The Vanished Man

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 machine at the front desk that burns 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 otherway 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 burn 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.
    Maybe no time at all.
    But he could come to no conclusions based on the evidence they had. And the day dragged on, slow as an IV drip.
    A fax arrived. Cooper read it. “From the document examiner in Queens. They opened up the newspaper that was in the Mazda. No notations anywhere and nothing was circled. Those’re the headlines.”
    He taped it to the board.
    Electrical Breakdown
    Closes Police Station
    for Almost 4 Hours
    New York in Running
    for GOP Convention
    Parents Protest
    Poor Security at
    Girls’ School
    Militia Murder Plot
    Trial Opens Monday
    Weekend Gala at Met
    to Benefit Charities
    Spring Entertainment
    for Kids Young and Old
    Governor, Mayor Meet
    on New West Side Plan
    “One of those’s significant,” Rhyme said. But which one? Was the killer targeting the girls’ school? The gala? Had he tested out a gimmick that disrupted the electricity at the police station? He felt all the more frustrated because they had some new evidence but its meaning remained elusive.
    Sellitto’s phone rang. As he took the call, everyone stared at him, anticipating another death.
    The time was now 1:03.
    Well into the afternoon, well into the killing time.
    But apparently the news wasn’t bad. The detective lifted an eyebrow in pleasant surprise and said into the receiver, “That’s right. . . . Really? Well, that’s not far away. Could you come over here?” He then gave Rhyme’s address and hung up.
    “Who?”
    “Edward Kadesky. The manager of the circus in Ohio, the one where Weir was burned. He’s in town. He got the message from his service in Chicago and he’s coming over to talk to us.”
    T HE C ONJURER

    Music School Crime Scene
    • Perp’s description: Brown hair, fake beard, no