The Vanished Man (Lincoln Rhyme 5)

The woman's husky voice woke him out of these durable memories as he sat at the bar of the Upper West Side tavern. A regular here, he guessed. Fiftyish trying unsuccessfully for the illusion of ten years younger, she'd picked this hunting ground based largely on the dim lighting. She scooted onto a stool next to his and was leaning forward, flying a flag of cleavage.

"Sorry?"

"Just asked how you're doing. Don't think I've seen you in here."

"Just in town for a day or two."

"Ah," she said drunkenly. "Say, I need a light." Conveying the irritating impression that he should consider it a privilege to light her cigarette.

"Oh, sure," he said.

He clicked a lighter and held it up. This flame flickered madly, he observed, as she wrapped her red, bony fingers around his to guide the lighter to her lips.

"Thanks." She shot a narrow stream of smoke toward the ceiling. When she looked back Malerick had paid the bill and was pushing away from the bar.

She frowned.

"I have to go." He smiled and said, "Oh, here, you can keep that."

He handed her the small metal lighter. She took it and blinked. Her frown deepened. It was her own lighter, which he'd dipped from her purse when she'd leaned toward him.

Malerick whispered coldly, "Guess you didn't need one after all."

Leaving her at the bar, two tears leading the mascara down her cheeks, he thought that of all the sadistic illusions he'd perpetrated, and had planned for, this weekend--the blood, the cut flesh, the fire--this one would perhaps be the most satisfying.

*

She heard the sirens when they were two blocks away from Rhyme's.

Amelia Sachs's mind did one of those funny jogs: hearing the urgent electronic catcall from some emergency vehicle, thinking the sound seemed to be coming from the direction of his town house.

Of course it wasn't, she decided.

Too much of a coincidence.

But then, the flashing lights, blue and red, were on Central Park West, where his place was located.

Come on, girl, she reassured herself, it's your imagination, stoked by the memory of the eerie harlequin on the banner in front of the Cirque Fantastique tent in the park, the masked performers, the horror of the Conjurer's murders. They were making her paranoid.

Spooky . . .

Forget it.

Shifting the large shopping bag containing garlicky Cuban food from one hand to the other, she and Kara continued down the busy sidewalk, talking about parents, about careers, about the Cirque Fantastique. About men too.

Bang, bang . . .

The young woman sipped her double Cuban coffee, to which, she said, she'd become addicted at first taste. Not only was it half the price of Starbucks', Kara pointed out, but it was twice as strong. "I'm not sure about the math but I think that makes it four times as good," the young woman said. "I'll tell you, I love finds like this. It's the little things in life, don't you think?"

But Sachs had lost the thread of the conversation. Another ambulance sped by. She sent a silent prayer that it keep going past Rhyme's.

It didn't. The vehicle braked to a fast stop at the corner next to his building.

"No," she whispered.

"What's going on?" Kara wondered. "An accident?"

Heart pounding, Sachs dropped the bags of food and began sprinting toward the building.