The guard said, "Only door's open is the front one. We got fire doors,
course. But you can't open them from the outside."
"And he'd have to walk past you, right?"
"And sign in. And get his picture took by the camera."
Sachs glanced up. "There's a security camera, Rhyme, but it looks like the lens hasn't been cleaned in months."
They gathered behind the desk. The guard punched buttons and played the tape. Bedding and Saul had vetted seven of the people. But they agreed that one person-a brown-haired, bearded older man in jeans and bulky jacket-hadn't been among those they'd talked to.
"That's him," Franciscovich said. "That's the killer." Nancy Ausonio
nodded. On the fuzzy tape he was signing the register book then walking inside.
The guard glanced at the book, but not at the man's face, as he signed it.
"Did you get a look at him?" Sachs asked.
"Didn't pay no attention," he said defensively. "If they sign I let them in.
That's all I gotta do. That's my job. I'm here mostly to keep folk from walking out with our stuff."
'We've got his signature at least, Rhyme. And a name. They'll be fake but at least it's a handwriting sample. Which line did he sign on?" Sachs asked, picking up the sign-in book with latex-clad fingers.
They ran the tape, fast-forward, from the beginning. The killer was the
fourth person to sign the book. But in the fourth slot was a woman's name.
Rhyme called, "Count all the people who signed."
Sachs told the guard to do so and they watched nine people fill in their
names-eight students, including the victim, and her killer.
"Nine people sign, Rhyme. But there are only eight names on the list." "How'd that happen?" Sellitto asked.
Rhyme: "Ask the guard if he's sure the perp signed. Maybe he faked it." She put the question to the placid man.
"Yeah, he did. I saw it. I don't always look at their faces but I make sure they sign."
That's all I gotta do. That's my job.
Sachs shook her head and dug into the cuticle of her thumb with another nail. 'Well, bring me the sign-in book with everything else and we'll have a
look at it here," Rhyme said. In the comer of the room a young Asian woman stood hugging herself and looking out the uneven leaded glass. She turned and looked at Sachs. "I heard you talking. You said, I mean, it sounded like you didn't know if he got out of the building after he... afterward. You think he's still here?"
"No, I don't," Sachs said. "I just meant we're not sure how he escaped." "But if you don't know that, then it means he could still be hiding here, somewhere. Waiting for somebody else. And you don't have any idea where he is."
Sachs gave her a reassuring smile. 'We'll have plenty of officers around
until we get to the bottom of what happened. You don't have to worry." Though she was thinking: The girl was absolutely right. Yes, he could be
here, waiting for somebody else. And, no, we don't have a clue who or where he is.
Chapter Four
And now, Revered Audience, we'll take a short intermission.
Enjoy the memory of the Lazy Hangrruln... and relish the anticipation
of what's coming up soon.
Relax.
Our next act will begin shortly....
The man walked along Broadway on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. When he reached one street comer he stopped, as if he'd forgotten something, and stepped into the shadow of a building. He pulled his cell phone off his belt and lifted it to his ear. As he spoke, smiling from time to time, the way people do on mobiles, he gazed around him casually, also a common practice for cell-phone users.
He was not, however, actually making a call. He was looking for any sign that he'd been followed from the music school.
Malerick's present appearance was very different from his incarnation when he'd escaped from the school earlier that morning. He was now blond and beardless and wearing a jogging outfit with a high-necked athletic shirt. Had passersby been looking they might have noticed a few oddities in his physique: leathery scar tissue peeked over the top of his collar and along his neck, and two fingers-little and ring-of his left hand were fused together. But no one was looking. Because his gestures and expressions were natural, and-as all illusionists know-acting naturally makes you invisible.
Finally content that he hadn't been followed, he resumed his casual gait,
turning the comer down a cross street, and continued along the tree-lined sidewalk to his apartment. Around him were only a few joggers and two or three locals returning home with the Times and Zabar's bags, looking forward to coffee, a leisurely hour with the newspaper and perhaps some unhurried weekend morning sex.
Malerick walked up the stairs to the apartment he'd rented here a few months ago, a dark, quiet building very different from his house and workshop in the desert outside Las Vegas. He made his way to the apartment in the back.
As I was saying, our next act will begin shortly.
For now, Revered Audience, gossip about the illusion you've just seen,
enjoy some conversation with those around you, try to guess what's next on the bill.
Our second routine will involve very different skills to test our performer but will be, I assure you, every bit as compelling as the Lazy Hangman. These words and dozens more looped automatically through Malerick's mind. Revered Audience.... He spoke to this imaginary assembly constantly. (He sometimes heard their applause and shouts of laughter and, occasionally, gasps of horror.) A white noise of words, in that broad theatrical intonation a grease-painted ringmaster or a Victorian illusionist would use. Patter, it was called-a monologue directed to the audience to give them information they need to know to make a trick work, to build rapport with the audience. And to disarm and distract them too.
After the fire, Malerick cut off most contact with fellow human beings, and his imagined Revered Audience slowly replaced them, becoming his constant companions. The patter soon began to fill his waking thoughts and dreams and threatened, he sometimes felt, to drive him completely insane. At the same time, though, it gave him intense comfort, knowing that he hadn't been left completely alone in life after the tragedy three years ago. His revered audience was always with him.
The apartment smelled of cheap varnish and a curious meaty aroma rising from the wallpaper and doors. The place had come lightly furnished: inexpensive couches and armchairs, a functional dining room table, currently set for one. The bedrooms, on the other hand, were packed-filled with the tools of the illusionist's trade: props, rigs, ropes, costumes, latex molding equipment, wigs, bolts of cloth, a sewing machine, paints, squibs, makeup, circuit boards, wires, batteries, Hash paper and cotton, spools of fuse, woodworking tools... a hundred other items.
He made herbal tea and sat at the dining room table, sipping the weak beverage and eating fruit and a low-fat granola bar. Illusion is a physical art and one's act is only as good as one's body. Eating healthy food and working out were vital to success.
He was pleased with this morning's act. He'd killed the first performer easily-recalling with shivery pleasure how she'd stiffened with shock when he'd appeared behind her and slipped the rope around her neck. Never a clue he'd been waiting in the comer, under the black silk, for a half hour. The surprise entrance by the police-well, that'd shaken him. But like all good illusionists Malerick had prepared an out, which he'd executed perfectly.
He finished his breakfast and took the cup into the kitchen, washed it carefully and set it in a rack to dry. He was meticulous in all his ways; his mentor, a fierce, obsessive, humorless illusionist, had beaten discipline into him.
The man now went into the larger of the bedrooms and put on the videotape he'd made of the site of the next performance. He'd seen this tape a dozen times and, though he virtually had it memorized, he was now going to study it again. (His mentor had also beaten into him-literally sometimes-the importance of the 100:1 rule. You rehearse one hundred minutes for every one minute onstage.)
As he watched the tape he pulled a velvet-covered performing table toward him. Not watching his hands, Malerick practiced some simple card maneuvers: the False Dovetail Shuffle, the Three-Pile False Cut then some trickier ones: the Reverse Slip around, the Glide and the Deal-Off Force. He ran through some actual tricks, complicated ones, like Stanley Palm's Ghost Cards, Maldo's famous Six-Card Mystery and several others by the famous card master and actor Ricky Jay, others by Cardini.
Malerick also did some of the card tricks that had been in Harry Houdini's early repertoire. Most people think of Houdini as an escapist but the performer had actually been a well-rounded magician, who performed illusion-large-scale stage tricks like vanishing assistants and elephants-as well as parlor magic. Houdini had been an important influence in his life. When he first started performing, in his teens, Malerick used as a performing name "Young Houdini." The "erick" portion of his present name was
both a remnant of his former life-his life before the fire-and an homage to Houdini himself, who'd been born Ehrich Weisz. As for the prefix "Mal" a magician might suspect that it was taken from another world-famous performer, Max Breit, who performed under the name Malini. But in fact,
Malerick had picked the three letters because they came from the Latin root for "evil," which reflected the dark nature of his brand of illusion.
He now studied the tape, measuring angles, noting windows and the location of possible witnesses, blocking out his positions as all good performers do. And as he watched, the cards in his fingers riffled together in lightning-fast shuffles that hissed like snakes. The kings and jacks and queens and jokers and all the rest of the cards slithered onto the black velvet and then seemed to defy gravity as they leaped back into his strong hands, where they vanished from sight. Watching this impromptu performance, an audience would shake their heads, half-convinced that reality had given way to delusion, that a human being couldn't possibly do what they were observing.
But the truth was the opposite: the card tricks Malerick was now performing absently on the plush black cloth were not miraculous at all; they were merely carefully rehearsed exercises in dexterity and perception, governed by mundane rules of physics.
Oh, yes, Revered Audience, what you've seen and what you're about to see are very real.
As real as fire bumingflesh.
As real as a rope knotted around a young girl's white neck.
As real as the circuit of the clock hands moving slowly toward the horror that our next performer is about to experience.
"Hey, there."
The young woman sat down beside the bed where her mother lay. Out the window in the manicured courtyard she saw a tall oak tree on the trunk of which grew a tentacle of ivy in a shape that she'd had interpreted a number of ways over the past months. Today the anemic vine wasn't a dragon or a flock of birds or a soldier. It was simply a city plant struggling to survive.
"So. How you feeling, Mum?" Kara asked.
The appellation grew out of one of the family's many vacations-this one
to England. Kara had given them all nicknames: "His Kindness" and the "Queenly Mum" for her parents. She herself had been the "Royal Kid." "Just fine, darling. And how's life treating you?"
"Better than some, not as good as others. Hey, you like?" Kara held up
her hand to show off her short, evenly filed fingernails, which were black as a grand piano's finish.
"Lovely, darling. 1 was getting a bit tired of the pink. You see it everywhere nowadays. Awfully conventional."
Kara stood and adjusted the down pillow under her mother's head. Then sat again and sipped from the large Starbucks container; coffee was her sole drug but the addiction was intense, not to mention expensive, and this was her third cup of the morning.
Her hair was cut in a boyish style, currently colored auburn-purple, having been pretty much every color of the spectrum at some point in her years in New York City. Pixyish, some people said of the cut, a description she hated; Kara herself described the do simply as "convenient." She could be out her door minutes after stepping from the shower-a true benefit for someone who tended not to get to bed before 3:00 A.M. and who was definitely not a morning person.
Today she wore black stretch pants and, though she was not much over five feet, flat shoes. Her dark purple top was sleeveless and revealed taut, cut muscles. Kara had attended a college where art and politics took precedence over the cult of the physique but after graduating from Sarah Lawrence she'd joined Gold's Gym and was now a regular weight-pumper and treadmill runner. One would expect an eight-year resident of bohemian Greenwich Village, hovering somewhere in her late twenties, to dabble in body art or to sport at least a latent ring or stud but Kara's very white skin was tattoo free and unpierced.
