"Good, Rhyme," she said. "We didn't have his eye color before."

"And we may not now if he's wearing contacts," he snapped, feeling he'd scored a point here. "I could probably remember better with something to help." He looked toward Thom.

"Something to help?"

"I assume you have an unincinerated bottle of Macallan somewhere in the kitchen."

"Later," Sachs said. "Let's keep a clear head."

"But-"

Worrying her scalp with a nail, she continued, "Now. I want to go through everything that happened. What did he say?"

"I can't remember very much," he said impatiently. "It was mostly crazy ramblings. And I was hardly in the mood to pay attention."

"Maybe they sounded crazy to you. But I'll bet there was something we could use."

"Sachs," he said sardonically, "do you think I might've been a little spooked and confused? I mean, just a little distracted maybe?"

She touched his shoulder, a place where he could feel the contact. "I know you don't trust witnesses. But sometimes they do see things. . . . This's my specialty, Rhyme."

Amelia Sachs, the people cop.

"I'll walk you through it. Just like you walk me through the grid. We'll find something important."

She rose, walked to the door and called, "Kara?"

Yes, he distrusted witnesses, even those who had good vantage points and weren't part of the action itself. Anyone involved in the actual crime-especially a victim of violence-was totally unreliable. Even now, thinking about the killer's visit, all Rhyme could see was a random series of incidents-the Conjurer behind him, standing over him, lighting the fire. The razor blades. The smell of the scotch, the boiling smoke. He didn't even have a sense of the chronology of the killer's visit.

Memory, as Kara had said, is only an illusion.

A moment later the young woman appeared. "Are you all right, Lincoln?"

"Fine," he muttered.

Sachs was explaining that she wanted Kara to listen; she might recognize something the killer had said that could be helpful to them. The policewoman sat down again and pulled her chair close. "Let's go back there, Rhyme. Tell us what happened. Just in general terms."

He hesitated, glanced at the tape recorder. Then he began to recount the events as he remembered them. The Conjurer appearing, admitting he'd stolen the uniform then killed the officer, telling Rhyme about the officer's body.

The weather's warm . . .

He then said, "It was like he was pretending he was performing a show and I was a fellow performer." Hearing the man's odd rambling in his mind, Rhyme said, "I do remember one thing. He's got asthma. Or at least he sounded winded. He was gasping for breath a lot, whispering."

"Good," Sachs said. "I'd forgotten he sounded that way at the pond after the Marston assault. What else did he say?"

Rhyme looked at the dark ceiling of the small guest room. Shaking his head.

"That's about it. He was either burning me or threatening to slice me up. . . . Oh, did you find any razor blades when you searched the room?"

"No."

"Well, there. This's what I'm talking about-evidence. I know he threw a blade in my sweatpants. The doctors didn't find it. It must've fallen out. See, that's the sort of thing you should be looking for."

"It was probably never in your pants," Kara said. "I know the illusion. He palmed the blade."

"Well, my point is that you don't tend to listen to people real close when they're torturing you."

"Come on, Rhyme, go on back there. It's earlier this evening. Kara and I're getting dinner. You've been looking over evidence. Thom's brought you upstairs. You were tired, right?"

"No," the criminalist said, "I wasn't tired. But he brought me up there anyway."

"Imagine you weren't too happy about that."

"No, I wasn't."

"So you're up in the room."

Picturing the lights, the silhouette of the birds. Thom, closing the door.

"It's quiet-" Sachs began.

"No, it's not quiet at all. There's that goddamn circus across the street. Anyway, I set the alarm-"

"For what time?"

"I don't know. An hour. What difference does it make?"

"One detail can give birth to two others."

A scowl. "Where'd that come from, a fortune cookie?"

She smiled. "Made it up. But it sounds good, don't you think? Use it in the new edition of your book."

"I don't write books about witnesses," Rhyme said. "I write them about evidence." Feeling victorious again with this comeback.

"Now, how do you tell he's here at first? Did you hear anything?"

"No, I felt a draft. I thought it was the air-conditioning at first. But it was him. He was blowing on my neck and cheek."

"Just to- Why?"

"To scare me, I guess. It worked, by the way." Rhyme closed his eyes. Then he nodded as a few memories came back. "I tried to call Lon on the phone. But he"-a glance at Kara. "He caught my move. He threatened to kill me-no, he threatened to blind me-if I tried to call for help. I thought he was going to. But-it was odd-he seemed impressed. He complimented me on my misdirection. . . ." His voice faded as his memory trailed off into dimness.

"How did he get in?"

"He walked in with the officer who brought the evidence from the Grady hit."

"Shit," Sellitto said. "From now on we check IDs-everybody who walks through the friggin' door. I mean, everybody."

"He's talking about misdirection," Sachs continued. "He's complimented you. What else is he saying?"

"I don't know," Rhyme muttered. "Nothing."

"Nothing at all?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"I. Don't. Know." Lincoln Rhyme was furious. At Sachs because she was pushing him. Because she wouldn't let him have a drink to numb the terror.

Furious mostly at himself for disappointing her.

But she had to understand how hard it was for him to go back there-to the flames, to the smoke that slipped into his nose and threatened his precious lungs- Wait. Smoke . . .

Lincoln Rhyme said, "Fire."

"Fire?"

"I think that was what he talked about the most. He was obsessed with it. There was an illusion he mentioned. The . . . right, the Burning Mirror. That was it. Flames all over the stage, I think. The illusionist has to escape from them. He turns into the devil. Or somebody turns into the devil."

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 theaters 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-"