The Vanished Man

routines or are based on them.
    “Then that thing he also said—about being the wizard. There was a magician in the 1800s, John Henry Anderson. That’s what he called himself—the Wizard of the North. He was real talented. But he had bad luck with fires. His show was nearly destroyed a couple of times. David told me that Weir was badly burned in a circus fire.”
    “The scars,” Rhyme said. “The obsession with fire.”
    “And maybe his voice wasn’t asthma,” Sachs suggested. “The fire might’ve damaged his lungs or vocal cords.”
    “When was Weir’s accident?” Sellitto asked.
    “Three years ago. The circus tent he was rehearsing in was destroyed and Weir’s wife was killed. They’d just gotten married. Nobody else was badly hurt.”
    It was a good lead. “Mel!” Rhyme shouted, forgetting his concerns about imperiling his own lungs. “Mel!”
    A moment later Cooper stepped into the room. “Feeling better, I hear.”
    “Lexis/Nexis search, VICAP, NCIC and state databases. Details on an Erick Weir. W-E-I-R. Performer, illusionist, magician. He may be our perp.”
    Kara added, “First name spelled E-R-I-C-K.”
    “You found his name ?” the tech asked, impressed.
    A nod toward Kara. “ She found his name.”
    “My.”
    After a few minutes Cooper returned with a number of printouts. He riffled through them as he addressed the team. “Not much,” he said. “It’s like he kept everything about his life under wraps. Erick AlbertWeir. Born Las Vegas, October 1950. Virtually no early history. Weir worked for various circuses, casinos and entertainment companies as an assistant then he went out on his own as an illusionist and quick-change artist. Married Marie Cosgrove three years ago. Just after that he was appearing in the Thomas Hasbro and The Keller Brothers circus in Cleveland. During a rehearsal a fire broke out. The tent was destroyed. He was badly burned—third degree—and his wife was killed. No mention of him after that.”
    “Track down Weir’s family.”
    Sellitto said he would. Since Bedding and Saul were fully occupied the detective called some Homicide task force detectives in the Big Building and put them on the job.
    “A few other things,” Cooper said, flipping through the printouts. “A couple of years before the fire Weir was arrested and convicted of reckless endangerment in New Jersey. Served thirty days. A member of the audience was badly burned when something went wrong onstage. Then there were some civil lawsuits by managers for damage to theaters and injuries to employees and some suits by Weir for breach of contract. In one show the manager found out Weir was using a real gun and real bullets in an act. Weir wouldn’t change the routine and so the manager fired him.” More reading. Then the tech continued, “In one of the articles I found the names of two assistants who were working with him at the time of the fire. One’s in Reno and one’s in Las Vegas. I got their numbers from the Nevada State Police.”
    “It’s earlier their time,” Rhyme pointed out, glancing at the clock. “Dig up the speakerphone, Thom.”
    “No, after everything tonight you need some rest.”
    “Just two phone calls. Then beddy-bye. Promise.”
    The aide debated.
    “Please and thank-you?”
    Thom nodded and vanished. A moment later he returned with the phone, plugged it in, set the unit close to Rhyme on the bedside table. “Ten minutes and I’m pulling the main circuit breaker,” the aide said with enough threat in his voice to make Rhyme believe he’d do it.
    “Fair enough.”
    Sellitto finished his sandwich and dialed the number of the first assistant on Cooper’s list. The recorded voice of Arthur Loesser’s wife answered and told them that the family wasn’t home but please leave a message. Sellitto did so then he dialed the other assistant.
    John Keating answered on the first ring and Sellitto explained they were in the middle of an investigation and had some questions for him. A pause then a man’s nervous voice rattled out of the tiny speaker. “Uhm, what’s this about? This’s the New York City police?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Okay. I guess it’s okay.”
    Sellitto asked, “You used to work for a man named Erick Weir, didn’t you?”
    Silence for a moment. Then the man launched into a staccato reply. “Mr. Weir? Well, uh-huh. I did. Why?” The voice was edgy and high. He sounded as if he’d just had a dozen cups of coffee.
    “Do you