The Vanished Man

by Jeffery Deaver

  Both Rhyme and Sachs glanced at Kara, who was nodding. "I've heard of it. But it's rare. Takes a lot of setup and it's pretty dangerous. Most theater owners won't let performers do it nowadays."

  "He kept going on about fire. How it's the one thing you can't fake onstage. How audiences see fire and they secretly hope maybe the illusionist'll get burned. Wait. I remember something else. He--"

  "Go on, Rhyme, you're on a roll."

  "Don't interrupt me," he snapped. "I told you he was acting as if he were giving a performance? He seemed delusional. He kept looking at the blank wall and talking to somebody. It was like, 'My something audience.' I don't remember what he called them. He was manic."

  "An imaginary audience."

  "Right. Hold on. . . . I think it was 'respected audience.' Talking to them directly, 'My respected audience.' "

  Sachs glanced at Kara, who shrugged. "We always talk to the audience. It's called patter. In the old days performers would say things like 'my esteemed audience,' or 'my dear ladies and gentlemen.' But everybody thinks that's hokey and pretentious. Patter's a lot less formal now."

  "Let's keep going."

  "I don't know, Sachs. I think I'm dry. Everything else is just a big blur."

  "I'll bet there's more. It's like that one bit of evidence at the scene. It's there, it might be the key to the whole case. You just have to think a little differently to find it." She leaned closer to Rhyme. "Let's say this is your bedroom. You're in the Flexicair. Where was he standing?"

  The criminalist nodded. "There. Near the foot of the bed, facing me. My left side, closest to the door."

  "What was his pose?"

  "Pose? I don't know."

  "Try."

  "I guess facing me. He kept moving his hands. Like he was speaking in public."

  Sachs stood and took up a position. "Like this?"

  "Closer."

  She moved in.

  "There."

  Her standing in this pose did in fact bring back a memory. "One thing. . . . He was talking about the victims. He said killing them wasn't anything personal."

  "Nothing personal."

  "He killed . . . yes, I remember now. He killed them because of what they represented."

  Sachs was nodding, scribbling notes to supplement the tape recording. "Represented?" she mused. "What does that mean?"

  "I didn't have any idea. One musician, one lawyer, one makeup artist. Different ages, sexes, professions, residences, no known connection to one other. What could they represent? Upper-middle-class lifestyles, urban dwellers, higher education. . . . Maybe one of those is the key--the rationalization for picking them. Who knows?"

  Sachs was frowning. "There's something wrong."

  "What?"

  She finally said, "Something about what you're remembering."

  "Well, it's not fucking verbatim. I didn't exactly have a stenographer handy."

  "No, that's not what I mean." She considered for a minute. Then she nodded. "You're characterizing what he said. You're using your language, not his. 'Urban dwellers.' 'Rationalization.' I want his words."

  "Well, I don't remember his words, Sachs. He said he didn't have anything personal against the victims. Period."

  She shook her head. "No, I'll bet he didn't say that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Murderers never think of the people they kill as 'victims.' It's impossible. They never humanize them. At least a pattern doer like the Conjurer wouldn't."

  "That's hogwash from police academy psych 101, Sachs."

  "No, it's the real world. We know they're victims but the perps always believe they deserve to die for one reason or another. Think about it. He didn't say 'victim,' did he?"

  "Well, what difference does it make?"

  "Because he said they were representative of something and we have to find out what. How did he refer to them?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Well, he didn't say 'victim.' I know that. Did he talk about any of them specifically? Svetlana, Tony. . . . How about Cheryl Marston? Did he call her the blonde woman? Did he say lawyer? Did he say the woman with big boobs? I guarantee he didn't say 'urban dweller.' "

  Rhyme closed his eyes, tried to go back there. Finally he shook his head. "I don't--"

  And then the word came to him.

  " 'Equestrian.' "

  "What?"

  "You're right. The word wasn't 'victim.' He called her 'the equestrian.' "

  "Excellent!" she said.

  Rhyme felt a burst of unreasonable pride.

  "How 'bout the others?"

  "No, she was the only one he referred to." Rhyme was positive about this.

  Sellitto said, "So he thinks of the vics as people doing a particular thing--that may or may not be their jobs."

  "Right," Rhyme confirmed. "Playing music. Putting makeup on people. Riding horses."

  "But whatta we do with that?" Sellitto asked.

  And as Rhyme had said to her so often, when she posed this very same question about crime scene evidence, she replied, "We don't know yet, Detective. But it's a step closer to figuring him out." The policewoman then consulted the notes she'd been taking. "Okay, he did the razor-blade tricks, mentioned the Burning Mirror. He talked to his respected audience. He's obsessed with fire. He picked a makeup artist, a musician and a horseback rider to kill because of what they represent--whatever that is. Can you think of anything else?"

  Eyes closed again. Trying hard.

  But kept seeing the razor blades, the flames, smelling the smoke.

  "Nope," he said, looking back at her. "I think that's it."

  "Okay. Good, Rhyme."

  And he recognized the tone in her voice.

  He knew it because it was the tone he'd often use.

  It meant she wasn't finished.

  Sachs looked up from her notes and said slowly, "You know, you're always quoting Locard."

  Rhyme nodded at the reference to the early French forensic detective and criminalist, who developed a principle that was later named for him. The rule held that at every crime scene there's always an exchange of evidence between the perpetrator and the victim or the locale itself, however minute.

  "Well, I'm thinking there might be a psychological exchange too. Just like a physical one."

  Rhyme laughed at the crazy idea. Locard was a scientist; he'd have balked at having his principle applied to something as slippery as the human psyche. "What're you getting at?"

  She continued, "You weren't gagged the whole time, were you?"

  "No, just at the end."

  "So that means you communicated something too. You took part in an exchange."

  "Me?"

  "Didn't you? Didn't you say anything to him?"

  "Sure. But so what? It's his words that're important."

  "I'm thinking he might've said something in response to you."

  Rhyme observed Sachs closely. A smudge of soot the shape of a quarter moon on her cheek, sweat just above her buoyant upper lip. She was sitting forward and, though her voice was calm, he could sense the tension of concentration in her pose. She wouldn't know it, of course, but she seemed to be feeling exactly the same emotions that he felt when he was guiding her through a crime scene miles away.

  "Think about it, Rhyme," she said. "Imagine that you're alone with a perp. Not the Conjurer necessarily. Any perp. What would you say to him? What would you want to know?"

  His reaction was to give a tired sigh that somehow managed to sound cynical. But, sure enough, her question jogged something in his mind. "I remember!" he said. "I asked him who he was."

  "Good question. And he said?"

  "He said he was a wizard. . . . No, not just a wizard but something specific." Rhyme squinted as he struggled to go back to that hard place. "It reminded me of The Wizard of Oz. . . . The Wicked Witch of the West." He frowned. Then he said, "Yeah, got it. He said he was the Wizard of the North. I'm sure that was it."

  "Does that mean anything to you?" Sachs ask
ed Kara.

  "No."

  "He said he could escape from anything. Except, he didn't think that he'd be able to escape from us. Well, from me. He was worried we'd stop him. That's why he came here. He said he had to stop me before tomorrow afternoon. That's when he was going to start killing again."

  "Wizard of the North," Sachs said, looking over her notes. "Now--"

  Rhyme sighed. "I really think that's it, Sachs. The well. Is. Dry."

  Sachs clicked the tape recorder off then leaned forward and with a tissue wiped the sweat off his forehead. "I figured. What I was going to say was now I need a drink. How 'bout it?"

  "Only if you or Kara pour," Rhyme said to her. "Don't let him measure it." Nodding sourly toward Thom.

  "Would you like something?" Thom asked Kara.

  Rhyme said, "She'll want an Irish coffee, I'll bet. . . . Why doesn't Starbucks start selling those?"

  Kara declined the liquor but put in an order for a straight Maxwell House or Folgers.

  Sellitto asked about the likelihood of some food since his anticipated Cubano sandwich hadn't survived the trip back to the town house.

  As the aide vanished into the kitchen Sachs handed Kara the notes she'd taken and asked if she'd write down anything she thought was relevant on the magician profile board. The young woman rose and went into the lab.

  "That was good," Sellitto told Sachs, "that interviewing. I don't know any sergeants could've done it better."

  She nodded an unsmiling acknowledgment but Rhyme could tell she was pleased at the compliment.

  A few minutes later Mel Cooper walked into the doorway, his face smudged too. He held up a plastic bag. "This's all the evidence from the Mazda." The bag contained what seemed to be a four-page folio--a single folded sheet--of The New York Times. It was clear that Sachs hadn't run the scene; wet evidence should be stored in paper or fiber mesh containers, not plastic, which promotes molds that can quickly destroy it.

  "That was all they found?" Rhyme asked.

  "So far. They haven't been able to raise the car yet. Too dangerous."

  Rhyme asked him, "Can you see the date?"

  Cooper examined the soggy paper. "Two days ago."

  "Then it has to be the Conjurer's," Rhyme noted. "The car was stolen before then. Why would somebody save just one sheet from a newspaper and not the whole section?" The question, as many of Rhyme's, was purely rhetorical and he didn't bother to let anyone else have a shot at it. "Because there's an article in it that was important to him. And therefore maybe important to us. Of course maybe he's a dirty old man and likes the Victoria's Secret ads. But even that might be helpful information. Can you read anything on it?"

  "Nope. And I don't want to unfold it yet. Too wet."

  "Okay, get it over to the document lab. If they can't open it at least they can image the headlines with infrared."

  Cooper arranged for a messenger to take the sample to the NYPD crime lab in Queens and then called the head document examiner at home to expedite the analysis. He disappeared into the lab to transfer the newspaper to a better container for transport.

  Thom arrived with the drinks--and a plate of sandwiches, which Sellitto promptly assaulted.

  A few minutes later Kara returned and gratefully took the coffee mug from the aide. As she started pouring sugar in, she said to Sachs, "I was writing those things we found out about him on the board? And I got an idea. So I made a phone call. I think I found his real name."

  "Whose?" Rhyme asked, sipping his heavenly scotch.

  "Well, the Conjurer's."

  The faint ring as Kara stirred the sugar into her coffee became the only sound in the otherwise dead-silent room.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  "You've got his name?" Sellitto asked. "Who is he?"

  "I think it's a man named Erick Weir."

  "Spelled?" Rhyme asked.

  "W-E-I-R." More sugar into the coffee. Then she continued. "He was a performer, an illusionist, a few years ago. I called Mr. Balzac--nobody knows the business like he does. And I gave him the profile and told him some of the things he'd said to Lincoln tonight. He got kind of weird--not to mention mad." A glance at Sachs. "The way he was this morning. He didn't want to help at first. But finally he calmed down and told me that it sounded like Weir."

  "Why?" Sachs asked.

  "Well, he'd be about the same age. Early fifties. And Weir was known for dangerous routines. Sleights with razor blades and knives. He's also one of the few people who's ever done the Burning Mirror. And remember I said illusionists always specialize? It's really unusual to find one performer who's good at so many different tricks--illusion and escape and protean and sleight, even ventriloquism and mentalism? Well, Weir did all of them. And he was an expert on Houdini. Some of what he's been doing this weekend are Houdini's routines or are based on them.

  "Then that thing he also said--about being the wizard. There was a magician in the 1800s, John Henry Anderson. That's what he called himself--the Wizard of the North. He was real talented. But he had bad luck with fires. His show was nearly destroyed a couple of times. David told me that Weir was badly burned in a circus fire."

  "The scars," Rhyme said. "The obsession with fire."

  "And maybe his voice wasn't asthma," Sachs suggested. "The fire might've damaged his lungs or vocal cords."

  "When was Weir's accident?" Sellitto asked.

  "Three years ago. The circus tent he was rehearsing in was destroyed and Weir's wife was killed. They'd just gotten married. Nobody else was badly hurt."

  It was a good lead. "Mel!" Rhyme shouted, forgetting his concerns about imperiling his own lungs. "Mel!"

  A moment later Cooper stepped into the room. "Feeling better, I hear."

  "Lexis/Nexis search, VICAP, NCIC and state databases. Details on an Erick Weir. W-E-I-R. Performer, illusionist, magician. He may be our perp."

  Kara added, "First name spelled E-R-I-C-K."

  "You found his name?" the tech asked, impressed.

  A nod toward Kara. "She found his name."

  "My."

  After a few minutes Cooper returned with a number of printouts. He riffled through them as he addressed the team. "Not much," he said. "It's like he kept everything about his life under wraps. Erick Albert Weir. Born Las Vegas, October 1950. Virtually no early history. Weir worked for various circuses, casinos and entertainment companies as an assistant then he went out on his own as an illusionist and quick-change artist. Married Marie Cosgrove three years ago. Just after that he was appearing in the Thomas Hasbro and The Keller Brothers circus in Cleveland. During a rehearsal a fire broke out. The tent was destroyed. He was badly burned--third degree--and his wife was killed. No mention of him after that."

  "Track down Weir's family."

  Sellitto said he would. Since Bedding and Saul were fully occupied the detective called some Homicide task force detectives in the Big Building and put them on the job.

  "A few other things," Cooper said, flipping through the printouts. "A couple of years before the fire Weir was arrested and convicted of reckless endangerment in New Jersey. Served thirty days. A member of the audience was badly burned when something went wrong onstage. Then there were some civil lawsuits by managers for damage to theaters and injuries to employees and some suits by Weir for breach of contract. In one show the manager found out Weir was using a real gun and real bullets in an act. Weir wouldn't change the routine and so the manager fired him." More reading. Then the tech continued, "In one of the articles I found the names of two assistants who were working with him at the time of the fire. One's in Reno and one's in Las Vegas. I got their numbers from the Nevada State Police."

  "It's earlier their time," Rhyme pointed out, glancing at the clock. "Dig up the speakerphone, Thom."

  "No, after everything tonight you need some rest."

  "Just two phone calls. Then beddy-bye. Promise."

  The aide debated.

  "Please and thank-you?"

  Thom nodded and vanished.
A moment later he returned with the phone, plugged it in, set the unit close to Rhyme on the bedside table. "Ten minutes and I'm pulling the main circuit breaker," the aide said with enough threat in his voice to make Rhyme believe he'd do it.

  "Fair enough."

  Sellitto finished his sandwich and dialed the number of the first assistant on Cooper's list. The recorded voice of Arthur Loesser's wife answered and told them that the family wasn't home but please leave a message. Sellitto did so then he dialed the other assistant.

  John Keating answered on the first ring and Sellitto explained they were in the middle of an investigation and had some questions for him. A pause then a man's nervous voice rattled out of the tiny speaker. "Uhm, what's this about? This's the New York City police?"

  "That's right."

  "Okay. I guess it's okay."

  Sellitto asked, "You used to work for a man named Erick Weir, didn't you?"

  Silence for a moment. Then the man launched into a staccato reply. "Mr. Weir? Well, uh-huh. I did. Why?" The voice was edgy and high. He sounded as if he'd just had a dozen cups of coffee.

  "Do you happen to know where he might be?"

  "I mean, why are you asking me about him?"

  "We'd like to talk to him as part of a criminal investigation."

  "Oh, my God. . . . About what? What do you want to talk to him about?"

  "We just have some general questions," Sellitto said. "Have you had any contact with him lately?"

  There was a pause. This was the part where the nervous man would either spill all or run for the hills, Rhyme knew.

  "Sir?" Sellitto asked.

  "That's funny, okay. You asking me, I mean about him." The words clattered like marbles on metal. "Here it is. I'll tell you. I hadn't heard from Mr. Weir for years. I thought he was dead. There was this fire in Ohio, the last job we were working. He got burned. Real bad. He disappeared and we all thought he was dead. But then maybe six or seven weeks ago he called."

  "From where?" Rhyme asked.

  "I don't know. He didn't say. I didn't ask. It doesn't occur to anyone to ask where somebody's calling from. Not the first thing. You just don't think about that. Do you ever ask that?"

  Rhyme asked, "What did he want?"

  "Okay, okay. He wanted to know if I still kept up with anybody at the circus where the fire happened. The Hasbro circus. But that was Ohio. It was three years ago. And Hasbro's not even in business anymore. After the fire the owner folded it and it became a different show. Why would I keep up with anybody there? Here I am in Reno. I said I didn't. And he got all ippity, you know."