The Vanished Man (Lincoln Rhyme 5)

Sellitto finished his sandwich and dialed the number of the first assistant on Cooper's list. The recorded voice of Arthur Loesser's wife answered and told them that the family wasn't home but please leave a message. Sellitto did so then he dialed the other assistant.

John Keating answered on the first ring and Sellitto explained they were in the middle of an investigation and had some questions for him. A pause then a man's nervous voice rattled out of the tiny speaker. "Uhm, what's this about? This's the New York City police?"

"That's right."

"Okay. I guess it's okay."

Sellitto asked, "You used to work for a man named Erick Weir, didn't you?"

Silence for a moment. Then the man launched into a staccato reply. "Mr. Weir? Well, uh-huh. I did. Why?" The voice was edgy and high. He sounded as if he'd just had a dozen cups of coffee.

"Do you happen to know where he might be?"

"I mean, why are you asking me about him?"

"We'd like to talk to him as part of a criminal investigation."

"Oh, my God. . . . About what? What do you want to talk to him about?"

"We just have some general questions," Sellitto said. "Have you had any contact with him lately?"

There was a pause. This was the part where the nervous man would either spill all or run for the hills, Rhyme knew.

"Sir?" Sellitto asked.

"That's funny, okay. You asking me, I mean about him." The words clattered like marbles on metal. "Here it is. I'll tell you. I hadn't heard from Mr. Weir for years. I thought he was dead. There was this fire in Ohio, the last job we were working. He got burned. Real bad. He disappeared and we all thought he was dead. But then maybe six or seven weeks ago he called."

"From where?" Rhyme asked.

"I don't know. He didn't say. I didn't ask. It doesn't occur to anyone to ask where somebody's calling from. Not the first thing. You just don't think about that. Do you ever ask that?"

Rhyme asked, "What did he want?"

"Okay, okay. He wanted to know if I still kept up with anybody at the circus where the fire happened. The Hasbro circus. But that was Ohio. It was three years ago. And Hasbro's not even in business anymore. After the fire the owner folded it and it became a different show. Why would I keep up with anybody there? Here I am in Reno. I said I didn't. And he got all ippity, you know."

Rhyme frowned again.

Sachs tried, "Angry?"

"Oh, hell-ooooh. Yeah, I'll say."

"Go on," Rhyme said, struggling against impatience. "Tell us what else he said."

"That was it. That was all. What I just told you. I mean, there were little things. Oh, he got his digs in like he always did. The claws. Just like old times. . . . You know what he did when he called?"

"What was that?" Rhyme encouraged.

"All he said was, 'It's Erick.' Not 'Hello.' Not 'Oh, John, how are you? Remember me?' No. 'It's Erick.' I hadn't talked to him since the fire. And what does he say? 'It's Erick.' All these years since I got away from him, working so hard to get away . . . and then it's like I haven't gotten away at all. I know I hadn't done anything wrong. And here he's making it sound like something's all my fault. It's like you take an order from a customer and then when you bring the food they claim it's not what they ordered. But everybody knows what happened--they changed their mind and they're making it sound like you got it wrong. Like it's your fault and you're the one who gets in trouble."

Sachs continued, "Can you tell us anything about him in general? Other friends, places he liked to go, hobbies."

"Sure," came the snappy voice. "All of the above: illusion."

"What?" Rhyme asked.

"That was his friends, places he liked to go to, hobbies. You get what I'm saying? There was nothing else. He was like totally absorbed in the profession."

Sachs tried again. "Well, what about his attitude toward people? His outlook? How he thought about things?"