He nodded.
"So," Kara said.
The illusionist said a formal "Goodbye then" and stepped behind the counter, offering nothing else.
Struggling to keep the tears at bay, she walked to the door.
"Wait," he called as she started outside. Balzac stepped into the back of the store and then returned to her. He held something in his hand and thrust it into hers. It was the cigar box that contained Tarbell's three colored silks.
"Here. Take these. . . . I liked the way you did that one. It was a tight trick."
She remembered the praise she'd received for it. Ah. . . .
Kara stepped forward and embraced him fast, thinking that this was the first physical contact they'd had since she shook his hand when she'd met him eighteen months ago.
He gave her an awkward hug in return and then stepped back.
Kara walked outside, paused and turned to wave but Balzac had vanished into the dim recesses of the store. She slipped the box of silks into her purse and started toward Sixth Avenue, which would take her downtown to her apartment.
Chapter Fifty-two
The homicide was indeed a weird one.
A double murder in a deserted part of Roosevelt Island--that narrow strip of apartments, hospitals and ghostly ruins in the East River. Since the tramway deposits residents not far from the United Nations in Manhattan many diplomats and U.N. employees live on the island.
And it was two of these individuals--junior emissaries from the Balkans--who'd been found murdered, each shot in the back of the head twice, their hands bound.
There were several curious things that Amelia Sachs had turned up when she'd run the scene. She'd found ash from a type of cigarette that wasn't in the state or federal tobacco database, traces of a plant that wasn't indigenous to the metropolitan area and imprints of a heavy suitcase that had been set down and apparently opened next to the victims after they'd been shot.
And strangest of all was the fact that each man was missing his right shoe. They were nowhere to be found. "Both of them the right shoe, Sachs," Rhyme said, looking at the evidence board, in front of which he sat and she paced. "What do we make of that?"
But the question was put on hold temporarily by Sachs's ringing cell phone. It was Captain Marlow's secretary, asking if she could come down to a meeting at his office. Several days had passed since they'd closed the Conjurer case, several days since she'd learned about Victor Ramos's action against her. There'd been no further word about the suspension.
"When?" Sachs asked.
"Well, now," the woman replied.
Sachs disconnected and, with a glance and tight-lipped smile toward Rhyme, she said, "This's it. Gotta go."
They held each other's eyes for a moment. Then Rhyme nodded and she headed for the door.
A half hour later Sachs was in Captain Gerald Marlow's office, sitting across from the man, who was reading one of his ever-present manila files. "One second, Officer." He continued reviewing whatever so absorbed him, jotting occasional notes.
She fidgeted. Picking at a cuticle, then at a nail. Two grass-growing minutes went by. Oh, Jesus Christ, she thought and finally asked, "Okay, sir. What's the story? Did he back down?"
Marlow marked a spot on the sheet he was reading and looked up. "Who?"
"Ramos. About the sergeant's exam?"
And that other vindictive prick--the lecherous cop from the assessment exercise.
"Back down?" Marlow asked. He was surprised at her naivete. "Well, Officer, that was never an option, him backing down."
So that left only one reason for a face-to-face--an understanding that came to her with the sharp clarity of the first pistol shot at an outdoor range. That first shot . . . before your muscles and ears and skin grow numb from the repeated fire. Only one reason for her to be summoned here. Marlow was going to take possession of her weapon and her shield. She was now suspended.
Shitshitshit . . .
She bit the inside of her lip.