Dark Magic (8 page)

“By all means, do call them,” Wolfe said. “Because I plan to tell the police there’s a bloody hole in the wall in your front room that you’re using to spy on customers. Once they hear that, they’ll take your license away, and shut you down.”

The parlor fell silent. Akan shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair.

“Perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement,” the elderly Turk said.

“You mean a bribe to keep your mouths shut? How much do you have in mind?” Wolfe asked.

“How about a thousand dollars?”

“That sounds reasonable enough. Do you take traveler’s checks?”

“Of course.”

“Gentlemen, you have a deal.”

Sedat held his hand out for the money. It was the opening Wolfe had been waiting for. He kicked the big man in the chest, and sent him tumbling onto his father’s wheelchair. Habib came next. Drawing the steak knife, Woolfe slashed son number one across the face.

“Stand against the wall,” Wolfe ordered him.

Habib cowered against the wall, his hand pressed to the gushing wound. Wolfe pointed his knife at Sedat, who was trying to rehook the oxygen tank to the tube hanging around his father’s neck. The crying sound of escaping oxygen filled the air.

“Give me Lester Rowe’s address, and I’ll leave you alone,” Wolfe said.

“I don’t have it,” Sedat replied.

“You bought his bloody business. You must have some idea where he went.”

It was Habib who answered him. “Lester Rowe moved his business to Second Street, between First and Second Avenues. He works out of an apartment house on the bottom floor.”

“What’s the address?”

“He didn’t give it to us. He has a steady stream of clients. You won’t have a problem finding him.”

“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

Sedat had pulled his father into his lap, and was trying to revive him. It was touching to see the son’s devotion to his father. Had it been his own father, Wolfe would have taken his head and smashed it against the floor, then given it a twist for good measure.

Wolfe backed out of the parlor. Stopping in the doorway, he pulled out his trusty Zippo, and grabbed a promotional flyer off a table. He crushed the flyer into a ball and began to ignite it.

“No!” Sedat said.

“The police offered you a reward for turning me in, didn’t they?” Wolfe said.

Sedat nodded his head fearfully.

“How much for my head?”

“Does it matter?” Sedat asked.

“It does to me.”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money. Why settle for a thousand?”

“We are illegals. If the police found out, they’d throw us out of the country.”

“Makes sense. Have a nice hereafter.”

Wolfe lit the flyer with his Zippo, and tossed the flaming paper directly at the tank. The escaping oxygen made a distinct
Pop!
as it ignited and caught fire. He went into the hallway and slammed the door, then braced himself. He could hear the Turks yelling in their native tongue. Seconds later the tank exploded, and the whole building shook.

It was still raining as he went outside. Eleventh Street was deserted, although it would not be that way for very long. He fired up a cigarette, and smoke filled his lungs as he started to walk. It was strange: The more times he killed, the harder it was for him to calm down. Madame Marie had called him the Devil, only he didn’t think the Devil had a conscience. He still did, no matter how small it might be.

Soon he reached Second Avenue, and began to hunt for Lester Rowe.

9

The lobby of the 19th Precinct was filled with people. Located on East 67th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues, the precinct served one of the most densely populated areas of the city, which included many foreign missions and consuls. Peter sifted his way through the mob, and caught the eye of a gruff female desk sergeant. He sidled up to her desk.

“Good morning.”

“You always take a shower with your clothes on?” she asked, working a piece of gum.

Everyone in New York was a comedian. Especially the cops.

“I’d like to see Detective Schoch,” he replied. “Is she here?”

“Depends who’s asking. Hey, I know you. You’re that magic guy. I saw your show last year. Not bad. There’s something I’ve always wanted to know. Is that your real name?”

“Warlock is my stage name.”

“I didn’t think so. Show me a trick.”

Peter made it a rule to never walk out of his brownstone without a trick in his pocket. Only today he’d forgotten, so he had to improvise. He told the desk sergeant to think of a card, and when he attempted to read her mind, hit a wall. It happened sometimes. Borrowing a pen and a piece of paper, he wrote down a prediction and placed it face down on the desk.

“Name your card,” he said.

“Queen of hearts,” she replied.

“Want to change your mind?”

“Nope.”

“Happy with the mind that you have?”

“Very funny.”

“Turn my prediction over.”

She flipped over the paper. Written on it were the words
QUEEN OF HEARTS
.

“Wow. How’d you do that?”

There were only five playing cards that people ever thought of—the ace of spades, queen of spades, queen of hearts, king of hearts, and seven of spades. Most middle-aged women chose the queen of hearts. He smiled and shook his head.

“Not going to tell me, huh?” The desk sergeant slid a form toward him. “Fill this out so I can sign you in. Is Detective Schoch expecting you?”

“She was at my home earlier, discussing a case,” he said.

“Is that a yes, or a no?”

“No, she’s not expecting me.”

“I’ll give you a pass this time.” She made a quick call, then hung up. “Detective Schoch will be down in a few minutes. Have a seat in one of those chairs. Nice meeting you.”

“You, too.”

He sat on a hard plastic bench bolted to the wall. A copy of today’s
New York Post
lay on the seat beside him. No one did headlines like the
Post.
KIDNAPING SUSPECT TO GO FREE—COPS
OUT-RAGED! By the time he’d finished the story, Schoch had come downstairs. She was all business, and wore a sidearm strapped to her side.

“Hey, Peter, what’s up?”

He rose from the bench. “I had another vision. Wolfe’s on the Lower East Side, stalking his next victim. He was eating breakfast in a diner that looked familiar.”

She shot him an exasperated look. “That’s it? You can’t give me an address, or a name?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll put out an alert.”

Schoch started walking toward the elevators. He hurried to catch up.

“Please tell me what you know about Wolfe,” he said.

“I already told you, I can’t do that.”

“I have something to trade.”

“What are you talking about?”

He pulled the
Post
out from under his arm. “I can help you solve this kidnaping case.”

“Exactly how do you plan to do that?”

“The newspaper ran a photo of the ransom note. I saw something in the note that told me who the kidnaper is.”

“Our handwriting expert looked at the ransom note, and didn’t see a thing.”

“He must of missed it.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I see things that other people miss. I can help you crack this.”

“Is that part of your psychic abilities?”

“Actually, it comes from being a magician. We look at things differently.”

Schoch gave him a long, searching look. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say what the hell, and punched the elevator button.

“Follow me,” she said.

*   *   *

Homicide was a sea of cubicles and ringing phones. Dagastino’s cubicle was a pigsty, his desk covered in dead coffee cups and dog-eared reports. Dag was on the phone, and had his feet propped on the desk. He ended the call as they entered, and shot Peter a hostile look.

“We’ve got company,” Schoch said.

“I see that,” Dagastino said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Peter thinks he can help us solve the Bunny Ruttenberg kidnaping.”

“Be my guest.”

“He wants something in return,” she said.

“A horse trade?”

“That’s right.”

“I want to know about the guy who tried to stab me last night,” Peter jumped in.

Dagastino scratched his chin, and gave it some thought.

“You go first,” the detective said.

“Do we have a deal, or not?” Peter asked.

“We have a deal. Now, start talking.”

“The ransom note spray-painted on the wall of Bunny Ruttenberg’s apartment was put there by her husband, who the
Post
said was going to be let out of jail,” Peter said.

“You figured that out just by reading the
Post
?” Dagastino snorted. “Give me a break, for Christ’s sakes.”

“It’s right there in the ransom note,” Peter said defensively.

“The note was spray-painted on the wall of the apartment. Our handwriting expert studied it. There was nothing to see,” Dagastino shot back.

“Your expert missed it. The clue was right there.”

“What clue?”

“Magicians call it the familiar-name principle. I’ll show you.” Peter turned his back to the desk. “In random order, write the name of someone important to you on a piece of paper, then write the names of four people you don’t care about on the same piece of paper.”

Dagastino’s pen scratched across a legal pad. “Done.”

Peter turned back around. Dagastino handed him the pad, which he studied. Five names were written across it. A quick glance told him everything he needed to now.

“The second name on the pad, Maryann Magliaro, is someone you care deeply about,” Peter said. “Am I right?”

Dagastino’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Is she your wife?”

“Jesus H. Christ. How’d you know
that
?” the detective asked.

“You wrote her name differently,” Peter explained.

“I did?”

“Yes. You’ve probably written your wife’s name hundreds of times, maybe more. You wrote her name without having to think about it, and used the subconscious part of your brain. The other names you had to think about, and therefore used the conscious part of your brain. The difference shows up in the handwriting. It’s an old magic trick.”

Peter had the copy of the
Post
under his arm. He laid the paper on the desk and pointed to the ransom note in the story. “Look at the words in the note. They all have paint dripping down them, except Bunny Ruttenberg’s name. Her kidnaper spray-painted her name without having to think about it. It’s her husband.”

Dagastino studied the ransom note printed in the newspaper. “That’s brilliant. Now how do we get him to admit it?”

Peter had thought about that while sitting in the lobby. The
Post
article said the Ruttenbergs had been married forty years. He guessed this was a crime of passion, and that there were other clues in the apartment that the police had missed.

“Let me see the file,” he said.

Dagastino went and got the file. “Find something to incriminate the husband, and I’ll tell you everything we know about the guy who tried to cut your heart out.”

“Deal,” Peter said.

10

The Ruttenberg file was an inch thick. It included a stack of black-and-white crime scene photos taken at the Ruttenberg’s multi-million-dollar Park Avenue penthouse. Even by New York standards, the dwelling was spectacular, and filled with the finest things money could buy. The panoramic view of Central Park was enough to take a person’s breath away.

Peter sat at Dagastino’s desk. He quickly sorted through the photos, and found himself drawn to a shot of the master bedroom, which was bigger than most apartments in the city. Something about the walk-in closet struck him as odd, and he showed the photo to Schoch.

“This doesn’t look right,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Schoch replied.

“Look at the way the clothes are hung. Bunny Ruttenberg’s dresses are in the back of the closet, behind her husband’s suits and sport coats. A woman wouldn’t let her husband put his clothes in front of hers, would she?”

“You’ve got a point. What do you think it means?”

“The husband knows his wife isn’t coming back. He killed her, and is feeling guilty about what he’s done. He moved her clothes so he doesn’t have to look at them.”

“So his conscience is eating at him.”

“Yes. He probably wanted to throw the clothes out, only he knew it would look suspicious, so he moved them instead.”

“Hey, Dag, take a look at this,” Schoch said.

Dagastino was schmoozing with another detective. He hustled over, and Schoch pointed out the discrepancy in the photo.

“That’s good. Give me more,” Dagastino said.

Peter spread the photos across the detective’s desk, and looked for more evidence of the husband’s guilt. One photo showed a dresser in the master bedroom with the couple’s wedding photo on it. Bunny’s face was blocked by an alarm clock.

“Here’s another. The husband can’t bear to look at his wife’s face, so he stuck an alarm clock in front of it. He’s guilty as sin.”

Dagastino stuck a stick of gum into his mouth. He vigorously chewed while staring at the photo of the dresser.

“What are you thinking?” Schoch asked.

“I want to pull the husband out of the holding cell in the basement, and grill him while making him look at Bunny’s picture,” her partner said.

“Think he might crack?” Schoch asked.

“Could happen.”

“I’ll go get him.” Schoch slipped on her jacket and went to retrieve the husband.

“I’d like to watch,” Peter said. “I might see something else.”

“The more the merrier,” Dagastino replied.

*   *   *

Henry Ruttenberg was moved from the holding cell to an interrogation room on the third floor. The room was small, and had a desk and two chairs. A distinguished-looking man with silver hair, Ruttenberg sat with a blank look on his face and examined his fingernails.