CLOCK

In the cool of the night time

The clocks pick off the points…

—CARL SANDBURG, Interior

SIXTY-EIGHT

12:26 AM

TWENTY-TWO DETECTIVES FROM THE PHILADELPHIA POLICE DEPARTMENT’S homicide unit met in the briefing room on the first floor of the Roundhouse. They ranged in age from thirty-one to sixty-three, in experience from just a few months in the unit to more than thirty years. Eight of these detectives had been on duty for more than fourteen hours—including Kevin Byrne and Jessica Balzano. Six had been called from home. The other ten were already on last-out, but were no longer working cases or leads. Half of this raucous group had to be called in from the street.

For these twenty-two men and women there was only one case at the moment.

An unidentified man with four confirmed kills was threatening the lives of three other people; three females who investigators believed to be under the age of eighteen.

They did not yet have ID on any of the potential victims.

The whiteboard was divided into seven columns. From left to right:

Elise Beausoleil. The Garden of Flowers.

Monica Renzi. The Girl Without a Middle.

Caitlin O’Riordan. The Drowning Girl.

Katja Dovic. The Girl in the Sword Box.

The next three columns were blank.

AT 12:35 AM Captain Lee Chapman walked into the briefing room. A man stood next to him.

“This is Mr. Arthur Lake,” Chapman said. “He is the president of the Philadelphia chapter of the International Brotherhood of Magicians. He has graciously agreed to help us.”

In his early sixties, Arthur Lake was well-dressed in a tan cotton blazer, dark chocolate slacks, polished loafers. His hair was a little long, a pewter gray. In addition to his duties at the IBM, he was an investment counselor at Wachovia.

After the introductions were made, Byrne asked, “Have you seen the videos?”

“I have,” Lake said. “I found them most disturbing.”

He would get no argument from anyone in the room.

“I’ll be happy to answer any and all questions you may have,” Lake added. “But I need to say something first.”

“By all means, sir.”

Lake took a moment. “My hope is that this… these events do not reflect on my profession, my community, or any of the people within it.”

Byrne knew where the man was going. He understood. “I can assure you: no one in this room thinks that. No one in the department thinks that.”

Lake nodded. He seemed a little more at ease. For the moment.

“What can you tell us about what you’ve seen on these videos?” Byrne asked.

“Two things, really,” Lake said. “One I think will help at this moment, the other I’m afraid will not.”

“Good news first.”

“Well, first off, I recognize all four illusions, of course. There’s nothing really different or exotic going on here. Blackstone’s Garden of Flowers, Houdini’s Water Torture Cell, or a variation on it, the Sword Box, the Girl Without a Middle. They’ve been known by different names, have had many variations over the years, but the effects are very similar. They are performed all over the world. From small cabarets and clubs to the biggest venues in Las Vegas.”

“Do you recognize any of the devices?” Byrne asked. “What I mean by that is, do you know any of them by manufacturer?”

“I’d have to see the videos a few more times to tell you that. Bear in mind, almost all of the larger stage illusions are manufactured by rather small specialty companies. As you might imagine, there is not a lot of call for them, so they are not mass produced. When you get into smaller devices—devices used for coin, card, and silk magic, the staples of close-up—the demand grows. Stage magic devices are quite often extremely sophisticated, manufactured to highly detailed blueprints and exacting specifications. They are made in relatively small wood and machine shops all over the world.”

“Do any of these smaller manufacturers come to mind?” Byrne asked.

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.”