After an hour of criticizing virtually every aspect of her technique Balzac had looked at her pale, tearful face and barked, "I said you have potential. I didn't say you were good. If you want somebody to polish your ego you're in the wrong place. Now, are you going to run home crying to mommy or are you going to get back to work?" They got back to work.

And so began an eighteen-month love-hate relationship between mentor and apprentice, which kept her up until the early hours of the morning six or seven days a week, practicing, practicing, practicing. While Balzac had had many assistants in his years as a performer he'd been a mentor to only two apprentices and in both cases, it seemed, the young men had proved to be disappointments. He wasn't going to let that happen with Kara. Friends sometimes asked her where her love of – and obsession with – illusion came from. They were probably expecting a movie-of-the-week tormented childhood filled with abusive parents and teachers or, at least, a little slip of a mousy girl escaping from the cruel cliques at school into the world of fantasy. But they got Normal Girl instead – a cheerful A-student, gymnast, cookie baker and school-choir singer, who started on the path of entertainment undramatically by attending a Penn and Teller performance in Cleveland with her grandparents, followed a month later by a coincidental family trip to Vegas for one of her father's turbine-manufacturing conventions, the trip exposing her to the thrill of flying tigers and fiery illusions, the exhilaration of magic.

That's all it took. At thirteen she founded the magic club at JFK Junior High and was soon sinking every penny of baby-sitting money into magic magazines, how-to videos and packaged tricks. She later expanded her entrepreneurial efforts to yard work and snow shoveling in exchange for rides to the Big Apple Circus and Cirque du Soleil whenever they were appearing within a fifty-mile radius.

Which is not to say that there wasn't an important motive that set – and kept – her on this course. No, what drove Kara could be easily found in the blinks of delighted surprise on the faces of the audience – whether they were two-dozen of her relatives at Thanksgiving dinner (a show complete with quick-change routines and a levitating cat, though without the trapdoor her father wouldn't let her cut in the living room floor) or the students and parents at the high school senior talent show, where she did two encores to a standing ovation.

Life with David Balzac, though, was quite different from that triumphant show; over the past year and half she sometimes felt she she'd lost whatever talent she'd once had.

But just as she'd be about to quit he'd nod and offer the faintest of smiles.

Several times he actually said, "That was a tight trick." At moments like that her world was complete.

Much of the rest of her life, though, blew away like dust as she spent more and more time at the store, handling the books and inventory for him, the payroll, serving as webmaster for the store's website. Since Balzac wasn't paying her much she needed other work and she took jobs that were at least marginally compatible with her English degree – writing content for other magic and theater websites. Then about a year ago her mother's condition had begun to worsen and only-child Kara spent her little remaining free time with the woman. An exhausting life.

But she could handle it for now. In a few years Balzac would pronounce her fit to perform and off she'd go with his blessing and his contacts with producers around the world.

Hold tight, girl, as Jaynene might say, and stay on top of the galloping horse.

Kara now finished Tarbell's three-silk trick again. Tapping his cigarette ash onto the floor, Balzac frowned. "Left index finger slightly higher."

"You could see the tie?"

"If I couldn't see it," he snapped angrily, "why would I ask you to lift your finger higher? Try again."

Once more.

The goddamn index finger slightly goddamn higher.

Wshhhhhh… the entangled silks separated and flew into the air like triumphant flags.

"Ah," Balzac said. A faint nod.

Not traditional praise exactly. But Kara had learned to make do with ahs. She put the trick away and stepped behind the counter in the cluttered business area of the store to log in the merchandise that had arrived in Friday's afternoon shipment.

Balzac returned to the computer, on which he was writing an article for the store's website about Jasper Maskelyne, the British magician who created a special military unit in World War Two, which used illusionist techniques against the Germans in North Africa. He was writing it from memory, without any notes or research; that was one thing about David Balzac – his knowledge of magic was as deep as his temperament was unstable and fiery.

"You hear that the Cirque Fantastique's in town?" she called. "Opens tonight."

The old illusionist grunted. He was exchanging his glasses for contact lenses; Balzac was extremely aware of the importance of a performer's image and always looked his best for any audience, even his customers. "You going to go?" she persisted. "I think we should go." Cirque Fantastique – a competitor to the older and bigger Cirque du Soleil – was part of the next generation of circuses. It combined traditional circus routines, ancient commedia dell'arte theater, contemporary music and dance, avant-garde performance art and street magic.

But David Balzac was old school: Vegas, Atlantic City, The Late Show. "Why change something that works?" he'd grumble.

Kara loved Cirque Fantastique, though, and was determined to get him to a performance. But before she could pitch her case to convince him to accompany her the store's front door opened and an attractive, redheaded policewoman walked in, asking for the owner.

"That's me. I'm David Balzac. What can I do for you?"

The officer said, "We're investigating a case involving someone who might've had some training in magic. We're talking to magic supply stores in town, hoping you might be able to help us."

"You mean, somebody's running a scam or something?" Balzac asked. He sounded defensive, a feeling Kara shared. In the past magic has often been linked to crooks – sleight-of-hand artists as pickpockets, for instance, and charlatan clairvoyants using illusionist techniques to convince bereaved family members that the spirits of their relatives are communicating with them.

But the policewoman's visit, it turned out, was prompted by something else.

"Actually," she said, glancing at Kara then back to Balzac. "The case is a homicide."

"I have a list of some items we found at a crime scene," Amelia Sachs told the owner, "and was wondering if you might've sold them."

He took the sheet she handed him and read it as Sachs looked over Smoke & Mirrors. The black-painted cavern of a store in the photo district, part of Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood, smelled of mold and chemicals – plastic too, the petrochemical body odor from the hundreds of costumes that hung like a limp crowd from racks nearby. The grimy glass counters, half of them cracked and taped together, were filled with card decks and wands and phony coins and dusty boxes of magic tricks. A full-size replica of the creature from the Alien movies stood next to a Diana mask and costume. (BE THE PRINCESS OF THE PARTY! a card read. As if no one in the store even knew she was dead.)

He tapped the list and then nodded at the counters. "I don't think I can help. We sell some of this, sure. But so does every magic store in the country. A lot of toy stores too."

She observed he hadn't spent more than a few seconds looking it over. "How about these?" Sachs showed him the printout of the photo of the old handcuffs.