Oh, Lord, no . . .

Robert-Houdin had tighter tricks than the Marabouts. Though I think they almost killed him.

Don't worry. I'll make sure that doesn't happen to you. . . .

But she hadn't. She'd been so focused on the Conjurer that she'd neglected the girl.

No, no, Rhyme, some dead you can't give up. This tragedy would be with her forever.

But then she thought: There'll be time to mourn. There'll be time for recrimination and consequences. Right now, start thinking like a goddamn cop. The Conjurer's nearby. And he is not getting away. This is a crime scene and you know what to do.

Step one. Seal the escape routes.

Step two. Seal the scene.

Step three. Identify, protect and interview witnesses.

She turned to two fellow patrol officers to delegate some of these tasks. But as Sachs started to speak she heard a voice in her clattering radio. "RMP Four Seven to all available officers on that ten-twenty-four by the river. Suspect just broke through perimeter at the east side of the street fair. Is now on West End approaching Seven-eight Street, heading north on foot. . . . Wearing jeans, blue shirt with Harley-Davidson logo. Dark hair, braid, black baseball cap. Can't see any weapons. . . . I'm losing him in the crowd. . . . All available portables and RMPs respond."

The biker! He'd ditched his businessman's clothes and quick-changed. He'd stabbed Kara to misdirect them and then slipped through the perimeter when the officers started toward the girl.

And I was three feet from him!

Other officers called in their acknowledgments and joined the chase though it seemed that the killer had a good head start. Sachs caught sight of Roland Bell, who was looking down at Kara, frowning as he pressed the headset of his Motorola closer to his ear, listening to the same transmission that Sachs was. They caught each other's eyes and he nodded in the direction of the pursuit. Sachs barked orders to a nearby patrolman to seal the scene of Kara's murder, call the medical examiner and find witnesses.

"But-" the balding young officer began to protest, none too happy, she guessed, to be taking orders from a peer his own age.

"No buts," she said, not in the mood for a pissing contest about weeks or days of seniority between them. "You can bitch to your supervisor about it later."

If he said anything else she didn't hear; ignoring the painful arthritis, she leaped down the stairs two at a time after Roland Bell and began pursuit of the man who'd killed their friend.

He's fast.

But I'm faster.

Six-year-vet Patrolman Lawrence Burke sprinted out of Riverside Park onto West End Avenue, only twenty feet behind the speeding perp, some biker asshole in a Harley shirt.

Running around pedestrians, broken field, exactly the way he used to do in high school, going after the receiver.

And just like back then, Legs Larry was closing in.

He'd been on his way to the Hudson River to help secure a 10-24 assault crime scene when he'd heard a further-to pursuit call and turned about-face to find himself staring at the perp-a scuzzy biker.

"Yo, you! Hold it!"

But the man hadn't stopped. He'd dodged past Burke and kept right on going north in a panic run. And so just like at the Woodrow Wilson High homecoming game when he'd sprinted seventy-two yards after Chris Broderick (managing to bring him down with a breathless wallop two feet shy of the end zone), Legs went into overdrive and started after the perp.

Burke didn't draw his weapon. Unless the perp you're after is armed and there's an immediate danger he's going to shoot you or a passerby you can't use deadly force to stop him. And shooting anybody in the back looks very bad at the shooting incident inquiry, not to mention at promotion reviews and in the press.

"Hey, you fuck loser!" Burke gasped.

The biker turned east down a cross street, glancing back with wide eyes, seeing Legs steadily closing the distance.

The guy skidded to the left, down an alley. The cop took the turn even smoother than Mr. Harley and stayed right on the man's ass.

Some police departments issued nets or stun guns to stop fleeing felons but the NYPD wasn't so high-tech. Besides, it didn't matter, not in this case. Larry Burke had more skills than running. Tackling, for instance.

From three feet away he launched himself into the air, remembering to aim high and use the guy's own body for padding when they went down.

"Jesus," the biker gasped as they crashed to the cobblestones and skidded into a pile of garbage.

"Goddamn!" Burke muttered, feeling skin flay off his elbow. "You motherfuck."

"I didn't do anything!" the biker gasped. "Why were you chasing me?"

"Shut up."

Burke cuffed him and because the guy was such a fuck-all runner he used a plastic restraint on his ankles too. Nice and tight. He examined his bloody elbow. "Damn, I lost skin. Ow, that hurts. You fuck."

"I didn't do anything. I was at that fair is all I was doing. I just-"

Spitting on the ground, Burke inhaled deeply a number of times. He gasped, "What part about shut up're you having trouble with? I'm not gonna tell you again . . . . Fuck, that stings!"

He frisked the man carefully and found a wallet. There was no ID inside, only money. Curious. And he had no weapons or drugs either, which was pretty odd for a biker.

"You can threaten me all you want but I want a lawyer. I'm going to sue you! If you think I did something, you're way wrong, mister."

But then Burke tugged up the guy's shirt and T-shirt and blinked. His chest and abdomen were badly scarred. It was creepy to look at. But even stranger was a bag around his waist, like those belly packs he and the wife'd worn on their European vacation. Burke expected a stash, but no, all that the guy was hiding was a pair of jogging pants, a turtleneck, chinos, white shirt and a cell phone. And-this was really weird-makeup. A ton of wadded-up toilet paper too, stuffed in the pack, as if he was trying to make himself look fat.

Pretty weird . . .

Burke inhaled deeply again and got an unfortunate whiff of garbage and urine from the alley. He pushed the button on his Motorola. "Portable Five Two One Two to Central. . . . I've got the perp in that ten-two-four in custody, K."

"Injuries?"

"Negative."

Except for one fucking sore elbow.

"Location?"

"Block and a half east of West End, K. Hold on a minute. I'll get the cross street."

Burke walked to the mouth of the alley to look for the street sign and wait for his fellow cops to show up. It was only then that the adrenaline began to subside, leaving in its wake a tasty euphoria. Not a shot fired. One bad-ass loser belly-down. . . . Godlovingdamn, it felt nice-almost as good as that game twelve years ago, bringing down Chris Broderick, who gave a girlie yelp as he slammed into the turf on the one-yard line, having covered the whole length of the field without a clue that Legs Larry had been right behind him all the way.

"Hey there, you okay?"

Bell touched Amelia Sachs on the arm. She was so shaken by Kara's death that she couldn't answer. She nodded, breathless with grief.

Ignoring the pain in her knees from the earlier jogging, Sachs and the detective continued quickly up West End toward where Patrolman Burke had radioed that he'd collared the killer.

Wondering if Kara had siblings. Oh, God, we'll have to tell her family.

No, not we.

I'll have to do it. This's my fault. I make that call.

Sick with the sorrow she hurried toward the alleyway. Bell glanced at her again, inhaling deeply to catch his breath.

But at least they'd caught the Conjurer.

Though she was, in her private heart, sorry she hadn't been the arresting officer. She wished she'd found herself alone in the alley facing the Conjurer, a gun in his hand. She might've used the Glock before the Motorola and tapped his shoulder with a single round. In movies shoulder shots were just flesh wounds, inconveniences, and the heroes survived with nothing more than a sling. The truth, though, was that even a small bullet wound changed your life for a long, long time. Sometimes forever.

But the killer had been caught and she'd have to be satisfied with multiple murder convictions.

Don't worry, don't worry, don't worry . . .

Kara . . .

Sachs realized she didn't even know her real name.

It's my stage name but I use it most of the time. Better than the one my parents were kind enough to give me.

This small bit of missing information brought her close to tears.

She realized that Bell was saying something to her. "You, uhn, with us here, Amelia?"

A curt nod.

They turned the corner onto Eighty-eighth Street, where the patrolman had downed the perp. Both ends of the street were being sealed off by RMPs. Bell squinted up the block and noted an alleyway. "There," he said, pointing. He motioned several cops-both plainclothes detectives and uniformed patrol officers-to follow them.

"Okay, let's go wrap him up," Sachs muttered. "Man, I hope Grady goes for the needle."

They stopped and looked into the dim canyon. The alley was empty.

"Isn't this it?" Bell asked.

"He said Eight-eight, right?" Sachs asked. "A block and a half east of West End. I'm sure that was the call."

"Me too," a detective said.

"This's gotta be the place." She looked up and down the street. "No other alleys."

Three more officers joined them. "We get it wrong?" one asked, looking around. "This the place or not?"

Bell called on his Motorola, "Portable Five Two One Two, respond, K."

No answer.

"Portable Five Two, what street are you on, K?"

Sachs squinted down the alley. "Oh, no." Her heart sank.

Running forward, she found, resting on the cobblestones near a pile of garbage, a pair of handcuffs, open. Next to them was a plastic hog tie, which had been severed. Bell ran up beside her.

"He got out of the goddamn cuffs and cut the restraint." Sachs looked around.

"Well, where are they?" one of the uniformed officers asked.

"Where's Larry?" another one called.

"In pursuit?" somebody else offered. "Maybe he's out of reception area."

"Maybe," drawled Bell, the concern in his tone reflecting the fact that the workhorse Motorolas rarely malfunctioned and their reception in the city was better than most cell phones'.

Bell called in a 10-39, escaped suspect, with an officer missing or in pursuit.

He asked the dispatcher if there'd been any transmissions from Burke but was told there'd been none. No third-party reports of shots fired in the vicinity either.

Sachs walked the length of the alley, looking for any clues that might suggest where the killer had gone or where the Conjurer might've dumped the patrol officer's body if he'd gotten control of Burke's gun and killed him. But neither she nor Bell found any sign of the officer or the perp. She returned to the cluster of cops at the mouth of the alley.

What a terrible day. Two dead this morning. Kara too.

And now a police officer was missing.

Her hand rose to the speaker/mike of her SP-50 handy-talkie and pulled it off her shoulder. Time to tell Rhyme. Oh, brother. Don't want to make this call. She called in to Central on the radio and asked for a patch. As she was waiting for the call to go through she felt a tug on her sleeve.

Sachs turned. As she inhaled a shocked breath the mike slipped from her hand and swung at her side, a pendulum.

Two people stood in front of her. One was the balding officer Sachs had been giving orders to at the fair ten minutes ago.

The other was Kara, wearing an NYPD windbreaker. Frowning, the young woman looked up and down the alley. She asked, "So where is he?"

Chapter Nineteen.

"Are you all right?" Sachs stammered. "What . . . Wait, what happened?"

"All right? Yeah, I'm fine . . ." Kara took in the woman's astonished gaze and said, "You mean you didn't know?"

The balding officer said to Sachs, "I tried to tell you. But you ran off before I had a chance."

"Tell me . . . ?" Sachs's voice stopped working. She was so stunned-and riddled with relief-that she couldn't speak.