"Shit," Sellitto said. "From now on we check IDs—everybody who walks through the friggin' door. I mean, everybody."

"He's talking about misdirection," Sachs continued. "He's complimented you. What else is he saying?"

"I don't know," Rhyme muttered. "Nothing."

"Nothing at all?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"I. Don't. Know." Lincoln Rhyme was furious. At Sachs because she was pushing him. Because she wouldn't let him have a drink to numb the terror.

Furious mostly at himself for disappointing her.

But she had to understand how hard it was for him to go back there—to the flames, to the smoke that slipped into his nose and threatened his precious lungs—

Wait. Smoke . . .

Lincoln Rhyme said, "Fire."

"Fire?"

"I think that was what he talked about the most. He was obsessed with it. There was an illusion he mentioned. The . . . right, the Burning Mirror. That was it. Flames all over the stage, I think. The illusionist has to escape from them. He turns into the devil. Or somebody turns into the devil."

Both Rhyme and Sachs glanced at Kara, who was nodding. "I've heard of it. But it's rare. Takes a lot of setup and it's pretty dangerous. Most theaters owners won't let performers do it nowadays."

"He kept going on about fire. How it's the one thing you can't fake onstage. How audiences see fire and they secretly hope maybe the illusionist'll get burned. Wait. I remember something else. He—"

"Go on, Rhyme, you're on a roll."

"Don't interrupt me," he snapped. "I told you he was acting as if he were giving a performance? He seemed delusional. He kept looking at the blank wall and talking to somebody. It was like, 'My something audience.' I don't remember what he called them. He was manic."

"An imaginary audience."

"Right. Hold on. . . . I think it was 'respected audience.' Talking to them directly, 'My respected audience.'"

Sachs glanced at Kara, who shrugged. "We always talk to the audience. It's called patter. In the old days performers would say things like 'my esteemed audience,' or 'my dear ladies and gentlemen.' But everybody thinks that's hokey and pretentious. Patter's a lot less formal now."

"Let's keep going."

"I don't know, Sachs. I think I'm dry. Everything else is just a big blur."

"I'll bet there's more. It's like that one bit of evidence at the scene. It's there, it might be the key to the whole case. You just have to think a little differently to find it." She leaned closer to Rhyme. "Let's say this is your bedroom. You're in the Flexicair. Where was he standing?"

The criminalist nodded. "There. Near the foot of the bed, facing me. My left side, closest to the door."

"What was his pose?"

"Pose? I don't know."

"Try."

"I guess facing me. He kept moving his hands. Like he was speaking in public."

Sachs stood and took up a position. "Like this?"

"Closer."

She moved in.

"There."