When we left Times Square, piles of flowers were being laid next to candles. I’m glad some people realize there’s a victim in all this spectacle. At least I hope they see her as a victim. We passed hundreds of people lined up on the sidewalk trying to get a look at what they saw on television. Their faces were filled with awe and wonder. We spotted several people holding signs declaring it the end of days. A street preacher was perched on a trash can giving an impromptu sermon.

On the elevator to the observation deck, I try to imagine how the public will react to this latest deception. Those people in the streets still haven’t seen the video of the girl vanishing. The fallen angel is the tragic and strangely beautiful conclusion; the vanishing is the first all-out magical miracle that people will be able to watch over and over again.

The Warlock keeps escalating things. First it was something in a remote location. Next it was a public beach, predawn. Now he’s committing murder in full view of hundreds of people in one of the biggest cities in the world. No one could imagine how big this murder would have become. I’m afraid to think about what happens next.

We’re waiting for the NYPD to set up a remote monitor in the observation deck lobby to show the video from the security system. This is to help us better understand how she vanished. Our FBI team is up on ladders checking the cameras, looking for some kind of electronic trickery. I know they won’t find any. He’s never left behind any obvious proof of his deception. The last thing he wants is physical evidence showing the event was anything less than divine.

The city is a vast jungle of sparkling lights below me. Photos can capture some of the view. But it’s so much more than that. A thousand different sounds float up here. Police cars, squealing bus brakes, the ever-present sound of construction.

I walk over to the spot on the deck outside where the girl vanished, careful not to touch anything. The forensic team has already swept the area for clues, but it’s always good practice to be safe. I look up at the camera that is trained on where she stood. It’s a stubby black box locked inside a plastic dome. There are four cameras watching the outside perimeter. They keep track of tourists as they file out of the metal and glass lobby onto the narrow walkway around the building. Fishhook-shaped barriers curl over the top of the fence, preventing people from climbing over the edge. Over the years it’s been a temptation some found too hard to resist. There were five attempts in three weeks alone in 1947 before they put in the safeguard.

I push my arm between a gap in the metal bars. The distance is too narrow for even a small child to slip through. Knoll sees me and walks over.