The Vanished Man

at a time, though, so Malerick had mastered a very difficult technique called “scrubbing,” in which you move the pick back and forth quickly, brushing the pins out of the way. Scrubbing only works when the lock picker senses exactly the right combination of torque on the cylinder and pressure on the pins. Using tools that were only a few inches long, it had taken Malerick less than thirty seconds to scrub open the locks in both the back door and the apartment door of Calvert’s place.
    Does that seem impossible, Revered Audience?
    But that’s the job of illusionists, you know: rendering the impossible real.
    Pausing outside the subway he bought a New York Times and flipped through it as he studied passersby. Again, it seemed that no one had followed him. He trotted down the stairs to catch the train. A truly cautious performer might have waited a bit longer to be absolutely sure he wasn’t being tailed. But Malerick didn’t have much time. The next routine would be a difficult one—he’d set quite major challenges for himself—and he had to make some preparations.
    He didn’t dare risk disappointing his audience.

Chapter Eleven
    “It’s bad, Rhyme.”
    Amelia Sachs was speaking into the stalk mike as she stood in the doorway of apartment 1J, in the heart of Alphabet City.
    Earlier that morning Lon Sellitto had ordered all dispatchers at Central to call him immediately with news of any homicide in New York City. When a report came in about this particular killing they concluded that it was the work of the Conjurer: the mysterious way the killer had gained access to the man’s apartment was one clue. The clincher, though, was that he’d smashed the victim’s wristwatch—just as he’d done with the student’s at the first killing that morning.
    One thing that was different was the cause of death. Which had prompted Sachs’s comment to Rhyme. While Sellitto gave commands to the detectives and patrol officers in the hall Sachs studied the unfortunate vic—a young man named Anthony Calvert. He lay on his back in the middle of the coffee table in the living room, spread-eagled, hands and feet tied to the legs of the table. His abdomen had been sawn completely through down to his spine.
    Sachs now described the injury to Rhyme.
    “Well,” said the criminalist unemotionally. “Consistent.”
    “Consistent?”
    “I’d say he’s keeping with the magic theme. Ropes in the first killing. Cutting someone in half now.” His voice rose as he called across the room, presumably to Kara. “That’s a magic trick, right? Cutting somebody in half?” A pause and then he was addressing Sachs again. “She said it’s a classic illusionist trick.”
    He was right, she realized; she’d been shocked at the sight and hadn’t made the connection between the two killings.
    An illusionist trick . . .
    Though grotesque mutilation described it better.
    Keep detached, she told herself. A sergeant would be detached.
    But then a thought occurred to her. “Rhyme, you think . . .”
    “What?”
    “You think he was alive when the perp started cutting? His hands’re tied to the table legs, spread-eagle.”
    “Oh, you mean maybe he left something for us, some clue about the killer’s identity? Good.”
    “No,” she said softly. “Thinking about the pain.”
    “Oh. That.”
    Oh. That . . .
    “Blood work’ll tell.”
    Then she noticed a major blunt-object trauma to Calvert’s temple. That wound hadn’t bled much, which suggested that his heart had stopped beating soon after the skull had been crushed.
    “No, Rhyme, looks like the cutting was postmortem.”
    She vaguely heard the criminalist’s voice talking to his aide, telling Thom to write this on the evidence chart. He was saying something else but she wasn’t paying any attention. The sight of the victim gripped her hard and wouldn’t let go. But this was as she wanted it. Yes, she could give up the dead—the way all crime scene cops had to do—and in a moment she would. But death, she felt, deserved a moment of stillness. Sachs did this not out of any sense of spirituality, though, or abstract respect for the dead; no, it was for herself, so that her heart would resist hardening to stone, a process that happened all too frequently in this calling.
    She realized that Rhyme was talking to her. “What?” she asked.
    “I was wondering, any weapons?”
    “No sign of them. But I haven’t searched yet.”
    A sergeant and a uniformed officer