The Vanished Man

officers found nothing there either.
    Sachs frowned. They’d been wrong? How could that be? she wondered. The evidence was so clear. It was Rhyme’s way to make bold assumptions about evidence and sometimes, sure, he made mistakes. But in the case of the Conjurer it seemed that all the evidence had come together and pointed directly to the Cirque Fantastique as his target.
    Had Rhyme heard that they’d found no bombs? she wondered. Rising unsteadily, she went off in search of someone’s radio to borrow; her Motorola, now lying in pieces near the south door of the tent, had apparently been the sole fatality of the panic.
    •   •   •
    Stepping quietly out of the music room in Charles Grady’s apartment, Malerick walked back into the darkened hallway and paused, listening to the voices from the living room and kitchen.
    Wondering just how dangerous this would be.
    He’d taken steps to make it less likely that Grady’s bodyguards would panic and gun him down. At his lunch at the Riverside Inn in Bedford Junction two weeks ago, meeting with Jeddy Barnes and other militiamen from upstate New York, Malerick had laid out his plan. He’d decided it’d be best to have someone make an attempt on the prosecutor’s life before Malerick’s invasion of Grady’s apartment today. The universal choice for a fall guy was some pervert of a minister from Canton Falls named Ralph Swensen. (Barnes had some leverage on the reverend but explained to Malerick that he hadn’t fully trusted him. So after his escape from the Harlem River yesterday the illusionist had donned his janitor’s costume and had followed the reverend from his fleabag hotel to Greenwich Village—just to make sure the loser didn’t balk at the last minute.)
    Malerick’s plan called for Swensen’s attempt to fail (the gun Barnes provided had a broken firing pin). Malerick had theorized that catching one assassin would lull Grady’s guards into complacency and make thempsychologically less likely to react violently when they saw a second killer.
    Well, that was the theory, he reflected uneasily. Let’s see if it holds up in practice.
    Walking silently past more bad art, past more family portraits, past stacks of magazines—law reviews and Vogue s and The New Yorker s—and scabby street-fair antiques the Gradys had bought intending to refinish but that sat as permanent testimonials to the proposition there just aren’t enough hours in the day.
    Malerick knew his way around the apartment; he’d been here once before briefly—disguised as a maintenance man—but that had been basic reconnaissance, learning the layout, the entrance and escape routes. He hadn’t spent any time noticing the personal side of the family’s life: the diplomas of Grady and his wife, who was also an attorney. Wedding photos. Snapshots of relatives and a gallery’s worth of pictures of their blonde nine-year-old daughter.
    Malerick recalled his meeting with Barnes and his associates over lunch. The militiamen had digressed into a cold debate about whether it made sense to kill Grady’s wife and daughter too. According to Malerick’s plan, sacrificing Swensen made sense. But what was the point, he’d wondered, of killing Grady’s family? He’d posed this question to Barnes and the others between bites of very good roast turkey.
    “Well now, Mr. Weir,” Jeddy Barnes had said to Malerick. “That’s a good question. I’d say you should kill ’em just because.”
    And Malerick had nodded, offering a thoughtful expression; he knew enough never to condescend toeither an audience or fellow performers. “Well, I don’t mind killing them,” he’d explained. “But wouldn’t it make more sense to leave them alive unless they’re a risk—like a risk they could identify me? Or, say, the little girl goes for the phone to call the police? Probably there are some of your people who’d object to killing women and children.”
    “Well, it’s your plan, Mr. Weir,” Barnes had said. “We’ll go with what you think.” Though the idea of temperance seemed to leave him vaguely dissatisfied.
    Now Malerick stopped outside Grady’s living room and hung a fake NYPD badge around his neck, the one he’d flashed at the cops near the Cirque Fantastique when he’d sent them home for the day. He glanced in a flea-market mirror whose surface needed to be recoated.
    Yes, he was in role, looking just like a detective here to protect a prosecutor against whom vicious death