Magicide (12 page)

Without another word Mrs. Schwartz closed the door.

As soon as she and Pizza were in the Explorer and driving toward the gates she handed him the unfolded piece of paper.

“What’s it say?” she asked.

“Amazing. She says, ‘Millions missing from Maxwell accounts.’”

She shook her head, raised a hand and swept it through her curls. “Yeah, amazing is right. Meiner told us he and Maxwell had both made millions.”

CHAPTER 27

Wednesday, August 10, 1:30 p.m.

Sitting in his study with the door closed, Edmund Meiner thought about the air that should be circulating about the room. It was an effort to breathe, as if something plugged his sinuses and expanded down his throat to his lungs. What was wrong with the air conditioning? He’d just had all the vents checked and filters changed.

He thought about getting up to open the door, but couldn’t summon the effort.

The interview with the detectives had drained him of precious energy. He had known they would come, but the actual event left him edgier and more rattled than he had ever expected. 

Had they believed him when he said he didn’t know anything about the DVD showing the solstice ceremony? You could never tell exactly how much the police knew when they asked questions. They were sneaky—would ask questions with answers they already knew, just to see what you’d say. He thought the interview had gone well, but how could he really tell?

Five minutes passed and he sighed. He got up and took off his gray windbreaker, folded it carefully and placed it on the cherry credenza. At the bar next to it he poured himself two fingers of Johnny Walker and laced it with water. He carried his drink back to the desk where he cleared a space, found a coaster, placed the glass on it and slid both closer to the telephone.

He sat, picked up the phone and dialed the number that by now he knew by heart: Equine Technologies’ office in Dallas, Texas.

When a cheery feminine voice answered, he said, “Carl Williams, please.”

“One moment.” The voice on the other end didn’t sound familiar. A new secretary?

He nuzzled his scotch while he waited. Long minutes passed. The girl came back on the phone and explained that Mr. Williams was away at a conference related to the final government approvals needed for the new product—Equi-energy, a legal drug stimulant for race horses. She would have to take a message. He asked her if she was new, and she told him she was filling in for Arline, the regular secretary. She didn’t know how long Arline would be out, or when Mr. Williams would return.

“Please tell Mr. Williams I really need to talk to him. I’m tired of leaving messages. It’s imperative he call me as soon as he gets this.” Meiner hung up.

He took a heftier sip of his drink. This was the fourth girl he’d talked to in two weeks. Arline had only been there for two days. What was going on that they couldn’t keep a regular secretary? He’d had the impression that Williams, the CEO, probably could be tough to work for.

Meiner had been patient. Now he was annoyed. He had a lot of money invested in Equine Technologies. For years he’d siphoned money from Maxwell’s accounts and was almost ready to bail out of this creepy place.

As Maxwell had become more famous, he’d also become more bizarre, obsessed with elements of magic that were frightening. The past few months he had been extremely secretive. His strange behavior had taken Meiner to the edge. The summer solstice ritual had been the last straw.

Then that telephone call. Now it was imperative to get out before that DVD surfaced and ruined everyone, including him.

Four point two million dollars he’d invested in Equine Technologies. The least the man could do was return his telephone calls. In the past three days he had left four messages.

He thought about calling Honey Gold, the woman of the enticing leather outfits. She’d introduced him to Carl Williams. She’d been high on Equine Technologies, and when she told him she’d invested almost a million of her own money, he figured that was a damn good recommendation. Maybe she could shed some light on what was happening with the company.

He dialed the second number he knew by heart. After she answered he said, “Honey, it’s Edmund. How’s it going?”

“Fine. I thought I’d hear from you about the race the other day. What happened?”

“I, uh, got tied up in something and couldn’t get away, couldn’t even make a phone call.”

“Too bad. That was a good race.”

He didn’t want to hear about how much money he might have won had he bet on Pendleton’s Silver Flash. “I kind of need a favor, Honey.”

Her voice was its usual smooth velvet. “What can I do for my favorite client?”

“I’ve left several calls for Carl Williams and haven’t heard back from him. Today he’s in some government meeting. I wondered if you’ve heard anything about what’s happening with Equi-energy.”

“Carl is really busy right now,” Honey said, breathing each word like a sex phone worker. “I spoke to him yesterday, and he was very positive about everything. I think you need to stop pestering him. He’ll call you when he has good news to share.”

“You’re sure everything’s all right?”

“Be
patient
, Edmund. All things in good time.”

She made a little more small talk and then ended their conversation.

Four point two mill was more money than he’d ever had before in his life. This conversation with Honey left him uneasy. The cold feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t from the ice in the scotch.

CHAPTER 28

Wednesday, August 10, 1:30 p.m
.

Peter Jones stood poised at the edge of the swimming pool, body erect, arms extended straight above his head. He stared at the ripples on the water’s surface—accidental, disordered, with no direction or purpose.
Like him.
He imagined the water closing around his body, shutting his ears to sound. He stared into the water, where flashes of refracted sunlight danced on the bottom of the pool.

“Luv?” Larissa’s voice called from the dark shadow created by the awning over the back door. “Wait—telephone!”

Peter’s body relaxed, except for the tight knot of muscle at the base of his neck, a reminder that all was not right in his world. He turned in the direction of the house and yelled, “I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

Larissa stepped into the sunlight. She held one hand over the mouthpiece of the hand-held phone. In a loud whisper she said, “It’s your producer, Aaron. You have to talk to him.”

“No, I don’t,” He said, grinding his teeth. His mother’s face had hard lines he’d never noticed before.

“He called twice yesterday, and you never called him back.” Her tone made clear her disapproval of unprofessional behavior.

Peter walked to the chaise and picked up a towel. Though he hadn’t yet entered the swimming pool, his body glistened with sweat from the midday heat.

“Yesterday you missed the Tuesday taping of your next two shows,” Larissa accused. “He has a right to know your intentions.”

“Aaron’s an asshole,” Peter muttered. “Aaron only wants what’s best for the station, He doesn’t give a damn about Peter Parrot. Aaron might care about the children who watch the show, but only in the context of a measured and lucrative target audience.”

How could he even think about working when the man he loved most in the world had disappeared from his life?

Larissa pressed, her voice tight. “So when should I tell him you’ll call him back?”

He shrugged and wrapped the towel around his neck, pulling the ends tightly. “Later,” he said.

Into the telephone Larissa smiled her words. “Peter’s still sleeping. The doctor gave him a heavy sedative. He’s very distraught. I’m sure he’ll be able to speak to you later this afternoon… aye, it’s been a terrible experience… of course, I’ll tell him you understand…thanks so much for your call, Aaron.”

She tapped the button to disconnect and stared at her son.

“I’m worried about you, luv. You have to think about your show. You can do an extra taping tomorrow and another next Tuesday and that’ll catch you up.”

He dug his fingers into the towel and glared at her. “I don’t give a damn about the show.”

“Peter! So many children adore you. How can you say such a thing?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s stupid. They’d all be better off without me. Besides, I have no right to entertain children—I haven’t a clue what it’s like to be a child.”

“Oh, Peter, what’s happened to you? Once you were proud to be Peter Parrot.”

“It’s all a sham, a silly way to make a living. Aaron must have finally figured out I have no talent whatsoever.”

Larissa’s alarm showed in her widened eyes. “Peter—” She waved the phone in a helpless gesture.

“Leave me alone.” He brushed past her and stomped into the house.

She hurried to follow him, lost her footing on one of her high sandal heels, and stumbled through the kitchen door.

He heard her swear, but he didn’t look back. He picked up the tee shirt he’d left on the kitchen bar stool, pulled it over his head. She was staring at him, lips parted. He grabbed his car keys and headed for his Lexus in the garage.

“Where are you going?” she whispered.

“Someplace where no one can bother me.”

CHAPTER 29

Wednesday, August 10, 1:30 p.m.

Pizzarelli took a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Hot out there. Prob’ly a hundred, already.” He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and took out the onion bagel with jalapeno cream cheese he’d picked up at Bagles ‘n Shmeer.

“At least,” Cheri said, thankful for the Explorer’s healthy air-conditioning. They were headed down Maryland Parkway to check out the apartment address Meiner’s secretary had given them for Dayan Franklyn.

“’urn here,” Pizzarelli said, his mouth full, pointing with one cream-cheese smeared finger. “’ai’air a’nue.”

Cheri grinned and turned the Explorer off of Maryland Parkway and right onto Mayfair Avenue. “I didn’t get that last bit, and the scary part is, I knew what you meant.”

She found a parking space in front of the blue stucco building where Dayan Franklyn lived. This neighborhood, not far from the university, seemed familiar.

Sure, it reminded her of her struggling college days, but there was something more. She remembered it as a nicer neighborhood than it looked now. There had been lots of young people, students and casino workers, living here. Every weekend had seen a grand party hosted somewhere in one of the apartments or condos, and you didn’t have to be invited—you just looked pretty, followed the noise, smiled a lot and entrance was assured.

Now you were lucky if you didn’t get mugged in broad daylight by a wanna-be gangster with pants around his knees and his baseball cap on backwards.

The memory came to her as clear as this morning’s stop at Bagels ‘n Shmeer. Mayfair Avenue backed up to Buena Flora, the street where she’d lived with Larissa. Except for its mansard roof, their apartment building had been like this one. And one night in that apartment had changed her life forever. Even as she choked down the flush that accompanied that memory, she glanced up and down the street, half-expecting to see people staring at her, people who knew what she had done.

Pizzarelli took a short-cut across the yellowed grass. “Guess they turned the sprinklers off for the summer instead of the winter.”

She forced herself to remember why she was in this neighborhood now. Today could be their lucky day. Today they could find Franklyn and the DVD, and today everything could fall into place. Or not.

At apartment 118 they knocked, but there was no answer. They rang the bell, still no answer. “Let’s find the landlord,” Pizzarelli said.

They circled around to the back of the building where they found an old woman emptying trash. She made darting glances around the area and hefted two black plastic bags as if she were twenty years younger. The wary look on her face said she’d lived in the neighborhood forever and wasn’t happy about it at all. She showed no surprise to see two people wearing police badges. She told them the landlord, Herm Henke, lived upstairs in 210.

“Shouldn’t have eaten that bagel so fast.” Pizzarelli held his stomach with both hands as they climbed the stairs.

The landlord proved friendly. From the noise coming from Henke’s living room, they’d interrupted his viewing of a daytime television game show, but he didn’t seem to mind. He seemed to welcome the distraction. She pointed to her badge and introduced herself and her partner.

“Call me Herm,” he said.

Shorter than Cheri, he had the demeanor of a wrinkled, retired bank clerk, someone who’d spent an entire career waiting on other people. He wore long cotton pants and a long-sleeved plaid shirt, the uniform of an old man who liked to stay warm in his air-conditioned apartment.

He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and, without turning off his television, closed his door and locked its two deadbolts. He led them downstairs to Dayan’s apartment, where he knocked, waited, and then unlocked the front door.

“Whoa,” he said. “How can people live like this?” He swiped his nose with the back of his hand as if he were about to sneeze.

They stepped inside. A one-bedroom apartment, reminiscent of seventies construction, larger than most comparable places today.

Cheri narrowed her eyes in the gloom created by the blackout shades. Every drawer in the counters and furniture had been yanked out and its contents scattered. Books and videos and CDs with broken jewel cases were strewn everywhere. Furniture had been upended. Stuffing popped from slashed pillows like ripe cotton flowers and an explosion of clothes had settled throughout the room. The remnants of what had once been a potted dieffenbachia lay dead on the floor in the center of a wide circle of splattered potting soil.

In the kitchen, cereal boxes and chip bags had been emptied onto the floor. A pot of mold on top of something unidentifiable sat in the sink. An open Styrofoam box on the counter contained  half-eaten Chinese take-out. The hot air had a rancid tinge that made her nostrils flare.

“Place has been ransacked,” Pizzarelli said. “And from the smell of it, nobody’s been here in awhile.” He turned to the landlord. “Mr. Henke, when was the last time you saw Dayan Franklyn?”

The landlord held a hand over his mouth and nose, affectively muffling his answer. “Maybe a week ago. Rent’s not due for ten days. He was leaving the apartment. I saw him from upstairs.”

“Was he alone?”

“I think so, but wait—” Henke took his hand away from his face. “His friend Peter Jones came by right after he left. When I said, hello, he ignored me. He let himself in, came out, seemed upset and in a big hurry.”

“It’s awful how young people have no respect,” Pizzarelli said in an agreeable tone meant to encourage a flow of information.

Henke made a disgusted face. “Not young people—entertainers.”

“Why do you say that?” Cheri asked.

The look he gave her asked, how long have
you
lived here? “That Digbee—used to be Robert the Great, you know—he came snooping around, too. I told him…” He trailed off his words for dramatic effect.

“What?” Pizzarelli asked.

“What an asshole. So full of himself, so high-and-mighty, like he’s talking to the little people. He said, ‘Do you know who I am?’ and demanded I let him in. I told him if Dayan wanted him in, he’d let him in.”

“Dayan was home at the time?”

“No.” Henke’s annoyance caused his eyes to squint. “I just said that to make a point.”

She gave him her best smile. “You said Peter Jones let himself in. He had a key to the apartment?”

“Yeah. And that other high-and-mighty magician, the one that ate the roller coaster—Maxwell. I tell ya, those people are
nuts
.” He shook his head and jingled the keys in his pocket. “All that black magic mumbo jumbo. I see stuff, ya know. I know what’s going on.”

Cheri nodded to show she believed him. “What did you see that made you think of black magic?”

Henke hesitated. “Well, I don’t know if it’s black magic exactly, but I tell ya, they’re into some evil religion that sacrifices animals. I seen ‘em last Halloween all leaving in some hooded get-ups, carrying these big, thick candles…let’s see, some coiled ropes…” He cocked his head. “And mirrors, too.”

“Halloween? Everybody’s nuts on Halloween,” Pizzarelli said.

“Yeah, but I saw ‘em again a couple of months ago, dressed the same way, carrying the same things, with a kid I’d never seen before. A nice-looking boy, he was. Maybe fourteen, fifteen… it’s hard to tell these days the way kids dress, ya know?”

“The summer solstice, you think?” Cheri said to Pizza. “Mr. Henke, Can you remember the month and the day?”

“I dunno the exact date. ’Round the end of June.”

“And you know they sacrifice animals because…?” she prompted.

In an indignant move the old man straightened his body. “Everybody knows human sacrifice is part of black magic. All magicians do that in their religious beliefs, and they don’t want nobody to know about it. But I don’t discriminate. That’s their business. I rent to everybody, no matter how crazy their religion. I just don’t like being talked down to.”

Cheri reached down to the floor and pick up a photo that had been knocked from a dusty sideboard. She set it on the tabletop and turned two more upright. “Hey,” she said to Pizza. “Dayan Franklyn and Peter Jones together, here and here, looking
real
friendly.”

“Boy-boy friendly,” Henke smirked.

Pizzarelli said, “You think?”

The landlord peered at the photos on the sideboard, looking pleased for the opportunity to peek into the lives of a tenant. “They’re gay. Plain as day.”

“Mr. Henke, do you know where Dayan Franklyn might be right now?”

Inside his plaid shirt, Henke’s skinny shoulders raised. “With his lover?”