Sachs offered him the list again. "You did say you sold some of these products. Do you have records of customers?"

"I meant, products like them. And, no, we don't keep customer records."

After some questioning, Sachs finally got him to admit that there were recent records of mail-order and on-line sales. The young woman checked these, though, and found that nobody had bought any of the items on the evidence list.

"Sorry," Balzac said. "Wish we could be more help."

"You know, I wish you could be more help too," Sachs said, leaning forward. "Because, see, this guy killed a woman and escaped by using magic tricks. And we're afraid he's going to do it again."

Giving a frown of concern, Balzac said, "Terrible. . . . You know, you might try East Side Magic and Theatrical. They're bigger than us."

"We have another officer over there now."

"Ah, there you go."

She let a moment pass, silent. Then: "Well, if you can think of anything else, I'd appreciate a call." A good civil servant's smile, an NYPD sergeant's smile ("Remember: community relations are as important as criminal investigations").

"Good luck, Officer," Balzac said.

"Thanks," she said. You apathetic son-of-a-bitch.

She nodded farewell to the young woman and glanced at a cardboard cup she was sipping from. "Hey, there anyplace around here to get some decent coffee?"

"Fifth and Nineteenth," she replied.

"Good bagels too," Balzac said, helpful now that there was no risk, or effort, involved.

Outside, Sachs turned toward Fifth Avenue and found the recommended coffee shop.

She walked inside, bought a cappuccino. She leaned against a narrow mahogany bar in front of the flecked window, sipping the hot drink and watching the Saturday-morning populace here in Chelsea-salespeople from the clothing stores in the area, commercial photographers and their assistants, rich yuppies who lived in the massive lofts, poor artists, lovers young and lovers old, a wacky notebook scribbler or two.

And one magic store clerk, now entering the shop.

"Hi," said the woman with short reddish-purple hair, carrying a battered faux zebra-skin purse over her shoulder. She ordered a large coffee, filled it with sugar and joined Sachs at the bar.

Back at Smoke & Mirrors the policewoman had asked about a venue for coffee because of a conspiratorial glance the assistant had shot Sachs; it seemed that she'd wanted to say something out of Balzac's presence.

Sipping her coffee thirstily, the woman said, "The thing about David is-"

"He's uncooperative?"

A frown of consideration. "Yeah. That says it pretty well. Anything outside his world he doesn't trust or want any part of. He was afraid we'd have to be witnesses or something. I'm not supposed to be distracted."

"From what?"

"From the profession."

"Magic?"

"Right. See, he's sort of my mentor more than my boss."

"What's your name?"

"Kara-it's my stage name but I use it most of the time." A pained smile. "Better than the one my parents were kind enough to give me."

Sachs lifted a curious eyebrow.

"We'll keep that a secret."

"So," Sachs said, "why'd you give me that look back at the store?"

"David's right about that list. You can buy those things anywhere, in any store. Or on the Internet in hundreds of places. But about the Darbys, the handcuffs? Those're rare. You should call the Houdini and Escapology Museum in New Orleans. It's the best in the world. Escapism's one of my things. I don't tell him, though." Reverent emphasis on the third-person pronoun. "David's kind of opinionated. . . . Can you tell me what happened? With that murder?"

Normally circumspect about what she gave away on an active case, Sachs knew they needed help and gave Kara an outline of the killing and the escape.

"Oh, that's horrible," the young woman whispered.

"Yeah," Sachs replied softly. "It is."

"The way he disappeared? There's something you ought to know, Officer- Wait, do I call you 'officer'? Or are you like a detective or something?"

"Amelia's fine." Enjoying a brief memory of how she'd aced the assessment exercise.

Bang, bang . . .

Kara sipped more coffee, decided that it wasn't sweet enough and unscrewed the top of the sugar bottle then poured more in. Sachs watched the young woman's deft hands then glanced down at her own fingernails, two of which were torn, the cuticles bloody. The girl's were perfectly filed and the glossy black finish reflected the overhead lights in exact miniature. A jealous twinge-at the nails and the self-control that kept them so perfect-flared momentarily and then was put quickly to sleep by Amelia Sachs.

Kara asked, "You know what illusion is?"

"David Copperfield," Sachs replied, shrugging. "Houdini."

"Copperfield, yes. Houdini, no-he was an escapist. Well, illusion's different from sleight of hand or close-in magic, we call it. Like . . ." Kara held up a quarter in her fingers, change from the coffee. She closed her palm and when she opened it again the coin was gone.

Sachs laughed. Where the hell had it gone?

"That was sleight of hand. Illusion is tricks involving large objects or people or animals. What you just described, what that killer did, is a classic illusionist trick. It's called the Vanished Man."

"Vanishing Man?"

"No, the Vanished Man. In magic we use 'Vanish' to mean 'to make disappear.' Like, 'I just vanished the quarter.'"

"Go on."

"The way it's performed usually is a little different from what you described but basically it involves the illusionist getting out of a locked room. The audience sees him step into this little room onstage-they can see the back because of a big mirror behind it. They hear him pound on the walls. The assistants pull the walls down and he's gone. Then one of the assistants turns around and it's the illusionist."

"How does it work?"

"There was a door in the back of the room. The illusionist covers himself with a large piece of black silk so the audience can't see him in the mirror and slips through the back door just after he walks inside. There's a speaker built into one of the walls to make it sound like he was inside all the time and a gimmick that hits the walls and sounds like he's pounding. Once the illusionist's outside he does a quick change behind the silk into an assistant's costume."

Sachs nodded. "That's it, all right. Could we get a short list of people who know the routine?"

"No, sorry-it's pretty common."

The Vanished Man . . .

Sachs was recalling that the killer had changed disguises quickly to become an older man, recalling, too, Balzac's lack of cooperation and the cold look in his eyes-almost sadistic-when he was talking to Kara. She asked, "I need to ask-where was he this morning?"

"Who?"

"Mr. Balzac."

"Here. I mean, in the building. He lives there, above the store. . . . Wait, you're not thinking he was involved?"

"These're questions we need to ask," Sachs said noncommittally.

The young woman seemed more amused than upset by the inquiry, though. She gave a laugh. "Look, I know he's gruff and he has this . . . I guess you'd call it an edge, you know. A temper. But he'd never hurt anybody."

Sachs nodded but then asked, "Still, you know where he was at eight this morning?"

Kara nodded. "Yeah, he was at the store. He got in early because some friend of his is in town doing a show and needed to borrow some equipment. I called to tell him I'd be a little late."

Sachs nodded. Then a moment later asked, "Can you take a little time off work?"

"Me? Oh, no way." An embarrassed laugh. "I was lucky to sneak out now. There're a thousand things to do around the store. Then I've got three or four hours of rehearsing with David for a show I'm doing tomorrow. He doesn't let me rest the day before a performance. I-"

Sachs held the woman's crisp blue eyes. "We're really afraid this person's going to kill someone else."

Kara's eyes swept the sticky mahogany bar.

"Please. Just for a few hours. Look over the evidence with us. Brainstorm."

"He won't let me. You don't know David."

"What I know is that I'm not letting anybody else get hurt if there's any way I can stop it."

Kara finished her coffee and absently played with the cup. "Using our tricks to kill people," she whispered in a dismayed voice.

Sachs said nothing and let silence do the arguing for her.

Finally the young woman grimaced. "My mother's in a home. She's been in and out of the infirmary. Mr. Balzac knows that. I guess I could tell him I have to go check on her."

"We really could use your help."

"Oh-oh. The sick-mother excuse. . . . God's gonna get me for this one."

Sachs glanced down again at Kara's perfect, black nails. "Hey, one thing: What happened to that quarter?"

"Look under your coffee cup," the girl replied.

Impossible. "No way."

Sachs lifted up the cup. There sat the coin.

The bewildered policewoman asked, "How'd you do that?"

Kara's answer was an enigmatic smile. She nodded at the cups. "Let's get a couple more to go." She picked up the coin. "Heads you buy, tails it's on me. Two out of three." She flipped it into the air.

Sachs nodded. "Deal."

The young woman caught it and glanced into her cupped palm. She looked up. "We said two out of three, right?"

Sachs nodded.

Kara opened her fingers. Inside were two dimes and a nickel. The dimes were heads-up. No sign of the quarter. "Guess this means you're buying."

Chapter Eight.

"Lincoln, meet Kara."

She'd been warned, Rhyme could see, but the young woman still blinked in surprise and glanced at him with the Look. The one he knew so well. Accompanied by the Smile.

It was the famous don't-look-at-his-body gaze, accompanied by the oh-you're-handicapped-I-never-noticed grin.

And Rhyme knew she'd be counting down the moments until she could get the hell out of his presence.

The spritely young woman walked farther into the parlor lab in Rhyme's townhouse. "Hi. Nice to meet you." The eyes remained rooted in his. At least she didn't start forward with that minuscule lean that told him she was stifling an offered handshake and then cringe in horror at the faux pas.

Okay, Kara. Don't worry. You can give the gimp your insights then get the hell out.

He offered her a superficial smile that matched hers crease for crease and said how pleased he was to meet her too.

Which on a professional level, at least, wasn't sardonic-Kara was, it turned out, the only magician lead they'd snared. None of the employees at the other shops in town had been any help-and everyone had alibis for the time of the killing.

She was introduced to Lon Sellitto and Mel Cooper. Thom nodded and did one of the things he was known for, whether Rhyme wanted him to or not: offered refreshments.

"We're not really in a church social mode here, Thom," Rhyme muttered.

Kara said no that was all right but Thom said no he was insisting.

"Maybe coffee?" she asked.

"Coming up."