Jeffery Deaver - The Vanished Man

The woman had fallen silent.

Rhyme'd said, "Let me tell you a story."

"Story?"

"I headed the forensics department here in New York. The job had the typical administrative crap, you can imagine. But the thing I loved most – and what I was best at – was running crime scenes, so even after I was promoted I still got into the field as often as I could. Well, we had a serial rapist working in the Bronx a few years ago. I won't go into the details but it was an ugly situation and I wanted that man nailed. I wanted him bad. I got a call from patrol that there'd been another attack, just a half hour before, and it looked like there was some good evidence. I went uptown to run the scene personally."

"Just as I got there I found out my second in command – and a good friend of mine – had had a heart attack. A bad one. Big shock. He was a young guy, in good shape. Anyway, he was asking for me." Rhyme had pushed down a hard memory and continued, "But I stayed and ran the scene, filled out the chain of custody cards and then went to the hospital. I got there as fast as I could but I was too late. He'd died a half hour before. I wasn't proud of that. It still hurts me after all these years. But I wouldn't've done it different."

"So your point is that I should put my mother in some shitty home," she'd said bitterly. "A cheaper one. Just so I can be happy."

"Of course not. Put her someplace that'll give her what she needs – care and companionship. Not what you need. Not a rehab center that's going to bankrupt you… My point? It's that if there's something you know you're meant to do in life, that has to take priority over everything else. Get a job with Cirque Fantastique. Or another show. But you have to move on."

"Do you know what some of those homes are like?"

"Well, then your job is to find one that you're both comfortable with. Sorry to be blunt. But I told you up front I don't do well with delicacy."

She'd shaken her head. "Look, Lincoln, even if I decided to, do you know how many people'd die for a job at Cirque Fantastique? They get a hundred résumés a week."

Finally he'd smiled. "Well, now, I've been thinking about that. The Immobilized Man has an idea for a routine I think we should try."

Rhyme now finished telling Sachs the story.

Kara said, "We thought we'd call the trick the Escaping Suspect. I'm going to add it to my repertoire."

Sachs turned to Rhyme. "And the reason you didn't tell me before was …?"

"I'm sorry. You were downtown. I couldn't get through."

"Well, it might've worked better if you'd told me. You could've left a message."

"I. Am. Sorry. There. I've apologized. I don't do it very often, you know. I'd think you might appreciate it. Though, now that you brought it up, I don't really see how it could've worked better . The look on your face was priceless. Added to the credibility."

"And Balzac?" Sachs asked. "He didn't know Weir? He wasn't really involved?"

Rhyme nodded at Kara. "Pure fiction. We wrote the script, the two of us."

Sachs eyed the young woman. "First you get stabbed to death when I'm supposed to be looking out for you. Then you turn into a murder suspect." The policewoman gave an exasperated sigh. "This could be a difficult friendship."

Kara offered to run up the street to get some more Cuban takeout, which they'd missed the other day, though Rhyme suspected it was just an excuse for her to pick up another one of the restaurant's sludgy coffees. But before they could decide on the order they were interrupted by Rhyme's ringing phone. He ordered, "Command, answer phone." A moment later Sellitto's voice came on the speakerphone. "Linc, you busy?"

"Depends," he grumbled. "What's up?"

"No rest for the wicked… We need your help again. We got a weird homicide."

"Last one was 'bizarre,' if I remember correctly. I think you just say things like that to get my attention."

"No, really, we can't figure this one out."

"All right, all right," the criminalist grumbled, "give me the details."

Though the translation of Lincoln Rhyme's gruff demeanor was simply how pleased he was that boredom would be held at bay for at least a little while longer.

• • •

Kara stood outside Smoke & Mirrors, seeing things she'd never noticed in her year and a half working there. A hole in the upper left-hand corner of the plate glass from a BB or pellet gunshot. A tiny swirl of graffiti on the door. A dusty book on Houdini in the window, opened to the page discussing the type of sash cord he preferred to use in his routines.

She saw a flare inside the store – Mr. Balzac lighting a cigarette.

A breath. Let's do it , she thought and pushed inside.

He was by the counter with that friend of his who'd been in town this past weekend, an illusionist from California. Balzac introduced her as a student and the middle-aged man shook her hand. They made small talk about how his performance had gone last night, other people appearing in town… the typical gossip performers everywhere engage in. Finally the man picked up his suitcase. He was on his way to Kennedy airport for the flight home and had stopped at the store to return the props he'd borrowed. He embraced Balzac, nodded to Kara and left the store.

"You're late," the magician said to her gruffly. Then observed that she wasn't putting her bag behind the counter as she always did. He glanced at her hands. No coffee cup. That was, of course, the giveaway.

A frown. "What?" he asked, drawing on his cigarette. "Tell me."

"I'm leaving."

"You're…"

"I talked to Ed Kadesky. I've got a job with the Cirque Fantastique."

"Them? Kadesky? No, no, no – it's all wrong for you. That's not magic. That's -"

"It's what I want to do."

"We've been through this a dozen times. You're not ready. You're good. You're not great."

"That doesn't matter," she said firmly. "What matters is getting up onstage. Performing."

"If you rush it -"

"Rush it, David? Rush it? When would I be ready? Next year? In five years?"

Normally she found it difficult to hold his eye; today she looked straight at him as she said, "Would you ever let me go?"

A pause, while he ordered papers, slapped them down on the scuffed, cracked counter. "Kadesky," he scoffed. "And what'll you be doing for him?"

"Assistant at first. Then some winter season shows of my own in Florida. Then who knows?"

He stubbed out the cigarette. "It's a mistake. You'll be wasting your talent. What he does, it's not the kind of illusion I taught you."

"I got the job because of what you taught me."

"Kadesky," he said again contemptuously. "New magic."

"Yeah, it is," she said. "But I'll be doing your routines too. Metamorphosis, remember – the old becoming new."

He didn't smile though she could sense the reference to his act pleased him.

"David, I want to keep studying with you. When I'm back in town I want to take lessons. I'll pay for them."

"I don't think that would work. You can't serve two masters," the man muttered.

When Kara said nothing he said grudgingly, "We'll have to see. I might not have the time. I probably won't."

She hitched her purse higher on her shoulder.

"Right now?" he asked. "You're leaving now?"

"Yeah. I think it's best."

He nodded.

"So," Kara said.

The illusionist said a formal "Goodbye then" and stepped behind the counter, offering nothing else.

Struggling to keep the tears at bay, she walked to the door.

"Wait," he called as she started outside. Balzac stepped into the back of the store and then returned to her. He held something in his hand and thrust it into hers. It was the cigar box that contained Tarbell's three colored silks.

"Here. Take these… I liked the way you did that one. It was a tight trick."