It was then that a soft voice sounded behind them.

"Hello, miss."

Sachs detected in the words a particular lilt, formed by a history of service labor and contact with the public. She turned and saw Andrew Constable standing next to a huge guard. The prisoner was quite tall, his posture completely erect. His salt-and-pepper hair was wavy and thick. His short, round lawyer stood next to him.

He continued, "Are you part of the team looking out for Mr. Grady?"

"Andrew," his lawyer cautioned.

The prisoner nodded. But kept his eyebrow raised as he looked at Sachs.

"It's not my case," she said to him dismissively.

"Ah, no? Was just going to tell you what I told Detective Bell. I honestly don't know anything about those threats against Mr. Grady." He turned to Bell, who gazed back at the suspect. The Tarheel cop could sometimes look bashful and reserved but that was never the case when confronting a suspect. A cool glare was his response now.

"You have to do your job. I understand that. But believe me, I wouldn't hurt Mr. Grady. One of the things that made this country great is playing fair." A laugh. "I'll beat him at trial. Which I will do – thanks to my brilliant young friend here." A nod toward his lawyer. Then a look of curiosity at Bell. "One thing I wanted to mention, Detective. I was wondering if you might have some interest in what my Patriots've been doing up in Canton Falls."

"Me?"

"Oh, I don't mean that crazy conspiracy nonsense. I mean what we're really about."

The prisoner's lawyer said, "Come on, Andrew. Better to keep quiet."

"Just conversing here, Joe." A glance at Bell. "How 'bout it?"

"How d'you mean, sir?" Bell asked stiffly.

The expected allusion to racism and the detective's southern roots didn't rear its head. He said, "States' rights, working folk, local government versus federal. You should go to our website, Detective." He laughed. "People expect swastikas. They get Thomas Jefferson and George Mason." When Bell said nothing a thick silence filled the close air around them. The prisoner shook his head then he laughed and looked abashed. "Lord, sorry me… Sometimes I just can't stop myself – all this ridiculous preaching. Get a few people around me and look what happens – I outstay my welcome."

The guard said, "Lessgo."

"All right then," the prisoner responded. A nod to Sachs, one to Bell. He shuffled down the hall to the faint clink of the shackles on his legs. His lawyer nodded to the prosecutor – two adversaries who respected and yet were wary of each other – and left the secure area.

A moment later Grady, Bell and Sachs followed, and joined Martinez. The policewoman said, "Doesn't seem like a monster. What're the charges exactly?"

Grady said, "Some ATF folk working undercover on a weapons sting upstate found out about this plot we think Constable was behind. Some of his people were going to lure state troopers to remote areas of the county on fake nine-one-one calls. If any of them were black they were going to kidnap them, strip them naked and lynch 'em. Oh, there was some suggestion of castration too."

Sachs, who'd dealt with plenty of terrible crimes in her years on the force, blinked in shock at this horrific news. "Are you serious?"

Grady nodded. "And that was just the start of it. It seems the lynchings were all part of a grand plan. They were hoping that if they murdered enough troopers and the media televised the hangings, the blacks'd rise up in some kind of revolt. That'd give the whites around the country the chance to retaliate and wipe them out. They were hoping the Latinos and Asians would join the blacks, and the white revolution could take them out too."

"In this day and age?"

"You'd be surprised."

Bell nodded to Luis. "He's in your care now. Stay close."

"You bet," the detective responded. Grady and the slim bodyguard left the detention lobby while Sachs and Bell retrieved their weapons from the check-in desk. As they returned to the courthouse portion of the Criminal Courts building, walking over the Bridge of Sighs, Sachs told Bell about the Conjurer and his victims.

Bell winced, hearing about Anthony Calvert's gruesome death. "Motive?"

"Don't know."

"Pattern?"

"Ditto."

"What's the perp look like?" Bell asked.

"Little dicey on that part too."

"Nothin' at all?"

"We think he's a white male, medium build."

"So nobody's got a look at him, huh?"

"Actually a lot of people have. Except the first time they did, he was a dark-haired, bearded male in his fifties. Next time he was a bald janitor in his sixties. Then he was a woman in her seventies."

Bell waited for her to laugh, signifying that this was a joke. When she remained grim-faced he asked, "This for no foolin'?"

"'Fraid it is, Roland."

"I'm good," Bell said, shaking his head and tapping the automatic pistol on his right hip. "But I need a target."

Now there's a prayer for you, thought Amelia Sachs.

The evidence from the second scene had arrived and Mel Cooper was arranging the bags and vials on examining tables in Rhyme's parlor.

Sellitto had just returned from a tense meeting at the Big Building about the Conjurer case. The deputy commissioner and the mayor wanted details on the progress of a case about which there were few details and had been no progress.

Rhyme had heard back about the Ukrainian illusionists with the Cirque Fantastique and learned that they had no record. The two police officers stationed at the tent had also been checking around the circus and reported no leads or suspicious activity.

A moment later Sachs strode into the room, accompanied by the even-keeled Roland Bell. When Sellitto had been ordered to add another detective to the team Rhyme had immediately suggested Bell; he liked the idea of a streetwise cop, who was a crack shot, backing up Sachs in the field.

Greetings and introductions all around. Bell hadn't been told about Kara and she answered his querying glance with: "I'm like him." A nod toward Rhyme. "Sort of a consultant."

Bell said, "Nice to meetcha." And blinked to see her absently rolling three coins back and forth over her knuckles simultaneously.

As Sachs went to work on the evidence with Cooper, Rhyme asked, "Who was he, the vic?"

"Name was Anthony Calvert. Thirty-two. Unmarried. Well, no partner, in his case."

"Any connection with the student at the music school?"

"Doesn't seem to be," Sellitto answered. "Bedding and Saul've checked it out."

"What was his job?" Cooper asked.

"Makeup stylist on Broadway."

And the first one was a musician and music student, Rhyme reflected. One straight female, one gay male victim. Lived and worked in different neighborhoods. What could link the killings? He asked, "Any feel-good stuff?"

But since the first crime hadn't been sexual in nature Rhyme wasn't surprised when Sachs said, "Nope. Not unless he takes his memories home to bed with him… And he gets off on this." She stepped to the whiteboard and taped up the digital photos of the body.

Rhyme wheeled closer and studied the gruesome images.

"Sick fuck." Sellitto offered this lethargic observation.

"And the weapon was?" Roland Bell asked.

"Looks like a crosscut saw," Cooper said, examining some close-ups of the wounds.

Bell, who'd seen his share of carnage as a cop both in North Carolina and New York, shook his head. "Well, now that's a tough shell."

As Rhyme continued to study the pictures he was suddenly aware of an odd noise, an erratic hissing from nearby. He turned to see Kara behind him. The sound was her frantic breath. She was looking at the pictures of Calvert's body. She ran her hand compulsively over her short hair as she stared, transfixed, at the photos, tear-filled eyes wide in shock. Her jaw trembled. She turned away from the board.