"It's not yours?" the cop asked.

"No," he said, troubled. He began patting his pockets. "I don't know-"

"See, that's what I was afraid of," the policewoman said. "I'm sorry, sir. You're under arrest for pickpocketing. You have the right to remain silent-"

"This is bullshit," Kadesky muttered. "There's some mistake." He opened up the wallet and stared at it for a moment. Then he barked an astonished laugh, held up the driver's license for everyone to see. It was Kara's.

There was a handwritten note inside. It dropped out. He picked it up. "It says, 'Gotcha,'" Kadesky said, narrowing his eyes and studying the policewoman closely, then the driver's license. "Wait, is this you?"

The "officer" laughed and removed the glasses then her cop cap and the brunette wig beneath it, revealing the short reddish hair once again. With a towel that Roland Bell, now chuckling hard, handed her she wiped the dark-complexion makeup off her face and peeled away the thick eyebrows and the fake red nails covering the black glossy ones. She then took her wallet back from the hands of the astonished Edward Kadesky and handed him his, which she'd dipped when she'd plowed into him and Sachs in her "escape" toward the door.

Sachs was shaking her head, too astonished to react. She and Kadesky were both staring at the body lying on the floor.

The young illusionist walked into the corner and lifted the device, a lightweight frame in the shape of a person lying on her stomach. Short reddish-purple hair covered the head portion, and the body wore clothing that resembled the jeans and windbreaker Kara'd been in when Bell had cuffed her. The arms of the outfit ended in what turned out to be latex hands, hooked together with Bell's handcuffs, which Kara had escaped from and then relatched on the phony wrists.

"It's a feke," Rhyme now announced to the room, nodding at the frame. "A phony Kara."

When Sachs and the others had turned away-misdirected by Rhyme toward the chart-Kara had escaped from the cuffs, unfurled the body frame and then silently slipped out the door to do the quick change in the hallway.

She now folded up the device, which compressed into a little package the size of a small pillow-she'd had it hidden under her jacket when she'd arrived. The dummy wouldn't have passed close examination but in the shadows, with an unsuspecting, misdirected audience, no one had noticed it wasn't the girl.

Kadesky was shaking his head. "You did the whole escape and the quick change in less than a minute?"

"Forty seconds."

"How?"

"You saw the effect," Kara said to him. "Think I'll keep the method to myself."

"So the point of this is, I assume," said Kadesky cynically, "that you want an audition?"

Kara hesitated and Rhyme shot a prodding glance toward the young woman.

"No, the point is, this was the audition. I want a job."

Kadesky studied her closely. "It was one trick. You have others?"

"Plenty."

"How many changes've you done in one show?"

"Forty-two changes. Thirty characters. During a thirty-minute routine."

"Forty-two setups in half an hour?" the producer asked, eyebrows raised.

"Yep."

He debated for only a few seconds. "Come see me next week. I'm not cutting back my current artists' time in the ring. But they could use an assistant and an understudy. And maybe you can do some shows at our winter camp in Florida."

Rhyme and Kara exchanged glances. He nodded firmly.

"Okay," the young woman said to Kadesky. She shook his hand.

Kadesky glanced at the spring-loaded wire form that had fooled them. "You made that?"

"Yep."

"You might want to patent it."

"I never thought about that. Thanks. I'll look into it."

He looked her over again. "Forty-two in thirty minutes." Then nodding, he left the room. Both he and Kara looked as if they'd each bought a very nice, very underpriced sports car.

Sachs laughed. "Damn, you had me going." A glance at Rhyme. "Both of you."

"Wait up here," Bell said, feigning hurt. "I was in on it too. I'm the one hog-tied her."

Sachs shook her head again. "When did you think this up?"

It had started last night, Rhyme explained, lying in bed, listening to the music from Cirque Fantastique, the ringmaster's muted voice, the applause and laughter from the crowd. His thoughts had segued to Kara, how good her performance at Smoke & Mirrors had been. Recalling her lack of self-confidence and Balzac's sway over her.

Recalling too what Sachs had told him about her mother's advanced senility. Which had prompted Rhyme's invitation to Jaynene the next morning.

"I'm going to ask you one more question," Rhyme had said to the woman. "Think about it before you answer. And I need you to be completely honest."

The query was: "Will her mother ever come out of it?"

Jaynene had said, "Will she get back her mind, is that what you're askin'?"

"That's right. Will she recover?"

"No."

"So Kara's not taking her to England?"

A sad laugh. "No, no, no. That woman's not going anywhere."

"Kara said she couldn't quit her job because she needs to keep her mother in the nursing home."

"She needs to be cared for, sure. But not at our place. Kara's paying for rehab and recreation, medical intervention. Short-term care. Kara's mom doesn't even know what year it is. She could be anywhere. Sorry to say it but all she needs is maintenance at this point."

"What'll happen to her if she goes to a long-term home?"

"She'll keep getting worse until the end. Just the same as if she stayed with us. Only it wouldn't bankrupt Kara."

After that, Jaynene and Thom had gone off to have lunch together-and undoubtedly to share war stories about the people in their care. Rhyme had then called Kara. She'd come over and they'd had a talk. The conversation had been awkward; he'd never done well with personal matters. Confronting a heartless killer was easy compared with intruding on the tender soul of someone's life.

"I don't know your profession too well," Rhyme had said. "But when I saw you perform at the store on Sunday I was impressed. And it takes a lot to impress me. You were damn good."

"For a student" had been her dismissive response.

"No," he'd said firmly, "for a performer. You should be onstage."

"I'm not ready yet. I'll get there eventually."

After a thick pause Rhyme said, "The problem with that attitude is that sometimes you don't get there eventually." He glanced down at his body. "Sometimes things . . . intervene. And there you are, you've put off something important. And you miss it forever."

"But Mr. Balzac-"

"-is keeping you down. It's obvious."

"He's only thinking what's best for me."

"No, he's not. I don't know what he's thinking of. But the one thing he's not thinking of is you. Look at Weir and Loesser. And Keating. Mentors can mesmerize you. Thank Balzac for what he's done, stay friends, send him box seat tickets for your first Carnegie Hall show. But get away from him now-while you can."

"I'm not mesmerized," she'd said, laughing.

Rhyme hadn't responded and he sensed she was considering just how much she was under the man's thumb. He continued, "We've got some juice with Kadesky-after everything we've done. Amelia told me how much you like the Cirque Fantastique. I think you should audition."

"Even if I did, I have a personal situation. My-"

"Mother," Rhyme'd interrupted.

"Right."

"I had a talk with Jaynene."

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 resumes 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."