Jeffery Deaver - The Vanished Man

• Artificial blood (sugar syrup + red food coloring), fragments of beef bone, gray sponge to simulate brain, real blood, razor knife blade.

• DOC officer's Glock.

• Handcuffs.

• Unsuccessful attempt to clean up blood.

• Additional bits of latex and makeup, as at prior scenes.

• Adhesive wax.

• Permanent ink, black, similar to that found earlier.

• Dried artificial blood (paint), sent to FBI.

• Carpet fibers, sent to FBI.

Profile as Illusionist

• Perp will use misdirection against victims and in eluding police.

• Physical misdirection (for distraction).

• Psychological (to eliminate suspicion).

• Escape at music school was similar to Vanished Man illusion routine. Too common to trace.

• Perp is primarily an illusionist. Talented at sleight-of-hand.

• Also knows protean (quick-change) magic. Will use breakaway clothes, nylon and silk, bald cap, finger cups and other latex appliances. Could be any age, gender or race.

• Calvert's death = Selbit's Cutting a Woman in Half routine.

• Proficient at lock-picking (possibly lock "scrubbing").

• Knows escapism techniques.

• Experience with animal illusions.

• Used mentalism to get information on victim.

• Used sleight of hand to drug her.

• Tried to kill third victim with Houdini escape. Water Torture Cell.

• Ventriloquism.

• Razor blades.

• Familiar with Burning Mirror routine. Very dangerous, rarely performed now.

• • •

The Cirque Fantastique was coming alive, an hour before that night's performance.

Kara walked past the banner of Arlecchino and noticed a police car, which Lincoln Rhyme had ordered to remain after the scare that afternoon. Feeling a camaraderie with them since she herself had been playing cop, she smiled and waved to the officers, who, though they didn't know her, waved back.

No one was selling tickets yet so Kara wandered inside and made her way backstage. She noticed a young man holding a clipboard. An employee pass sat high on his belt like Amelia's gun.

"Excuse me," she said.

"Yes?" he replied in a thick French or French-Canadian accent.

"I'm looking for Mr. Kadesky."

"He is not here. I am one of his assistants."

"Where is he?"

"Not here. Who are you?"

"I'm working with the police. Mr. Kadesky met with them earlier. They have some more questions for him."

The young man glanced at her chest, presumably, though not necessarily, looking for ID.

"Uh-huh. Ah. Police. Well, he's at dinner. He will be back soon."

"Do you know where he's eating?" she asked.

"No. You'll have to leave. You can't be back here."

"I only need to see him -"

"Do you have a ticket?"

"No, I -"

"Then you can't wait. You must leave. He never said anything about the police."

"Well, I really need to see him," she said firmly to the man with Gallic good looks and a chill demeanor.

"Really, you must go. You can wait outside for him."

"I might miss him."

"I'll have to call a guard," he threatened in his thick accent. "I will do that."

"I'll buy a ticket," she said.

"They're sold out. And even if you could buy one you could not be back here. I will walk you out."

He herded her out the main door, where the ticket-takers were now on duty.

Outside she paused and pointed over his shoulder toward a trailer on which was a sign, BOX OFFICE. "That's where I could buy a ticket?"

A demi-sneer crossed his face. "That's what a box office is. But, as I said, there are no more tickets. You can call Mr. Kadesky's company if you need to ask him something."

After he'd gone, Kara waited a moment or two, then turned the corner of the tent and proceeded to the stage entrance in back. She smiled at the security guard and he smiled back, giving only a cursory glance at her belt, where now sat the French-Canadian's employee pass, which she'd easily unhooked from his belt when she'd pointed and asked the foolish, but quite misdirecting, question about the box office.

Now, there's a rule for you , she reflected: Never fuck with somebody who knows sleight of hand.

Inside the backstage portion of the tent once again she hid the badge in her pocket and found a friendlier employee. The woman, Katherine Tunney, nodded sympathetically when Kara explained what she was doing there – that a former illusionist wanted for murder had been identified as someone Mr. Kadesky had worked with a long time ago. The woman had heard about the killings and she invited Kara to wait until the producer returned from dinner. Katherine gave Kara a pass to sit in one of the VIP boxes and then left on another errand, promising that she'd tell the guards to make sure Mr. Kadesky came to see her as soon as he returned. On her way to the box seat her pager sounded, an urgent beeping. She gasped when she saw the number, ran to a bank of temporary pay phones and, hand shaking, made the call.

"Stuyvesant Manor," the voice said.

"Jaynene Williams, please."

A huge wait.

"'Lo?"

"It's me. Kara. Is Mom okay?"

"Oh, she's fine, girl. But I wanted to tell you – don't get your hopes up. It might be nothin'. But a few minutes ago she woke up and asked for you. She knows it's Sunday night and she remembered you coming by earlier."

"You mean, 'me,' the real me?"

"Yep, your real name. Then she gave this little frown and said, 'Unless all she goes by is that crazy stage name of hers, Kara.'"

My God… Could she be back?

"And she knew me and she asked where you were. Said she wanted to tell you something."

Kara's heart accelerated.

Tell me something…

"Better get over here soon, honey. Might last. But it might not. You know how that goes."

"I'm in the middle of something, Jaynene. I'll get there as soon as I can." They hung up and, frantic, Kara returned to her seat. The tension was unbearable.

Right this instant her mother might be asking where her daughter was. Frowning and disappointed that the girl wasn't there. Please , she prayed, looking again toward the doorway for Kadesky. Nothing.

Wishing she could tap a hickory magic wand on the battered metal railing in front of her, point it at the doorway and materialize the producer.

Please , she thought again, aiming the imaginary wand toward the doorway. Please…

Nothing for a moment. Then several figures entered. None of them was Kadesky, though. They were just three women dressed in medieval costumes and wearing masks whose forlorn expressions were belied by the buoyant spring in the step of actors about to begin their evening's performance.

• • •

Roland Bell was standing in one of the canyons of downtown Manhattan: Center Street between the grimy, towering Criminal Courts building, crowned by the Bridge of Sighs, and the nondescript office building across the street from it.

Still no sign of Charles Grady's Volvo.

The lighthouse rotation once again. Where, where, where?

A honk nearby, in the direction of the entrance to the bridge. A shout.

Bell turned and jogged a few steps toward the sounds, wondering: Misdirection?

But, no, it was just a traffic dispute.

He turned back, toward the entrance to the Criminal Courts building, and found himself looking right at Charles Grady, who was strolling casually up the street, a block away. The prosecutor was walking with his head down, lost in his thoughts. The detective sprinted toward the man, calling, "Charles! Get down! Weir's escaped!"

Grady paused, frowning.

"Down!" Bell called breathlessly.

The alarmed man crouched on the sidewalk, between two parked cars. "What happened?" he shouted. "My family!"