Magicide (6 page)

CHAPTER 14

Tuesday, August 9, 11:00 a.m.

“You gonna be all right with this?” Carme Pizzarelli asked. He turned the Explorer onto Swenson Avenue, heading south towards the posh new-in-the-past-five-years Seven Hills community. They were on their way to do a knock and talk with Maxwell’s ex-wife.

“Of course,” Cheri said evenly.

She stared out the window, amazed by all the new construction. There was a shopping mall and a new apartment complex she’d never seen before. You didn’t dare leave town for vacation that when you came back there wasn’t something new where your favorite classic casino or historic restaurant used to be.

“Well, you said you and Larissa go back. I know you got some personal thing, but you never said, and I’m not asking.”

Cheri had been Pizza’s partner for a long time, and they’d gotten to know a lot about each other. But there were things about her that less than a handful of Cheri’s friends knew, and one thing that only two other women knew. One of them was Larissa.

“We roomed together sixteen years ago when I was in college. We haven’t traveled in the same circles for a long time.”

She continued to stare at the passing cars. If Carme knew the truth about how her friendship with Larissa had ended, he’d blab it all over the Command. That was the last thing she wanted. She had to trust that in their interview Larissa wouldn’t reveal anything too close to Cheri’s home.

“So you won’t have a problem if it turns out she’s the one who murdered the ex-husband.”

Could Larissa really be capable of murdering Maxwell? Could disappointment and anger and hatred lead you to kill the father of your child?

Once, Cheri had that fleeting fantasy to kill the father of her own child, but not the intensity of disappointment and anger and hatred—and even mental instability—that could lead to the act itself. She’d been a cop long enough to know anything was possible and many things were probable. Killing an ex-spouse was one of them. And when someone was murdered, the spouse—followed by the ex—was immediately viewed as the primary suspect.

But Larissa—sweet, gentle Larissa? In order to do her job, Cheri knew she had to set aside her image of her old friend. She swallowed, realizing her throat was dry. I can do this, she told herself.

Turning her face to Pizza, she kept her expression impassive. “First we prove she killed Maxwell. Then I’ll worry about whether or not I have a problem.” She hoped her tone didn’t sound as harsh as her words. After all, she knew he had her best interest at heart.

She’d been pregnant with Tom the last time she’d seen her former roomie. She was so lost in her thoughts she almost didn’t hear Pizzarelli comment, “Real fancy neighborhood. Must be a lotta money in magic. D’you think it’s all done with blue smoke and mirrors, this magic mumbo jumbo?”

She laughed, and found that helped her to relax. “Along with amazing fire and fog effects.”

On the rising slope of desert that led up to the Black Mountains, Seven Hills was a development of gated communities and lavish homes. About six months ago Cheri had ogled over a spread in the magazine,
Architectural Las Vegas,
of Larissa’s two-story custom home with the usual swimming pool, spa, palms, tile roof, gourmet kitchen, weight room, and elegant living room for entertaining. Two balconies off the second floor took advantage of an expansive view of the Las Vegas Valley that nightly included the lights of famous hotel and casino resorts. The furniture probably cost as much as the house.

Cheri had shown the article to her sister, who had just moved in with her and Tom, and Bonni was so impressed she let out a slow whistle—she’d never known Bon could whistle like that.

They parked the car at the curb and walked up a winding stone pathway to the entrance. Cheri had to avoid massive potted cacti lining the high alcove to ring the bell. A minute passed and a Latin maid opened the door. Raymer showed her badge and asked if Larissa was home.

A moment of fright flashed in the maid’s eyes and her accent thickened. “
La Señora
not at home.”

She was about to ask where Larissa was when a man with aquiline features and thick hair that widow-peaked in the center of his forehead appeared. Mid-twenties, dressed in a white tee shirt and white shorts that showed off tan, well-formed legs.

“Who is it, Maria?”

She noted his tee shirt had long sleeves that covered his arms all the way past his wrists. Unusual, for hundred-degree weather. Along with his other features, the cleft in his chin immediately identified him to Cheri.

“
Policia
. For
la Señora
.”

“Never mind. I’ll take care of it,” he said.

Knowing when she’d been dismissed, the maid disappeared down a hallway.

The young man stared at the two detectives and sighed. “I’ve been expecting you, but I really didn’t think it would be today. Come in.”

Peter Parrot, from the popular local children’s television show, Cheri thought. Larissa’s son. Only eight years old the last time she’d seen him in person. A dark-eyed, bright little kid doomed to spend his life struggling to fit into his father’s famous footsteps.

Peter led them through a beige marbled foyer and into a formal dining room dominated by a table of Honduran mahogany with room to seat twenty dinner guests. He gestured at the morning
Las Vegas Post
, a magician’s wand, a silver-toned thermos carafe and a ceramic mug, all dwarfed by the acreage of the tabletop.

“I’m having some coffee,” he said. “Would you like some?”

“No, thanks,” Pizzarelli said. “We came to see Larissa Beacham-Jones—she would be your mother?”

“Yes.”

Cheri saw Pizza’s gaze take in every detail of the dining room and settle on the massive sideboard with glass doors protecting crystal and china. He said, “Is she here?”

Peter shifted his weight, as if he didn’t know what to do now that he couldn’t occupy his hands with serving them coffee. “You just missed her. She left for the hotel—extra rehearsal this afternoon.”

Pizzarelli said, “So, maybe you could give us your advice on a few things.”

Peter’s dark left eyebrow rose. “My advice?”

“Your professional, magician kind of advice.”

“That’s curious. I thought you’d want to know if I killed Maxwell.”

The boy could certainly be direct. But the chill in his voice reminded Cheri he was a professional performer, and all performers were actors of one sort or another. And, actors usually had some hidden personality quirk.

“What makes you think he was murdered?” she asked.

For the first time since they’d arrived Peter smiled, but it was automatic, not connected with his eyes. “You’re the police. You wouldn’t be here if it was an accident.” To his credit, Peter had a disarming smile, with perfect, white, even teeth. 

“Was there any reason you might want to kill Maxwell?”

“Oh, lots of reasons.” The young magician rested his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “Let’s see—he took gross advantage of other people’s talents—he didn’t approve of me—he disowned me because of my relationship choices—he was verbally abusive, among other things, to my mother—he didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘father’—he was a better magician than me—he was an asshole. Pick which one you like.”

“Since you brought it up,” Pizzarelli said, “
Did
you kill Maxwell?”

There was no break in Peter’s professional smile. “No.”

“Did you have anything to do with his death?”

“
Nada
.” He gestured around the dining room table. “Have a seat, why don’t you?” He pulled out the chair nearest to Cheri. “Here, detective.”

She sat down, and rested her hand, holding her digital notebook, on the table. Pizzarelli shook his head, indicating that he preferred to stand.

Peter picked up the wand from the table and smiled. “If you would be so kind, Mr. Detective. Perhaps you can help me help you in your search for Maxwell’s killer.”

He handed the wand to Pizzarelli, who regarded it in his hand with child-like curiosity. Suddenly the wand melted, both ends relaxing, making a limp U hanging from his hand. “Hey, I did’n do anything.” His face flushed with suspicion, and he handed it back to Peter.

When Peter took it, the magic wand immediately returned to its original rigid state. He laughed. “Guess you didn’t hold your mouth right.” He turned to Cheri, laid the wand across his open palm and offered it to her. “Miss, would you care to wave a magic wand?”

“No thanks. I get it.” Larissa’s son had given no indication that he remembered her, and the thought made her feel more in control.

“Oh.” Peter’s mouth relaxed in mock disappointment. Then he leaned forward, examining her face with the look of someone who’d seen magic for the first time. “I know you from somewhere. Your—” His eyes circled her head as if he were fascinated by her hair. “voice is familiar. Have I seen you on
Cops-Las Vegas
?”

Blood rose to Cheri’s face, but she stared right back at him with her best police smile. “When you were little your mother and I were roommates for a short time. You were in military school for most of that year. I didn’t think you’d remember.”

His fabulous smile returned. He bowed to Cheri, and when he straightened, he held out a bouquet of plastic flowers.

“Of course. And now I’m still a child.” Peter set the magic wand and plastic flowers on the table and picked up his coffee cup. “I host a children’s television show and perform at parties and fund-raisers for cancer children. I’m a lost child in an Alice-Does-Wonderland world.”

Pizzarelli peered closely at Peter’s face. “That’s you on that TV show? You’re the Peter Jones who’s Peter Parrot!”

“My people do a good job with the costume and make-up, don’t they?”

“I’ll say. I’d never have guessed. My nephews love that show.”

Cheri pecked at her digital notebook. “Do you know anyone who might want to kill Maxwell?”

Peter’s grin became a smirk. “I had nothing to do with my father, and he didn’t have any friends.”

“So you can’t think of a single person.”

“Besides every magician in the phone book?”

Pizzarelli had regained his composure. “Why ‘every magician in the phone book?’”

“Did I mention my father was an asshole? Let me tell you his best trick. He’d see another magician do an illusion he liked, and he’d have his manager call the guy, offer him, say, two thousand dollars to use the effect. Of course the effect would be worth a lot more than a couple thousand dollars, and the other magician knew that, so he’d say no, he wanted more. Maxwell’s manager would say, no you don’t understand. Maxwell
will
use the effect, and you can sue him. We’ll see in court how deep your pockets are compared to the most famous magician in the world. Neat trick, huh?”

Years ago Cheri had heard a rumor like that about Maxwell and wondered if it was the kind of gossip generated by professional jealousy. The intensity in Peter’s clipped words told her he certainly believed it.

“Where were you last night?”

“With my mother in the VIP stands. The Dunes Park was jammed. I think everybody who’s anybody in Vegas was there, plus a zillion tourists.” He took a sip of his coffee, set the mug down and adjusted the cuff of his tee shirt on one wrist.

“Were you both together the entire evening?”

“Yes.” When he looked up his eyes had the flat expression of a vent’s dummy. “Well, I did take a page in the casino for a few minutes. She went on to our seats without me.”

“One of Maxwell’s leg shackles was switched at the last minute,” Pizzarelli said. “Would you and Larissa know how to do that?”

Peter stopped smiling. “That’s the advice you wanted? Of course we’d know how to work with jumpcuffs and leg irons—any magician would. I can tell you how it could be done, but I won’t tell you all my magic secrets.”

Pizzarelli asked, “Did you visit the green room? Maybe disguised as a food vendor? Make a hamburger delivery?”

In a bitter tone, Peter said, “Didn’t you get it? Maxwell and I were estranged. He would never allow me anywhere near the back of the stage. I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“One of the guys who was supposed to be in the roller coaster car—a fat guy—ate a burger, got sick, and substituted his wife in his seat. We’re told that would throw off the timing of the car’s speed.”

Two furrows appeared on Peter’s forehead. “Yes, it would. The guy ate a hamburger? Anyway, we were in the VIP stands. We were never anywhere near the green room.”

Cheri said, “So, you and your father didn’t get along.”

“Not—at—all.” Peter emphasized each word.  “It’s one of the reasons I shortened my last name to Jones. I didn’t want anything to do with him or his fame or his magic. We never spoke.” Peter reached for the carafe of coffee, the sleeve of his tee shirt stretched back from his wrist, and Cheri saw a cross-cross of welted scars.

Pizzarelli circled the table. “Were you jealous of your father’s protégé, Dayan Franklyn?”