Authors: Carolyn V. Hamilton
CHAPTER 56
Saturday, August 13, 4:45 p.m
“My office,” Washington growled. Cheri followed Pizzarelli inside. “We have another situation. Carter Cunningham refuses to press charges against Andrea Villari.”
Cheri shook her head. “Why is it such a bitch to get people to press charges?” She expelled a sigh of exasperation.
Washington said, “I’m more interested in seeing what’s on this DVD everyone’s so excited about.” He turned to the new TV monitor, VCR and DVD player that had just been installed in his new office.
Pizzarelli shut the blinds and said, “Punch up the show.”
The beginning of the tape was a blur of confused images while whoever was holding the camera attempted to focus and adjust the tempo of panning to capture the whole scene. There were patches of darkness and then the lens focused on Maxwell. The videographer must have been low to the ground, because the magician appeared tall, dominating the frame. As he stepped forward to a raised dais he flourished a dark cape.
“An alter?” Cheri murmured.
On both sides of a central table, covered with a dark floor-length cloth, candle flames flickered. An immense painting dominated the wall above the altar, its subject fuzzy and indistinguishable with the camera focus on Maxwell. The sound of low, melodic flutes, no voices.
The camera panned to the tabletop and focused in on the face of a young boy. He lay on his back, completely naked, thin arms crossed over his waist. His eyes were closed and his prone body relaxed, as if he were asleep.
Pizzarelli squinted. “Dayan Franklyn?”
“Too young,” she said. Could be the same age as Tom, she thought. A boy picked up from the streets, a fatherless boy whose mother wasn’t there for him. A fearful pain gripped her. Her heart beat quickened.
“See the profile,” she whispered. “It’s the kid from the desert. Scott Liebold.”
A man stepped forward into the video frame and handed Maxwell a crescent-shaped knife.
Robert the Great.
The camera caught a flash of light reflected off the blade.
“Whoa,
Holy Jesus
,” Pizzarelli said, his breath tight.
Another man bearing a pewter dish stepped into the frame.
Edmund Meiner.
With a deft movement, Maxwell sliced an X in the boy’s hairless chest.
The color balance on the camera was hot, so that blacks appeared darker, shadows bluer, skin tones whiter, and the blood that oozed from the cut red as fresh pomegranates.
Cheri choked back an involuntary cry.
Washington’s voice broke the tension in the room. “What the
hell
do they think they’re doing?”
Her voice betrayed her emotions. “I’ve heard of this, but I never took it seriously. I heard Maxwell believes this ritual will increase his magic power, and performs it every year at the summer solstice. He believes the heart’s blood of a virgin youth will renew his own youth and result in a kind of professional immortality.”
“Started out years ago as one of those crazy show-biz p.r. stunts,” Pizzarelli said. “I always wondered why they didn’t use a girl. Everybody knows ancient sacrifices used girls.”
She gave him a hard look. “You wouldn’t say that if you had kids, Pizza.” How could he be so insensitive?
A voice on the screen startled them.
It was Maxwell, chanting words about cleansing, renewal, rebirth, power, greatness. None of which made any sense.
“What mumbo-jumbo,” Washington scoffed.
They stared at the screen, mesmerized. Cheri groaned. “
Sweet Jesu
s
⎯
this can’t be real.”
The man with the bowl held it closer to the boy’s shoulder. Maxwell opened the boy’s chest, pried back the skin, and brought his closed fist down to smash the sternum bone. There was a large cracking sound, when his fist connected to the bone.
With both hands he separated the broken sternum and exposed the beating heart. There was so much blood that she couldn’t tell where his hands ended and the knife began. Then he was holding the heart in his hand.
He raised it above his head, and uttered an unintelligible cry. Blood dripped onto his face. With his tongue he swallowed the drops. The video image shuddered a little. Then he lowered the heart and placed it in the bowl.
He raised his arms skyward, the cape falling from his shoulders. He lowered his hands, placing one on the boy’s chest and one on his knee. He leaned forward. When he kissed the boy‘s genitals, his mouth left a bloody imprint. The flutes faded and the screen went dark.
Cheri didn’t move. Had she stopped breathing?
Tom’s face swam in front of her in a sickening vision and she struggled to regain control of her stomach.
Pizzarelli’s cough, a ragged sound, brought her back to reality.
Washington’s voice was harsh. “Pick ‘em up.”
CHAPTER 57
Saturday, August 13, 5:45 p.m
.
Exiting Washington’s office, they encountered Ramon, the young lab tech.
“There you are—” He held the report in his hand like a priest would hold a letter from the pope.
Pizzarelli said, “We’re in a hurry. What you got?”
“Blood work on the spots you found on the accounting book at Beacham-Jones’ house,” Ramon said. “Two different types. Neither one is diabetic and neither one matches the blood from Maxwell’s body, taken from the scene.”
Pizzarelli’s eyebrows collided in puzzlement. “Meiner said he fought over the books with Maxwell. If it’s not Maxwell’s blood, whose is it?”
Cheri flashed on the image of the mangled magician in his head to toe costume. A chilling idea formed in her mind.
Ramon continued, “The print on the button of the white coat? Definitely Beacham-Jones.”
Pizzarelli frowned. “So how could Maxwell be delivering hamburgers and getting ready for a grand performance at the same time?”
* * *
As Pizzarelli drove the Explorer out of the parking lot, Cheri jabbed the number pad on her cell phone. When she heard the ringing, she mumbled, “C’mon, Tom, answer the damned phone. It’s six. You’re supposed to be home tonight.”
Where had he been all day? Where was he now? In her mind she replayed his defiant voice saying he was going to The Rabbit & the Hat. Had he been with Robert Digbee all day?
Dear God, what was happening to her world? One more ring and her sister answered the phone.
Cheri didn’t even say hello. “Where’s Tom?”
Bonni sounded confused. “I-I don’t know. I fell asleep on the couch. I haven’t seen him since I got home.”
“Why are you answering his cell phone?”
“He left it next to the computer.”
How many times as he left the house had she reminded him to take his cell phone? She wanted to go to The Rabbit & the Hat, but by now Digbee would be at the Dunes Park, getting ready for his banquet performance opening MAGIQUE DU MONDE.
“Shall I write him a message?” Bonni asked.
Cheri snapped the cell phone shut. “No message.”
CHAPTER 58
Saturday, August 13, 6:15 p.m
.
In the star dressing room at the Dunes Park, Digbee inhaled and exhaled with confidence, breathing like he was twenty years younger.
He was Robert the Great.
Preparing to go onstage brought out that familiar exhilarating rush, a high like no other. The knowing that beyond the curtain there was a crowd, an audience waiting to see him perform. A comfortably familiar anticipation, like a dear friend waiting to welcome him back after a long separation.
Alone in the dressing room he stood in front of the full-length mirror and adjusted the black bow tie above the ruffles of his tux shirt. Tonight Robert the Great would give a death-defying performance.
He remembered the grand dressing room he’d had once at Carnegie Hall. That night he’d closed with the coffin escape and received a three-minute standing ovation. He could still hear the keen of the crowd. He could still remember the expectant high he felt when at dawn he went out to get the early edition with its rave reviews of his performance.
The scraping sound of the metal door opening startled him out of his grand memories. There was a quick rush of the sound of people in the hallway as Edmund Meiner entered and then a sudden cut-off of the sound as he closed the door behind him.
Just like the irritable little man to interrupt his grand mood. “What do you want?” Digbee snapped at Meiner’s reflection in the mirror.
“Break a leg.” Meiner made the words of the old, cliché show biz joke sound rough as badly mixed concrete. Nobody said it anymore—typical of how behind-the-times the man was.
“Get out,” Digbee said. “I’m onstage at seven sharp to open the show. I’m not interested in talking to you.”
The other man’s smile held no mirth. “Ah, but I’m interested in talking to you. Where’s Dayan Franklyn? And while we’re at it, where’s Maxwell?
Digbee performed a sharp about-face from the mirror that would rival a military general. This was not the time to spar with Edmund Meiner over their mutual indiscretion. His eyes narrowed, as if to close in his own suspicions. “How should I know? What the Hell are you talking about?”
“Come, Robert. You know what’s going on. Are you aware that Franklyn video-taped the summer solstice ritual? The one he
didn’t
do for the public?”
In the harsh lights of the dressing room Digbee’s face paled. “I heard there was something like that floating around. I thought it was a bad joke.”
“It isn’t, Robert.”
“Have you seen the thing?”
Meiner ignored the question as if it were a moot point. “I think whoever has it plans to blackmail somebody with it. And Maxwell’s malicious humor is behind the whole thing.”
Digbee couldn’t allow himself to be drawn in. Imperative that he concentrate on his forthcoming performance. The danger of the Bullet Catch demanded it.
“And how do I know you’re not in with him on the whole thing?” he declared in a fierce tone. “For all I know, you have it, and you’re just here to ruin my performance. Now get out of here. I have an audience waiting!”
Meiner glared at him with vicious hatred and made no move toward the door. “You know where the money came from for the roller coaster spectacular?” he hissed. “No? Well, let me tell you—Maxwell owes money to people you don’t want to know and his money’s disappeared. They want that DVD. I’m going to them and I’m going to tell them everything. You and Maxwell aren’t going to get away with this.”
Digbee opened his mouth to reply when it occurred to him that Meiner knew more than he was telling. “Are you crazy?” he asked in a slow, measured tone. “If I go down because of what Dayan filmed, you go down. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.”
He gave himself a deep breath to gain time to control his mental state. He put a hand on Meiner’s shoulder. “Why don’t you stay here while I do my show? Afterwards we can talk this out. I want to hear what you have to say. Tonight, I’m sure that by comparing information and approaching the situation logically we can figure this out.”
He was encouraged when the other man didn’t flinch or speak. He continued, “I’ll tell you everything I know. Maxwell always admired you. He wouldn’t want you to get into trouble. The one thing we can’t do is panic, don’t you agree?”
He guided the man to the couch. Meiner’s eyes darted about the dressing room as if searching for a hidden trap, but he lowered himself to the cushions. There was a knock on the door, and a voice called, “Two minutes.”
“Let me fix you a drink,” Digbee said in a smooth tone. “It’ll help you relax.”
CHAPTER 59
Saturday, August 13, 7:00 p.m
.
As soon as she stepped out of the elevator into the expansive foyer where the registration tables were set up, Cheri was surrounded by attendees, all dressed to thrill. Magic-themed decorations were festooned everywhere, an abundance of black and white and silver and gold.
She flashed her badge at the guy manning the door to the ballroom. “Police business,” she announced, not so loudly that people around her could hear. The ballroom of the Dunes Park held about twelve hundred people, she guessed, and the opening event for MAGIQUE DU MONDE was in full swing.
“I’m told Digbee’s backstage in the star dressing room,” she said. “Let’s concentrate on Meiner.” She’d wanted it all to go down quickly and quietly and that didn’t seem likely now. “The show is set to begin any minute, so we knew where Digbee will be.”
They stood for a moment at the doorway, scanning the crowd for Edmund Meiner, who they knew had rsvp’d a “yes.”
Pizzarelli took a big breath. “Well, let’s get on with it.”
The detectives and the four plainclothes policemen with them fanned out to scan the room.
The emcee appeared from between the velvet stage curtains. “And no
w⎯
the man of the hou
r⎯
the one you’ve been waiting years to see agai
n⎯
Robert the Great!” From stage left the old magician, handsomely dressed in black tux attire complete with cape and top hat, strode to center stage. Roaring cheers and applause greeted him.
“That’ll keep him busy for the next fifty minutes,” Cheri murmured.
Ten minutes later she and Pizzarelli and their accompanying officers regrouped in the corner of the ballroom where double doors led to the maze of corridors and rooms that served the ballroom.
“Any sign of Meiner?”
One of the officers said, “He was seen heading backstage about twenty minutes ago. Asked directions to the star dressing room.”
“Let’s go,” she said. “We’ve got to find him before the act closes. We’ll grab Digbee as he comes offstage.”
Pizzarelli opened one of the double doors and nearly collided with a waiter coming out. The man in the Dunes Park banquet uniform balanced on his shoulder a large, round tray loaded with twenty-two dinners.
“Hey, man. This is an
out
door. You can’t come in here,” he growled. “You nearly made me lose it.”
“Police business,” Pizzarelli said.
“Yeah, right.” The man maneuvered past them and disappeared into the crowded ballroom.
“I otta arrest him for a bad attitude,” Pizzarelli mumbled.
“You’d have to arrest half the banquet waiters in town,” Cheri said.
They moved purposely down the corridor, fanning out to check each room. At its end the corridor met a perpendicular one.
“Right or left?”
“Right.” She’d spotted the star on a doorway in that direction.
They paused outside and Pizzarelli placed his hand on the doorknob. “Locked,” he announced.
“Somebody getting laid in there,” said one of the officers.
Pizzarelli knocked on the door with a fierce rap. “Police! Open this door!”
No sound came from inside the room. He positioned himself to hurl forward, ready to physically break down the door.
“Forget it,” Cheri said. “It‘s a metal fire door. Call security.”
Twelve precious minutes were lost while they waited for the hotel security guard to come and unlock the door. From the end of the corridor they could hear the applause for Robert the Great’s opening presentation. He was warming up the audience for a big finish and the attendees were loving every minute.
It occurred to Cheri then that if Tom were not at home, he might have finagled a way to be here. This was where all the great magicians of the world gathered for their annual event. He’d want to be a part of it, if only to collect a few photos and autographs. And, he’d want to see Robert the Great in a rare performance. If only she could return to the ballroom to search for him.
The security guard stepped back and one of the officers said, “We’re in!” Guns drawn in the ready position, they entered the room.
“Whoa!” Pizzarelli exclaimed.
Slumped on the couch, as if he had fallen asleep, was Edmund Meiner. His tie was askew and his suit jacket lay neatly folded next to him on the cushions of the couch. His gray eyes were wide open and his jaw was slack, his face ashen.
Cheri put her fingers to the vein at his throat. “Call the coroner,” she said. “He’s had a heart attack—” Her eyes took in a rock glass at his feet that lay on its side, its contents spreading in a spill across the carpet, ice still melting. She peered more closely at Meiner’s mouth “—or he’s been poisoned.