"Where could they've come from?"
Balzac rocked impatiently in his office chair. "We wouldn't know. Like I was saying, that's not a field we have any experience with."
The woman nodded, agreeing with him. "There're probably escapology museums somewhere you could get in touch with."
"And after you restock," Balzac said to his assistant, "I need you to process those orders. There were a dozen came in last night after you left." He lit a cigarette.
Sachs offered him the list again. "You did say you sold some of these products. Do you have records of customers?"
"I meant, products like them. And, no, we don't keep customer records."
After some questioning, Sachs finally got him to admit that there were recent records of mail-order and online sales. The young woman checked these, though, and found that nobody had bought any of the items on the evidence list.
"Sorry," Balzac said. "Wish we could be more help."
"You know, I wish you could be more help too," Sachs said, leaning forward. "Because, see, this guy killed a woman and escaped by using magic tricks. And we're afraid he's going to do it again."
Giving a frown of concern, Balzac said, "Terrible. . . . You know, you might try East Side Magic and Theatrical. They're bigger than us."
"We have another officer over there now."
"Ah, there you go."
She let a moment pass, silent. Then: "Well, if you can think of anything else, I'd appreciate a call." A good civil servant's smile, an NYPD sergeant's smile ("Remember: community relations are as important as criminal investigations").
"Good luck, Officer," Balzac said.
"Thanks," she said.
You apathetic son-of-a-bitch.
She nodded farewell to the young woman and glanced at a cardboard cup she was sipping from. "Hey, there anyplace around here to get some decent coffee?"
"Fifth and Nineteenth," she replied.
"Good bagels too," Balzac said, helpful now that there was no risk, or effort, involved.
Outside, Sachs turned toward Fifth Avenue and found the recommended coffee shop. She walked inside, bought a cappuccino. She leaned against a narrow mahogany bar in front of the flecked window, sipping the hot drink and watching the Saturday morning populace here in Chelsea--salespeople from the clothing stores in the area, commercial photographers and their assistants, rich yuppies who lived in the massive lofts, poor artists, lovers young and lovers old, a wacky notebook scribbler or two.
And one magic store clerk, now entering the shop.
"Hi," said the woman with short reddish-purple hair, carrying a battered faux zebra-skin purse over her shoulder. She ordered a large coffee, filled it with sugar and joined Sachs at the bar.
Back at Smoke & Mirrors the policewoman had asked about a venue for coffee because of a conspiratorial glance the assistant had shot Sachs; it seemed that she'd wanted to say something out of Balzac's presence.
Sipping her coffee thirstily, the woman said, "The thing about David is--"
"He's uncooperative?"
A frown of consideration. "Yeah. That says it pretty well. Anything outside his world he doesn't trust or want any part of. He was afraid we'd have to be witnesses or something. I'm not supposed to be distracted."
"From what?"
"From the profession."
"Magic?"
"Right. See, he's sort of my mentor more than my boss."