The Vanished Man

escaped by using magic tricks. And we’re afraid he’s going to do it again.”
    Giving a frown of concern, Balzac said, “Terrible. . . . You know, you might try East Side Magic and Theatrical. They’re bigger than us.”
    “We have another officer over there now.”
    “Ah, there you go.”
    She let a moment pass, silent. Then: “Well, if you can think of anything else, I’d appreciate a call.” A good civil servant’s smile, an NYPD sergeant’s smile (“Remember: community relations are as important as criminal investigations”).
    “Good luck, Officer,” Balzac said.
    “Thanks,” she said.
    You apathetic son-of-a-bitch.
    She nodded farewell to the young woman and glanced at a cardboard cup she was sipping from. “Hey, there anyplace around here to get some decent coffee?”
    “Fifth and Nineteenth,” she replied.
    “Good bagels too,” Balzac said, helpful now that there was no risk, or effort, involved.
    Outside, Sachs turned toward Fifth Avenue and found the recommended coffee shop. She walked inside, bought a cappuccino. She leaned against a narrow mahogany bar in front of the flecked window, sipping the hot drink and watching the Saturday morning populace here in Chelsea—salespeople from the clothing stores in the area, commercial photographers and theirassistants, rich yuppies who lived in the massive lofts, poor artists, lovers young and lovers old, a wacky notebook scribbler or two.
    And one magic store clerk, now entering the shop.
    “Hi,” said the woman with short reddish-purple hair, carrying a battered faux zebra-skin purse over her shoulder. She ordered a large coffee, filled it with sugar and joined Sachs at the bar.
    Back at Smoke & Mirrors the policewoman had asked about a venue for coffee because of a conspiratorial glance the assistant had shot Sachs; it seemed that she’d wanted to say something out of Balzac’s presence.
    Sipping her coffee thirstily, the woman said, “The thing about David is—”
    “He’s uncooperative?”
    A frown of consideration. “Yeah. That says it pretty well. Anything outside his world he doesn’t trust or want any part of. He was afraid we’d have to be witnesses or something. I’m not supposed to be distracted.”
    “From what?”
    “From the profession.”
    “Magic?”
    “Right. See, he’s sort of my mentor more than my boss.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Kara—it’s my stage name but I use it most of the time.” A pained smile. “Better than the one my parents were kind enough to give me.”
    Sachs lifted a curious eyebrow.
    “We’ll keep that a secret.”
    “So,” Sachs said, “why’d you give me that look back at the store?”
    “David’s right about that list. You can buy those things anywhere, in any store. Or on the Internet in hundreds of places. But about the Darbys, the handcuffs? Those’re rare. You should call the Houdini and Escapology Museum in New Orleans. It’s the best in the world. Escapism’s one of my things. I don’t tell him, though.” Reverent emphasis on the third-person pronoun. “David’s kind of opinionated. . . . Can you tell me what happened? With that murder?”
    Normally circumspect about what she gave away on an active case, Sachs knew they needed help and gave Kara an outline of the killing and the escape.
    “Oh, that’s horrible,” the young woman whispered.
    “Yeah,” Sachs replied softly. “It is.”
    “The way he disappeared? There’s something you ought to know, Officer—Wait, do I call you ‘officer’? Or are you like a detective or something?”
    “Amelia’s fine.” Enjoying a brief memory of how she’d aced the assessment exercise.
    Bang, bang . . .
    Kara sipped more coffee, decided that it wasn’t sweet enough and unscrewed the top of the sugar bottle then poured more in. Sachs watched the young woman’s deft hands then glanced down at her own fingernails, two of which were torn, the cuticles bloody. The girl’s were perfectly filed and the glossy black finish reflected the overhead lights in exact miniature. A jealous twinge—at the nails and the self-control that kept them so perfect—flared momentarily and then was put quickly to sleep by Amelia Sachs.
    Kara asked, “You know what illusion is?”
    “David Copperfield,” Sachs replied, shrugging. “Houdini.”
    “Copperfield, yes. Houdini, no—he was an escapist. Well, illusion’s different from sleight of hand or close-in magic, we call it. Like . . .” Kara held up a