Magicide (10 page)

CHAPTER 22

Wednesday, August 10, 6:30 a.m.

Cheri awoke abruptly. She’d had that nightmare again. A circle of magicians in a room, pointing at the little boy who sat in a chair in their center. Tom’s little face, trusting, open, turned up to them. She stood outside a window, separated from her son by a heavy glass pane, not unlike the window to an interrogation room. She clawed the glass, cried out to him, but he couldn’t hear. The magicians paid no attention to her.

She crawled out of the rumpled bed and went into the bathroom. No use trying to go back to sleep. She’d long ago given up lying awake in bed while her mind reran the nightmare in an attempt to explain its significance with logic and meaning.

She had to figure out a way to keep her son away from Robert Digbee. Though Tom hadn’t mentioned it, she feared he’d eventually go back to The Rabbit & The Hat to cultivate a friendship with Robert the Great. Living in the same city with a magician’s magician, the temptation would be too much for a wanna-be to resist.

She turned on the faucet and splashed warm water over her face. Bon’s words from the previous evening echoed.
Magicians have ways of finding things out. You better be sure you’re ready.
She wiped her face with the towel and thought, I’ll never be ready.

In the kitchen she snapped on the coffee maker and then went outside to bring in the morning paper. She was searching the pages for any new stories on Maxwell or his murder when Tom came down.

“Mornin’ Mom.” He yawned and opened a cupboard. “Did you buy bread?”

She sighed. One more thing she’d forgotten to do yesterday. “Sorry. No Bread.”

“That’s okay. I’ll eat crackers.”

“I’ll make oatmeal—”

He poured himself orange juice. “Naw. Crackers are fine.” He unfolded the magic magazine he’d taken to bed.

She’d make oatmeal anyway. Good mothers made oatmeal. She rose from the counter stool and opened a cupboard to look for raisins. She inhaled a strong breath. “You haven’t mentioned college for awhile. Have you given any more thought to what we discussed?”

Absorbed in his magazine, Tom didn’t look up. “
Mmmm.”

“
Mmmm
yes,
mmmm
no,
mmmm
what?”

She started when Tom said, “What were you and aunt Bon talking about last night? I heard raised voices.”

“Nothing.”

“I heard the word ‘father.’” Tom didn’t look at her when he spoke. He appeared to be fascinated by the article on the page in front of him. “As in
my
father?”

“We’ve talked about that…” She heard her voice trail to a mumble and breathed deeply again. “We don’t talk a lot about your father because there’s nothing new to say.”

“So, traveling musician gets you knocked up and sixteen years later aunt Bon still mentions it?”

Cheri ripped open the container of raisins. “Tom! That’s not fair. I told you what I did because I didn’t want you to make a similar mistake.”

He slapped the magazine closed and raised his head. “I’m a mistake?”

“No—no, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” By giving him reason to transfer his anger to her, she’d effectively re-routed the father direction, but it didn’t make her feel good.

“Mistake?” he repeated.

“What happened, happened.” She feared her smile was weak. “I’m thrilled with the result. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you.”

Tom swiped his face with his hand as if to be sure he was awake. “Sure. Gotta get ready for school.”

The pot she’d just picked up felt heavy in her hand. “Won’t you have some oatmeal with me? You can’t live on crackers.”

“Sure I can. See ya.”

She watched her son leave the kitchen and rocked when a sweet nostalgia made her eyes tear. When had he grown so tall? When had he become his own man? When would he press for the details she didn’t want to share? She had to be sure he was mature enough to handle it. She had to be sure he would understand how people got themselves into these things.
Magicians have ways of finding things out,
Bon had said.

CHAPTER 23

Wednesday, August 10, 7:20 a.m.

Edmund Meiner had a hot tip from his bookie, a woman named Honey Gold he liked because she was six feet tall and sported a consistent uniform of black leather.

The nag Honey favored was called “Pendleton’s Silver Flash”, and she had given him the impression something had been “arranged” so that the horse would win the sixth race. He’d planned to spend the morning at the sports book in the Dunes Park.

The phone call the night before from Robert the Great had changed all that. That and a restless night convinced Meiner he had to go see Dayan before Digbee did. It would be to his advantage to be the first to get his hands on that DVD. Then he, instead of Maxwell, would be protected and–have power over Robert the Great. A bit of blackmail might not be out of the question.

The truth Meiner had to admit, if only to himself, was that he owed way too much money from gambling debts to a lot of unsavory people. People who—though technically this was not the
old
Las Vegas—wouldn’t hesitate to break a wrist or a kneecap. And it might be a long time before he saw a return from his other investment.

These thoughts crowded his mind as he drove down Maryland Parkway to the middle-class, multi-family neighborhood where Dayan Franklyn lived.

Been a long time since I’ve been down here, he thought as he passed the university and the Boulevard Mall. He noted real estate improvements; a beautiful little park graced what used to be a cracked cement parking lot facing Dayan’s building, the Mayfair Arms Apartments.

He found a parking space on the street two houses away and walked back to the Mayfair Arms. Built in the late sixties, the building broadcasted its age. He squinted at the cracked entry walk, peeling paint, dead bushes, and neglected grass. As Maxwell’s bookkeeper, he knew to the penny how much the magician had invested in his protégée. It wasn’t what you’d call a princely sum, yet it was enough that Dayan could certainly afford to live in a better neighborhood. A neighborhood with a building that at least had a security entry.

Next to the door for apartment 118 was a weather-worn bell. As he pushed the button—no sound from inside to indicate it worked—he wondered, what does Dayan do with all the extra money? He envisioned the man: young, attractive, single, sexy profession. Probably he blew it all on girls.

“Looking for somebody?”

Meiner turned to find himself confronted by a man standing by the corner with a rake in his hand. Maintenance guy? He forced his voice into a friendly tone that he hoped would hide his anxiety. “I came to see Dayan Franklyn.”

“Not home. I’m the manager. You a friend of his or a bill collector?”

“Friend—and business associate. We work for the same man.”

“Haven’t seen him. Why don’t you telephone?”

“Just happened to be in the neighborhood,” Meiner said, turning toward the walkway. “I’ll catch him later.”

At his car, he paused and turned around. The maintenance man had disappeared around the corner toward the rear of the building. He counted to five, looked around to confirm that this early in the morning the street was empty, and retraced his steps.

At the door, he pulled a shim from his pocket. He remembered a few magic tricks, himself. How is it that the most simple tricks are the most useful?
The lock proved easy and in six seconds he was inside the apartment with the door closed behind him.

Meiner had never visited Dayan’s apartment. The living room contained functional furniture. Blackout shades, favored by casino workers and entertainers who worked odd hours, covered all the windows. A dusty smell he couldn’t identify gave him the impression that it’d been some time since the apartment had been exposed to fresh air.

The appearance of the place reflected bad housekeeping habits on the part of Maxwell’s protégé. A layer of dust blanketed the carpet, broken up with narrow, defined walking paths. The kitchen sink supported a mountain of dirty dishes, and when he lifted the lid from a pot of molded stew on the stove he smelled a sour odor. In the single bedroom clothes lay strewn across dusty carpet and disheveled sheets covered the double bed. A ball of black socks, clumped together as they’d come out of the dryer, rested atop a battered and scratched oak chest of drawers.

Best to get started, he thought. Can’t linger. He returned to the living room and began going through all the videos, CDs and DVDs stacked around the television set. He didn’t really expect to find the Maxwell DVD in the stack, but he had to be thorough. More likely, if Dayan had it, he’d hidden it someplace in the apartment that he thought was clever.

Meiner pulled a waist-high bookcase a little forward to see if the DVD might be taped to the back, forgetting the potted, water-starved dieffenbachia on top. The plant toppled to the carpet, spewing dried potting soil everywhere.

“Damn,” he swore. What a stupid place for a plant that large, anyway. And no DVD behind the bookcase.

Twenty-five minutes later, he had searched everywhere he could think of, turning the apartment into a shambles. He’d even removed the top of the toilet tank and pulled out all the drawers to check their sides and bottoms for a taped DVD.

Not a good idea to spend so much time here without knowing Dayan’s exact whereabouts.
He’d given no thought to what he’d do, what story he’d fabricate, if Dayan came home suddenly and caught him rifling through his things.

The fact that his illicit search had not produced a DVD of Maxwell, him, and Robert the Great in the solstice ceremony dispirited him. He was executing a three-sixty in the middle of the living room hoping to see something he’d missed when a new thought panicked him.

What if he had the DVD and had taken off with the idea of blackmailing Maxwell? Dayan could have saved all that money and right now be holed up in some exotic hotel, except that by now he’d know Maxwell was dead. If he was still intent on blackmail, that meant he, Meiner, and Digbee shared number two target positions.

As horrid an idea as it was, it relieved a little of his anxiety about being discovered at any moment in Dayan’s apartment. But Dayan could just as easily be in the hospital visiting his sick father.

Meiner returned to the bedroom for one more three-sixty. A framed picture of an older woman, probably Dayan’s mother, sat on top of the dresser next to the sock ball. He remembered that the drawers were messy, and there was no evidence of a significant absence of clothing.

In the closet he’d found both a large and small suitcase, so Dayan hadn’t packed anything to leave. He might have taken off suddenly, though, if he’d been the one who’d killed Maxwell. But why would he do that? Maxwell had promised Dayan that he would teach him everything he knew about magic and mold him into a great magician.

Meiner knew Maxwell had even hinted that in his will he would leave all his effects to Dayan, when in fact they should have gone to his son, Peter. Did Maxwell plan to change his will? Could that be a motive for Dayan to make the handcuff switch that caused Maxwell’s death?

The thermostat in the apartment had been set at eighty-five, and the closed-in heat and stuffy air caused Meiner to sweat profusely. He’d spent too much time here. While he was trying to make logical sense of events, Dayan could be on his way home right now. It wasn’t hard to imagine how he’d react if he found Maxwell’s personal coordinator in his ravaged apartment.

At the front door, he pulled the blackout shade a fraction to one side so he could make a cautious peek outside to check if anyone was coming. The street appeared deserted. He inhaled a deep breath which caused him to cough from the dust. Fearful of the sound he’d made, he opened the front door and stepped out into the dazzling morning sun.

He closed the door behind him with care, as if he’d been a friend who’d come by to feed a cat and water a few plants.

He tried not to hurry as he walked down the cracked cement walkway and climbed into his car. As he drove back out onto Maryland Parkway, tension drained from his shoulders. He hadn’t been caught illegally breaking and entering someone else’s apartment. The weight of a new fear pressed at the back of his skull, like a neck cramp from remaining too long in a trick casket.

If Dayan Franklyn didn’t have the DVD, who did? And how soon would it rear its ugly head to ruin his life?

CHAPTER 24

Wednesday, August 10, 9:30 a.m.

“My ex-wife used to date a guy who lived in here,” Pizzarelli told Cheri. In their Ford Explorer they approached the guardhouse to the gated community called Rancho Estates. “I told her if the guy could afford to live here, she should marry him.”

Cheri was driving with one hand and fingering the police identification badge hanging from her neck with the other. “And did she?”

“No. But then she never did anything else I told her to, either.”

They slowed to a stop in front of a massive iron gate and a guard in a white uniform came out of a stone house that stood between two wide driveways.

Cheri gave him her best bet-you-think-I-was-a-showgirl smile as she showed him her police identification. He responded by barely glancing at the i.d. Pizzarelli held out.

The guard went back into his house and came out with a long card that he instructed them to hang from their rear view mirror.

Terrible distraction and obstruction to view while driving, she thought. He pressed a button, the gates inched open, and they entered a winding, tree-lined drive.

“Regine lives at 48 Rockfield Drive,” Pizzarelli read from a slip of paper. He also held a publicity photo of Regine he’d found on the internet. A frank smile, open and inviting, her sharp-jawed face framed in a wild blaze of Irish setter red hair. “What a looker,” he murmured.

Separated from the street by a pristine lawn, the house was a retro-seventies design, with a slate roof, picture windows, and unusual angles. Surrounding it were lush gardens of flowering trees, Mexican primroses, and colorful pansies and mums. “No water shortage here,” she said.

Regine herself answered the door. She was taller than Cheri expected; at five-foot-ten she didn’t often meet a taller woman. Regine wore no make-up and her thick red hair was piled loosely on top of her head, held in place with a large gold plastic banana clip. She wore jeans and a tight gray tee shirt. Purple-edged blotches marked the left side of her face and neck, and she had a broken arm.

Even with the cast and sling, she managed to cradle in her arms a small, white rabbit.

“If my show wasn’t temporarily dark,” she said, “you’d never have found me awake at this ungodly hour.”

At Regine’s invitation, they followed her across a flagstone entry and walked down two steps into a tasteful living room of beiges and ivories, punctuated with a black ebony grand piano.

“We have some questions about your friendship with Maxwell Beacham-Jones,” Cheri said.

Pizzarelli spied some photos in black frames on the marble fireplace mantel. “We’ve been told you’re his girlfriend.”

Regine’s face was impassive. She sat down on the cream-colored sofa and smiled down at the rabbit, carefully positioning it in her lap. “
Were
is the operative word, and not because he’s dead. Please sit down. I broke up with him last week.”

Cheri sat in an overstuffed armchair and opened her digital notebook. “What day would that have been?”

“Tuesday—no, Wednesday.” Regine’s husky voice was harsh. “A week ago today, in fact.”

“Five days before the escape that killed him. Where were you Monday night?”

“At the Dunes Park, Of course. Wasn’t everybody?”

Regine had the kind of voice that made Cheri think of a telephone sex worker who smoked five packs a day. “Where was your seat?” she asked.

“Not in the VIP stands, I can tell you that.” Regine stroked the rabbit’s back in gentle moves. Her voice had taken on a bitter edge.

Pizzarelli, still standing by the fireplace, held out a photo he’d picked up from the mantel. The woman in the photo wore a long, clingy red dress and held three white doves on her outstretched arm. “This is you?”

“When I worked the big room at Caesars Tahoe.”

“The rabbit in the act, too?” Pizzarelli asked.

Regine’s eyes lowered to her lap, and she stroked the rabbit with the long, manicured fingers of her free hand. “Pubic here has been retired for a long time. I specialize in doves now. Would you like to see them?”

Pizzarelli coughed. “Pubic?”

Seeing his startled expression, Regine’s mouth stretched into a devilish smile. “Pubic Hare.”

“Maybe another time,” Cheri said. If there were doves in Regine’s home, she did a good job of covering the smell. “Maxwell’s handcuffs were switched before the escape. Would you know anything about that?”

“
Moi
?” Regine’s hand touched her chest where the cloth of the sling met her neck. “I don’t think so. Are you telling me someone did it on purpose—Maxwell was murdered?”

“When was the last time you saw Maxwell?”

“The day we broke up.”

“Did you talk to Maxwell on Monday, the day of the roller coaster stunt?” Pizzarelli asked.

Regine’s smile disintegrated. “I wanted to. This is going to sound crazy, but I had a sense something might happen. The roller coaster escape is spectacular, but not without danger. Any number of things can go wrong, no matter how carefully it’s set up—“

“What kinda things?” Pizzarelli asked.

Regine stared into Pizzarelli’s face with clear, hazel eyes. “Mechanics, timing, weight factors, the effects of the weather on the steel of the tracks, human error.” She shrugged. “Personally, you’d never catch me even riding on one of those things, let alone lying down on the track in front of it. Those roller coaster things are dangerous. But then, that’s the attraction of major illusions.”

No guile there, Cheri thought. “So you wanted to talk to him? What did you say?”

“I never got to him. I got as far as the dressing room, and those goons turned me away. Told me he didn’t want to see anybody before the show. He needed to ‘prepare himself mentally.’ But that’s why I wanted to see him. I was afraid he was still upset about our... break-up, and that it might distract him from concentrating on the effect.” She presented a sad smile. “When you’re getting ready to perform something that complicated and dangerous, it’s important that you clear your mind completely of anything except the moment. I wanted to tell him all was forgiven.”

“What made you think”—Cheri consulted her notes—“you said, ‘something might happen’ to Maxwell?”

“I don’t know,” she said huskily. “Just a strange feeling, a bad premonition. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. It was as if I saw it happen in advance, and then it happened... leaves you feeling funny, you know?”

Pizzarelli replaced the photo to the mantel. “Why did you break up with Maxwell?” He moved to a bookcase that contained several framed pictures. “What happened?”

Regine’s fingertips brushed her jaw line, where the discoloration on her face began. “It wasn’t pretty.” Her alto voice turned acid. “We argued over Dayan Franklyn. I thought it was disgusting and getting way too out of hand the way he was fawning over that boy, when he has a son of his own who should now be inheriting his act.”

“What triggered the argument?”

“I saw a bill for dental work he’d paid for for Dayan. Okay, it was none of my business, but it was right
there
on the table at the house. Tens of thousands of dollars so the kid could have a smile like a Buick grill.”

Pizzarelli said, “You hadda comment.”

“I told him he ought to be putting that money into his own son’s career. He told me he was taking care of the little fag alright. He couldn’t stand the idea that his son was homosexual, you see, and he began to rage. I didn’t want to hear it anymore.” Regine paused and shrugged.

“And?” Cheri prompted.

“And I opened my big mouth and told him about
me
. I think the words I said were, you can’t stand your son, but you sleep with a woman who used to be a man.”

Pizzarelli, who Cheri knew prided himself on having seen and heard it all, expelled a sound that was half groan/half expletive.

If Regine noticed, she didn’t react. “That’s when he turned his anger on me. He’d never hit me before, so I wasn’t expecting violence. He just went ballistic.”

“Hence the bruises and broken arm?” It still surprised Cheri that she could keep her voice dispassionate when she asked questions about physical abuse.

“What do
you
think?”

“You’ve had sexual reassignment surgery?” Cheri asked.

“Eight years ago. The works. Vaginoplasty, labiaplasty, and augmentation mammoplasty. It was a complete commitment to a life I’d always dreamed of.”

Pizzarelli had regained his composure. “Maxwell had sex with you and couldn’t tell? So when you told him he beat you up. And in return you killed him.”

“No! I couldn’t believe he’d hit me, but I never wanted to kill him.” Regine remained expressionless, but her voice betrayed strong hidden emotions. Pissed off, Cheri thought, but she wasn’t sure if it was at Maxwell or detective Pizzarelli.

“Do you know anything about a DVD of Maxwell involved in a magic ritual?” Cheri asked.

Regine tensed. “I’ve heard about it—I haven’t seen it. Maxwell conducts a ritual every spring up on Sunrise Mountain. He told me he gets power from it, that it’s the source of his great talent and fame. I thought it was nuts. Hey, to each his own, I say.”

“Right,” Pizzarelli said, his gaze focused at the place where tee shirt fabric stretched across Regine’s augmented chest.

Regine stopped stroking her rabbit. “I’ll tell you, if I had that footage right now, I’d take it straight to the media. Maxwell doesn’t deserve to be remembered as a nice guy. He was a bastard, pure and simple. It only took me ten months to figure it out, even though I’d heard stories before I ever dated him. But I didn’t want him to die. I never wanted my premonition to come true. I wanted to make my peace with him.”

“What sort of stories did you hear?” Cheri asked.

“Maxwell didn’t get to be rich and famous from some magic ritual. He got rich and famous from stealing the best from other magicians. He stole lines, patter, effects, entire routines, and everybody hated him for it. Probably every magician in the world could be a suspect in his murder, if you started checking out all the stories.”

Pizzarelli said, “We’ll do that.”

Regine didn’t smile when she said, “You know, once Maxwell and I were talking about the coffin escape he’d just done in Japan for a Nippon Television Special, and he said to me, ‘When I go out for good, it’ll be the grandest effect in the entire magic world.’”