Lake rattled off four or five names. Tony Park and Hell Rohmer immediately began Internet searches.
“And the bad news?” Byrne asked.
“The bad news is that I cannot identify the illusionist. At least not yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“The world of magic is a vast but tightly knit network, Detective. In a short amount of time I can be in touch with magicians all over the world. There are hundreds of archivists in this network. If this person is or was a performer, someone will know him. In fact, there is a man here in Philadelphia who has one of the largest archives of Philadelphia magic history in the world.”
“Is there a magician working today that has all of these illusions in one act?”
Lake thought for a few moments. “No one comes to mind. Most of the well-known acts today are either full scale Vegas or television acts—David Blaine, Criss Angel, Lance Burton. On the stage, high-tech is the order of the day.”
“What about the term ‘The Seven Wonders?’ ” Byrne asked. “Have you heard of this?”
“The Seven Wonders does ring a bell, but I can’t place it. If it was an act, it was a small one.”
“So, after seeing these four illusions, are you saying that there is no way you can predict what might be next? What the next three might be?”
“I’m afraid not. I can make a list of other well-known illusions, but it would be many more than three. It would be in the dozens. Probably more.”
Byrne nodded. “One more thing. He said ‘Here’s a clue. He flies between Begichev and Geltser.’ Do these names mean anything to anyone?”
Everyone shook their heads, including Arthur Lake.
“Any idea how to spell those names?” Tony Park asked.
“No,” Byrne said.
Park began to key in possibilities on the computer.
“Let me make a few calls, send a few e-mails,” Lake said. “I’ll get you some answers. Is there somewhere I can do that?”
“Absolutely,” Byrne said. “But are you sure you’ll be able to make contact at this hour?”
Arthur Lake smiled. “Magicians tend to be creatures of the night.”
Byrne nodded, glanced at Hell Rohmer, who shot to his feet.
“Right this way, sir.”
While Hell Rohmer led Lake to an office, Ike Buchanan stepped forward.
Wiry and thin, gray-haired, he was now a thirty-five year veteran. He’d been wounded in the late seventies, a working-class kid who had clawed his way up to a command. He had more than once gone to bat for Jessica. She was both happy and saddened that Sgt. Dwight Buchanan was going to retire in less than a month. He could have coasted to the end, but here he was in the midst of battle, as always. He held in his hands an evidence bag. Inside was Monica Renzi’s necklace. Jessica wondered if this was Ike Buchanan’s Cheerio.
He stood in front a large blowup map of North Philadelphia, specifically the area known as the Badlands.
“I want ten detective teams on the street,” Buchanan said. He pinned ten pushpins on the map. “The first five teams will be deployed at the four corners of the Badlands—North Broad and Spring Garden, North Broad and Erie, Erie and Front Street, Front Street and Spring Garden, along with a team near Norris Square. The other five teams will ring the center.
“If this is going down in East Division, I want gold badges at the scene in ninety seconds or less. Sector cars from the Twenty-fourth and Twenty-fifth will be patrolling and monitoring J-Band. Detective Park and Sergeant Rohmer will work the computers. Any request for information should go directly to them. AV Unit will have eyes glued to the cams.”
Buchanan scanned the sea of anxious faces, looking for questions, comments. None came.
“It looks like there are three girls in jeopardy out there,” he said. “They are our responsibility now. Find them. Find this man. Shut him down.”
SIXTY-NINE
12:46 AM
THE SOUNDS CAME to her in waves. At first she thought it was Rip. When her dog had been a puppy he got out of his small plaid bed every morning at dawn, parked himself at the foot of her bed, tail in motion, thumping the side of the box spring. If that didn’t wake her, he jumped onto her bed and positioned himself, paws out front, right by her ear. He wouldn’t bark, wouldn’t growl, wouldn’t whine, but the sound of his breathing—not to mention the aroma of puppy breath—would eventually wake her up.
Lilly realized it wasn’t Rip. She wasn’t home.
She was in Hell.
The last thing she remembered was getting in the man’s car. He called his wife. Then there was a strong chemical smell, and everything went black. Had they been in an accident? She did a quick inventory of arms and limbs. She wasn’t hurt.
Opening her eyes, the first thing she saw was a bronze chandelier hanging from some sort of plaster medallion on the ceiling. She was in a bed, covered with a white down comforter. The room was dim and hot. It felt like night. She threw off the covers, tried to sit up. Her head felt ready to fall off. She lay back down, and it all came back to her. He had drugged her somehow. She had trusted him, and he had drugged her. She felt the nausea rise in her throat, but battled it back.
She looked around the room, gauging distances, heights. The two windows were both covered in dark green drapes. There were also two doors. One had locks. The other must be a closet. There was a dresser with a mirror, two nightstands, one lamp. A big painting on the wall. That was it.
She was about to try sitting up once again when she heard quick-moving footsteps outside the door. She pulled the comforter up to her neck, half-closed her eyes.
Keys turned in the locks. Moments later, he entered the room, turned on a lamp. It cast the room in a warm ginger glow. Lilly did not stir. She wanted him to think she was still out of it.
When his back was to her, she risked opening her eyes. She watched him fuss and straighten things—the vase on the dresser, the hem of the down comforter, the pleats of the drapes. He adjusted the painting for what seemed like the dozenth time. She wanted to jump from the bed, claw his fucking eyes out, but she was far too weak to try anything at the moment. She needed a clear head. She needed to think straight. She might only get one shot.
She kept her breathing slow and steady, her eyes almost completely shut. He stood at the foot of the bed for the longest time, just watching her. It was so quiet she could hear her heartbeat in the down pillow.
After a few minutes, he checked his appearance in the mirror, opened the door, stepped through, and closed it. Lilly heard a key turn in a lock, then a second key. Footsteps padding down the hall.
Then, silence.
SEVENTY
12:59 AM
PEOPLE LINED THE streets of north Philly. Rain was intermittent, mosquitoes swarmed in dense clouds, music played on car stereos, blunts were cupped and hidden. Those gathered on Broad Street, some with binoculars in hand, would every so often point at the bright red clock face on the City Hall tower. What next, Philly?
The story had been splashed across all the local television stations, starting with a break-in during the late-night talk shows. Two stations had set up three cameras each, with a live feed to their websites. Every so often there would be a cutaway shot to the red clock on the tower at City Hall. It was like a demented version of New Year’s Eve with Dick Clark.
Jessica was always amazed at how fast the media got the down and dirty on things. She wondered how glib and hip these reporters and announcers would be if it were their daughters out there in the hands of a vicious psychopath, just how willing they would be then to play their stupid and dangerous ratings games.
They drove north on Fifth Street, past Callowhill and Spring Garden, past Fairmount, Poplar, and Girard. Jessica scanned the corners, the faces, the hands.