The Vanished Man

one of three hotels—one of them was the Lanham Arms—Detective Bell thought it sounded familiar and checked his logbook. It turned out that he had coffee with Charles Grady in the lobby bar to talk about the security detail for his family a week ago. Roland told me that the Lanham was right next door to Grady’s apartment. Then the press pass? I called the reporter you stole it from. He was covering the Andrew Constable trial and had interviewed Charles Grady several times. . . . We found some brass shavings and assumed the worst, that they were from a bomb timer. But they might’ve just come from a key or a tool.”
    Sachs took up the narrative. “Then The New York Times page we found in your car in the river? It had an article about the circus, yes. But there was also an article about Constable’s trial.”
    A nod toward the evidence board.
    Militia Murder Plot
    Trial Opens Monday
    Rhyme continued, “The restaurant check too. You should’ve thrown that out.”
    “What check?” Weir asked, frowning.
    “Also in your jacket. From two Saturdays ago.”
    “But that weekend I was—” He stopped speaking abruptly.
    “Out of town, you were going to say?” Sachs asked. “Yeah, we know. The check was from a restaurant in Bedford Junction.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “A trooper in Canton Falls investigating the Patriot Assembly group called on my phone, asking for Roland,” Rhyme said. “I recognized the area code from the caller ID—it was the same as the number of the restaurant on the check.”
    Weir’s eyes grew still and Rhyme continued, “Bedford Junction turns out to be the town next to Canton Falls, which’s where Constable lives.”
    “Who’s this Constable you keep talking about?” he asked quickly. But Rhyme could see telltale signs of recognition in his face.
    Sellitto took over. “Was Barnes one of the people you had lunch with? Jeddy Barnes?”
    “I don’t know who you mean.”
    “You know the Patriot Assembly though?”
    “Just what I’ve read about in the paper.”
    “We don’t believe you,” Sellitto said.
    “Believe what you like,” Weir snapped. Rhyme could see the fierce anger in the eyes, the anger that Dobyns had predicted. After a pause he asked, “How’d you find out my real name?”
    No one answered but Weir’s eyes settled on the latest additions about him on the evidence chart. His face grew dark as he gasped, “Somebody betrayed me, didn’t they? They told you about the fire and Kadesky. Who was it?” A vicious smile as he glanced from Sachs to Kara and finally settled on Rhyme. “Was it John Keating? He told you that I called him, didn’t he?Spineless shit. He never stood up to me. Art Loesser too, right? They’re all fucking Judases. I’ll remember them. I always remember the people who betray me.” He had a coughing fit. When it ended Weir was looking across the room. “Kara. . . . Is that what he said your name is? And who are you?”
    “I’m an illusionist,” she said defiantly.
    “One of us,” Weir mocked, looking her up and down. “A girl illusionist. And you’re, what? A consultant or something? Maybe after I’m released I’ll come visit. Maybe I’ll vanish you.”
    Sachs snapped, “Oh, you ain’t getting released in this lifetime, Weir.”
    The Conjurer’s gasping laugh was chilly. “Then how about when I escape? Walls are, after all, just an illusion.”
    “I don’t think escape’s much of an option either,” Sellitto added.
    Rhyme said, “Well, I answered your ‘how,’ Weir. Or whatever you’re calling yourself. How ’bout if you answer my ‘why’? We thought it was revenge against Kadesky. But then it turns out you’re after Grady. What are you? Some kind of hit-man illusionist?”
    “Revenge?” Weir asked, furious. “What the fuck good is revenge? Will it take the scars away and fix my lungs? Will it bring my wife back? . . . You don’t fucking understand! The only thing in my life, the only thing that’s ever meant anything to me is performing. Illusion, magic. My mentor groomed me for the profession all my life. The fire took that away from me. I don’t have the strength to perform. My hand’s deformed. My voice is ruined. Who’d come to see me?I can’t do the one thing that God gave me talent for. If the only way I can perform is to break the law, then that’s what I’ll do.”
    Phantom of the Opera syndrome . . .
    He glanced at Rhyme’s body again. “How