sexual in nature Rhyme wasn't surprised when Sachs said, "Nope. Not unless he takes his memories home to bed with him. . . . And he gets off on this." She stepped to the whiteboard and taped up the digital photos of the body.

  Rhyme wheeled closer and studied the gruesome images.

  "Sick fuck." Sellitto offered this lethargic observation.

  "And the weapon was?" Roland Bell asked.

  "Looks like a crosscut saw," Cooper said, examining some close-ups of the wounds.

  Bell, who'd seen his share of carnage as a cop both in North Carolina and New York, shook his head. "Well, now that's a tough shell."

  As Rhyme continued to study the pictures he was suddenly aware of an odd noise, an erratic hissing from nearby. He turned to see Kara behind him. The sound was her frantic breath. She was looking at the pictures of Calvert's body. She ran her hand compulsively over her short hair as she stared, transfixed, at the photos, tear-filled eyes wide in shock. Her jaw trembled. She turned away from the board.

  "Are you--?" Sachs began.

  Kara held up a hand, closed her eyes, breathing hard.

  Rhyme knew then, seeing the pain in her face, that this was it for her. She'd reached the end. His life--crime scene work--entailed this type of horror; her world didn't. The risks and dangers in her profession were, of course, illusory and it was too much to expect civilians to confront this revulsion voluntarily. This was a true shame because they needed her help desperately. But, seeing the horror in her face, he knew they couldn't subject her to any more of this violence. He wondered if she was going to be sick.

  Sachs started toward her but stopped when Rhyme shook his head--his message: he knew they were losing the girl and they had to let her go.

  Except that he was wrong.

  Kara took another deep breath--like a high diver about to plunge off the board--and turned back to the pictures, a determined look in her eyes. She'd just been steeling herself to confront the photos again.

  She studied them closely and finally nodded. "P. T. Selbit," she said, wiping her blue eyes.

  "That's a person?" From Sachs.

  Kara nod
ded. "Mr. Balzac used to do some of his routines. He was an illusionist who lived a hundred years ago. He did that routine. It's called Sawing a Woman in Half. This's the same, tied down, spread-eagle. The saw. The only difference is he picked a man for the performance." She blinked at the benign word. "I mean, the murder."

  Again Rhyme asked, "Would only a limited number of people know it?"

  "Nope. It was a famous trick, even more famous than the Vanished Man. Anybody with the slightest knowledge of magic history'd be aware of it."

  He had expected this discouraging answer but said, "Put it on the profile anyway, Thom." Then to Sachs: "Okay, tell us what happened at Calvert's."

  "Looks like the vic left through his building's back entrance on his way to work--like he always did, the neighbors said. He walked past an alley and saw that." She pointed to the black toy cat in a plastic bag. "A toy cat."

  Kara looked it over. "It's an automaton. Like a robot. We'd call it a feke."

  "A--?"

  "F-E-K-E. A prop that the audience is supposed to think is real. Like a fake knife with a disappearing blade or a coffee cup with a hidden reservoir in it."

  She pushed a switch and suddenly it started to move, giving off a realistic-sounding meow. "The vic must've seen the cat and walked over to it, maybe thought it was hurt," Sachs continued. "That's how the Conjurer got him into the cul-de-sac."

  "Source?" Rhyme asked Cooper.

  "Sing-Lu Manufacturing in Hong Kong. I checked the website. The toy's available in hundreds of stores around the country."

  Rhyme sighed. "Too common to trace" was the theme of the case, it seemed.

  Sachs continued, "So Calvert walked to the cat, crouched down to check it out. The perp was hiding somewhere and--"

  "The mirror," Rhyme interrupted. A glance at Kara, who was nodding. "Illusionists do a lot with mirrors. You aim them just right and you can vanish whatever or whoever's behind them completely."

  Rhyme recalled the name of her store was Smoke & Mirrors.

  "But something went wrong and the vic got away," Sellitto continued. "Now, this is the crazy part. We checked the nine-one-one tape. Calvert got back inside and into his apartment then called emergency. He told them the attacker was outside the building and the doors were locked. But then the line went dead. Somehow the Conjurer got inside."