Rhyme called out, "Hell with the note. If it wasn't for you we wouldn't have a clue who the perp was. Tell him to give me a call. I'll fix his clock." Kara offered an anemic, "Thanks."
"You're not going to the store now, are you?" Sachs asked.
"Just for a little. Mr. Balzac is helpless with the details. I'll have to log in the receipts. And show him my routine for tomorrow."
Rhyme wasn't surprised that she was going to do what the man asked. He noted she'd said, Mr. Balzac. Sometimes he was "David." Not now. This echoed what they'd heard earlier: despite the Conjurer's coming close to destroying John Keating's life, the assistant had referred to the killer with the same respectful appellation. The power of mentors over their apprentices...
"Go on home," the policewoman persisted. "I mean, Jesus, you did get
knifed to death today." Another faint laugh, accompanied by a shrug. "I won't be there long." She paused in the doorway. "You know, I have that show in the afternoon. But I'll come back tomorrow morning if you want." 'We'd appreciate it," Rhyme said. "Though we'll try to nail Weir's ass be
fore lunch so you won't have to stay long."
Thorn walked her into the corridor and out the front door.
Sachs stepped into the doorway and inhaled the smoky air. "Phew," she
exhaled. Then disappeared up the stairs. "I'm showering," she called. Ten minutes later Rhyme heard her walk downstairs. But she didn't join him in the bedroom right away. From different parts of the house came thuds and creaks, muted words with Thorn. Then finally she returned to the guest room. She was wearing her favorite pajamas-black T-shirt and silk boxers-but she had two accoutrements that were atypical of her sleep gear. Her Glock pistol and the long black tube of her issue flashlight.
She set them both on the bedside table.
"That guy gets into places too damn easy," she said, climbing into bed
next to him. "1 checked every square inch of the house, balanced chairs on all the doors and told Thorn if he hears anything to give a shout-but to stay put. I'm in the mood to shoot somebody but I'd really rather it wasn't him."
II
METHOD
SUNDAY, APRIL 21
"A magical effect is like a seduction. Both are built through careful details planted in the mind of the subject."
-Sol Stein
Chapter Twenty-nine
Sunday morning passed in frustration as the search for Erick Weir stalled.
The team learned that after the fire in Ohio the illusionist had remained in the bum unit of a local hospital for several weeks and then left on his own, without officially checking out. There was a record that he sold his house in downtown Las Vegas not long after that but no public record of buying another. In that cash-fat city though, Rhyme supposed, one could easily buy a small place in the desert with a stack of greenbacks, no questions asked, no public filings involved.
The team managed to find Weir's late wife's mother. But Mrs. Cosgrove knew nothing of Weir's whereabouts. He'd never contacted them after the disaster to send his condolences about their daughter's death. She reported, though, that she wasn't surprised. Weir was a selfish, cruel man, she explained, who'd become obsessed with her young daughter and virtually hypnotized her into marrying him. None of the other Cosgrove relatives had had any contact with Weir.
Cooper compiled the remaining information from the computer searches on Weir but there wasn't much. No VICAP or NCIC reports. There were no other details on the man, and the officers tracking down Weir's family found only that both parents were deceased, that he was an only child and that no next of kin could be located.
Late in the morning Weir's other assistant, Art Loesser, returned their call from Las Vegas. The man wasn't surprised to learn that his former boss
was wanted in connection with a crime and echoed what they'd learned already: that Weir was one of the world's greatest illusionists but that he took the profession far too seriously and was known for his dangerous illusions and hot temper. Loesser still had nightmares about being his apprentice.
I said "hurts." I meant to say "haunts." He still haunts me.
"All young assistants're influenced by their mentors," Loesser told the
team via speakerphone. "But my therapist said that in Weir's case we were mesmerized by him."
So both of them are in therapy.
"He said being with Weir created a Stockholm syndrome relationship. You know what that is?" Rhyme said he was familiar with the condition-where hostages form
close bonds with, and even feel affection and love for, their kidnappers. 'When did you last see him?" Sachs asked. The assessment exercise
over, she was in soft clothes today-jeans and a forest-green knit blouse. "In the hospital, the bum unit. That was about three years ago. I'd go visit him regularly at first but all he'd talk about was getting even with anybody who'd ever hurt him or who didn't approve of his kind of magic. Then he disappeared and I never saw him after that."
But then, the former protege explained, Weir had called out of the blue about two months ago. Around the same time, Rhyme reflected, he'd called his other assistant. Loesser's wife had taken the call. "He didn't leave a number and said he'd call back but he never did. Thank God. I'll tell you, I don't know that I could've handled it."
"Do you know where he was when he called?"
"No. I asked Kathy-I was afraid he was back in town-but she said he didn't say and the call came up 'out-of-area' on caller-ID." "He didn't tell your wife what he might be calling about? Any clue
where he might be?" "She said he sounded odd, agitated. He was whispering, hard to understand. I remember that from after the fire. His lungs'd been damaged. Made him even scarier." Tell me about it, Rhyme thought.
"He asked if we'd heard anything about Edward Kadesky-he was the
producer of the Hasbro show when the fire happened. That was it."
Loesser couldn't provide any other helpful information and they hung up.
Thom let two policewomen into the lab. Sachs nodded a greeting and
introduced them to Rhyme. Diane Franciscovich and Nancy Ausonio.
They were, he recalled, the respondings at the first murder and had been given the assignment of tracking down the antique handcuffs.
Franciscovich said, 'We talked to all the dealers the director of the museum recommended." Beneath their crisp uniforms both the tall brunette and the shorter blonde looked exhausted. They'd taken their assignment seriously, it seemed, and probably hadn't gotten any sleep the night before.
"The handcuffs are Darbys, like you thought," Ausonio said. "They're
pretty rare-and expensive. But we've got a list of twelve people who-" "Oh, my God, look" Franciscovich was pointing to the evidence chart,
where Thom had written:
. Perp's identity: Erick A. Weir.
Ausonio flipped through the sheets she held. "Erick Weir placed a mail order for a pair of the cuffs from Ridgeway Antique Weapons in Seattle last month."
"Address?" Rhyme asked excitedly.
"Post office box in Denver. We checked. But the lease lapsed. There're no records of a permanent address."
"And no record that Weir ever lived in Denver."
"Method of payment?" Sachs asked.
"Cash," was the simultaneous response from Ausonio and Rhyme, who added, "He's not going to make stupid mistakes. Nope. That trail's dead. But at least we've got a confirmation that this's our boy."
Rhyme thanked the officers and Sachs walked them to the door. Another call came in on Rhyme's phone. The area code on the caller ID looked familiar but Rhyme couldn't place it. "Command, answer phone.... Hello?"
"Yessir. This's Lieutenant Lansing, State Police. I'm trying to reach Detective Roland Bell. I was given this number as his temporary command post."
"Hey, Harv," Bell called, walking closer to the speaker phone. "I'm here." He explained to Rhyme, "Our liaison on the Constable case up in Canton Falls."
Lansing continued, 'We got the evidence you sent up here this morning. Our forensic boys're going through it. We had a couple of detectives go and talk to Swensen's wife-that minister you folks took down last night. She didn't say anything helpful and my boys didn't find anything in the trailer to connect him to Constable or anybody else in the Patriot Assembly."
"Nothin'?" Bell sighed. "Too bad. I figured him to be poke-easy care
less."
"Maybe the Patriot boys got there first and scoured the place clean."
"That's more'n half likely. Man, I'm feeling we're due a little luck here.
Okay, keep at it, Harv. Thanks."
'We'll let you know, we come up with anything else, Roland."
They hung up.
"This Constable case's full-up tough as this one." Nodding at the whiteboards.
Another knock on the front door.
Armed with a large coffee cup Kara walked into the room, looking more tired and haggard than the policewomen. Sellitto was delivering a monologue about new techniques for weight loss when his Jenny Craig lecture was interrupted by yet another phone call. "Lincoln'?" the voice crackled through the speakerphone. "Bedding here. We think we've narrowed the key down to three hotels. Reason it took so long-" The voice of his partner, Saul, interrupted. "Turns out that a lot of
monthly and long-term hotels use card keys too."
"Not to mention hourly rate places. But that's a whole 'nother story."
"We had to check them all out. Anyway, that's what we found. It's probably, I say, probably, either the Chelsea Lodge, the Beckman or the... what is it?"
"Or the Lanham Arms," his partner supplied.
"Right. They're the only ones using this color Model 42. We're at the
Beckman now. Thirty-four and Fifth. We're about to start trying it out."
"What do you mean trying it out?" Rhyme called.
"How d' I put this?" Bedding or Saul wondered. "The keys work one way
but not the other."
"How's that?" Rhyme asked.
"See, only the lock unit on the hotel room door can read a key. The ma
chine at the front desk that bums the room codes onto a blank key can't read one that's already been burned and tell you what room it is."
'Why not? That's crazy."
"Nobody ever needs to know that."
"Except us, of course, which is why we have to go from door to door and try them all."
"Shit," Rhyme snapped.
"Summarizes our feelings too," one of the detectives said.
Sellitto asked, "Okay. You need more people?"
"Nup. We can only do one door at a time. No other way to do it. And if there's a new guest in the room-"
"-this card'll be invalid. Which won't improve our moods any."
"Say, gentlemen?" Bell said into the phone.
"Hey there, Roland."
'We recognized the accent."
"You said the Lanham Arms. Where is that?"
"East Seventy-five. Near Lex."
"Something familiar 'bout the name. Can't quite place it." Bell was frowning, shaking his head.
"That's next on our list."
"After the Beckman."
'With its six hundred and eighty-two rooms. Better get to it."
They left the Twins to their arduous task.
Cooper's computer beeped and he read an incoming email. "FBI lab in Washington.... Finally got a report on the metal shavings in the Conjurer's gym bag. They say the markings suggest they're consistent with a clock mechanism."
'Well, it's not a clock," Rhyme said. "Obviously."
"How do you know?" Bell asked.
"It's a detonator," Sachs said solemnly.
"That's what I'd say," Rhyme confirmed.
"A gas bomb?" Cooper asked, nodding toward the handkerchief "souvenir" Weir had left last night, which had been soaked in gasoline. "Likely. "
"He's got a supply of gas and he's obsessed with fire. He's going to bum the next victim."
Just like what happened to him.
Fire quote murdered him-his old persona-and by murdering someone else he feels better; it reduces the anxiety that the anger builds up in him....
Rhyme noticed the hour was approaching 12:00. Almost afternoon.... The next victim was going to die soon. But when, 12:01 or 4:00? A shudder of frustration and anger started at the base of his skull and vanished into his stony body. They had so little time.
