· Escape at music school was similar to Vanished Man illusion routine. Too common to trace.

· Perp is primarily an illusionist.

· Talented at sleight-of-hand.

· Also knows protean (quick-change) magic. Will use breakaway clothes, nylon and silk, bald cap, finger cups and other latex appliances. Could be any age, gender or race.

· Calvert's death = Selbit's Cutting a Woman in Half routine.

· Proficient at lock-picking (possibly lock "scrubbing").

Chapter Thirteen

In 1900 Manhattan's horse population was over 100,000 and, space being at a premium on the island even in those days, many animals were housed in high-rises—at least that's what their second- and third-story quarters would have been considered at the time.

One such elevated stable can still be found in the borough, the well-known Hammerstead Riding Academy on the Upper West Side. Still in its original structure, built in 1885, the academy features hundreds of stalls above the ground-level arena, which is the site for both private riding lessons and shows.

A large, busy stable like this seems an anomaly in a city like Manhattan in the twenty-first century until you consider that Central Park's six miles of well-tended bridle paths are only a few blocks away.

Ninety horses reside in the academy, some privately owned and some for rent, and one of these latter variety was now being led down a steep ramp from his stall by a groom, a redheaded teenage girl, to a waiting rider.

Cheryl Marston felt the same thrill she did every Saturday at this time of day when she saw the tall, feisty horse with the mottled rump of an Appaloosa.

"Hey, Donny Boy," she called, her pet name for the animal, whose real name was Don Juan di Middleburg. A ladies' man, she often said. A joke but true enough: under a male rider the animal would shy and whinny and resist from the git-go.

But with Marston he was putty.

"See you in an hour," she told the groom, swinging up onto Donny Boy, gripping the supple reins, feeling his astonishing muscles beneath her.

A touch to the ribs and they were on their way. Out onto Eighty-sixth Street, moving east slowly toward Central Park, the shod feet clopping loudly on the asphalt, drawing everyone's attention, as they examined both the gorgeous animal and, high atop him, the thin-faced, serious woman dressed in jodhpurs, a red jacket and black velvet helmet, out of which dangled a long blonde French braid.