The Vanished Man

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    Rhyme, now suspicious after Weir’s visit last night, greeted Edward Kadesky then asked for identification.
    “You don’t mind,” Sellitto continued, explaining that they’d recently had trouble with a perp masquerading as someone else.
    Kadesky—a man not used to being unrecognized, let alone carded—was put out but he complied and offered Sellitto his Illinois driver’s license. Mel Cooper took a subtle look at both the picture and the producer and then gave a nod to Rhyme. The tech had already gone online with Illinois DMV and gotten the license particulars and a picture of the man. All of which checked out.
    “Your message said this was about Erick Weir?” Kadesky asked. His gaze was hawklike and imperious.
    “Right.”
    “So he’s still alive?”
    That the man would ask the question was a disappointment to Rhyme; it meant that Kadesky probably knew even less than they did.
    Rhyme said, “Very much alive. He’s a suspect in a series of homicides in town.”
    “No! Who did he kill?”
    “Some local residents. A police officer too,” Sellitto explained. “We were hoping you could give us some information that’d help find him.”
    “I haven’t heard about him since just after the fire. Do you know about that?”
    “A little,” Sachs said. “Fill us in.”
    “He blamed me for it, you know. . . . It was three years ago. Weir and his assistants were doing the illusion and quick-change acts in our show. Oh, they were good. I mean, astonishing. But we’d been having complaints for months. From the staff and from the audience. Weir scared people. He was like a little dictator. And those assistants of his—we called them the Moonies. He had them indoctrinated. Illusion to him was like a religion. Sometimes people got hurt in rehearsal or during the show—even audience volunteers. And Weir couldn’t’ve cared less. He thought magic worked best when there was some risk. He said magic should be a hot iron; it should brand your soul.” The producer laughed grimly. “But we can’t have that in the entertainment business, now, can we? So I talked to Sidney Keller—he was the owner—and we decided we had to fire him. One Sunday morning before the matinee I told the stage manager to let him go.”
    “That was the day of the fire?” Rhyme asked.
    Kadesky nodded. “The manager found Weir rigging the stage with propane lines for an illusion of his. The Burning Mirror. He told him what we’d decided. But Weir lost it—he shoved the manager down the stairs and kept right on rigging the trick. I went down to the stage. He grabbed me. We weren’t really fighting, just scuffling, but a propane line was loose. We fell into some metal chairs and, I guess, a spark ignited the gas. He was burned and his wife was killed. The whole tent was destroyed. We talked about suing him but he snuck out of the hospital and disappeared.”
    “We found a case in New Jersey. Reckless endangerment.Do you know if he was arrested anywhere else?” Rhyme asked.
    “No idea.” Kadesky shook his head. “I shouldn’t’ve hired him. But if you’d ever seen his show, you’d understand. He was the best. The audiences may have been terrified, they may have been, well, abused, but they bought tickets to see him. And you should’ve heard the ovations.” The producer looked at his watch. The time was 1:45. “You know, my show starts in fifteen minutes. . . . I think it’d be a good idea to get a few more police cars over there. With Weir around and everything that happened between us.”
    “Over where?” Rhyme asked.
    “To my show.” He nodded toward Central Park.
    “That’s yours? The Cirque Fantastique?”
    “Right. I assumed you knew that. You had the police car parked there. . . . You do know that Cirque Fantastique is the old Hasbro and Keller Brothers circus.”
    “What?” Sellitto asked.
    Rhyme glanced at Kara, who was shaking her head. “Mr. Balzac never told me that when I called him last night.”
    “After the fire,” Kadesky said, “we retooled. Cirque du Soleil was having so much success I recommended to Sid Keller that we do what they were. When we got the insurance money we started Fantastique.”
    “No, no, no,” Rhyme whispered, staring at the evidence charts.
    “What, Linc?” Sellitto asked.
    “ That’s what Weir’s doing here,” he announced. “Your show’s his target. Cirque Fantastique.”
    “What?”
    Scanning the evidence again. Applying facts to the