by Josh Lanyon
“I think that’s called cheating.”
“I think magic is another name for cheating.” But Sam was still smiling that half smile.
Jason made a face. “Still. Want to go to the opening of Top Hat White Rabbit on Friday?”
Sam’s expression grew regretful. “No. I don’t want to go anywhere there are liable to be cameras or reporters. Not till we have a better idea of who came after you—and why.”
And that pretty much took the fun out of that.
Chapter Eight
“Special Agent West? I’m Special Agent Abigail Dreyfus.”
The woman—agent—standing on the cement stoop outside the guest house’s front door was tall and broad-shouldered. She had big blue eyes in a round baby face and wore her long, wheat-colored hair in a ponytail. She had to be in her mid-twenties, but she looked about seventeen.
“You’re right on the dot.” Jason shook the ice-cold hand Dreyfus offered. He assumed that was the temperature outside and not nerves. “Nice to meet you. Come in.” He stood back, and Dreyfus stepped over the threshold.
From across the yard, Jason could hear Ruby’s dogs barking inside the house.
“Thank you.” She did a double take, her wide eyes trained on Jason’s bruised and battered face. “Is that— Was that— Did that happen on the job?”
If Sam had reported the reason for Jason’s presence to Cheyenne’s Resident Agency’s Special Agent in Charge, word had not trickled down to the rank and file. That was a relief.
“Uh, no,” Jason said. “I have an, er, strenuous social life. We can talk in here.” He led the way to the dining room, sparing a glance for the closed door to Sam’s office.
That door was not closed to give Jason privacy. Or so that Sam could concentrate on writing his book. Maybe Sam was working on a book, but judging by how often Jason had heard Sam’s quiet voice on the other side of that plywood, he was pretty sure writing was not all Sam was working on. Sam being Sam, he would be in close communication with Stafford County Sheriff’s Office. He would downplay his involvement, though—either because he wanted to protect Jason or because he didn’t want to have to waste time considering his feelings or listening to his theories.
Jason deduced the latter. Sam would figure he’d already handled the former by landing Jason in the middle of nowhere and giving him a nice, new art theft to keep him busy.
Dreyfus was saying, “I appreciate your making time to see me when you’re on sick leave. There really isn’t anyone local I can consult on a case like this.”
“I’m glad to help, believe me. Would you like some coffee?”
“Coffee would be great. Cream and sugar if you have it.” Dreyfus opened her briefcase and pulled out a thick file. She glanced around uneasily, seeming relieved to find Jason on his own, by which Jason deduced Sam had gone to the usual lengths to exert charm at the RA that morning—namely nil.
He returned with two mugs of coffee and studied the colorful spread of photos on the polished wood of the table.
Dreyfus watched him, saying, “Altogether, the collection is valued at $3.5 million. Honestly, I had no idea these things could be so valuable. The posters alone are supposedly worth thousands of dollars.”
“How many items are missing?”
“The entire collection. One thousand and three separate line entries on the insurance policy. They didn’t leave him so much as a silk handkerchief.”
He nodded absently. The photos appeared to be taken for insurance purposes. They offered an overview of an impressive collection of magic art and memorabilia. Everything from autographed photos, sheet music, and performance programs to spirit cabinets and a Rudiger Deutsch wooden mind-reading machine. Wands, alarm clocks, prop pistols, coins, turnover bottles, light bulbs, all kinds of fans and small boxes and bells. Straitjackets, Selbit blocks, and Sands of the Nile…there was something for everyone. Best of all were the dozens of gorgeous old vintage posters.
The vivid colors and ornate script, the fantastical images of fanged monsters and lovely assistants, the grave visages of long-dead magicians instantly brought back the old delight of a time when Jason had still believed in magic—even as he tried to master the tricks and fakes of the trade. He recognized the painted faces as long-forgotten friends: Carter the Great…Thurston the Great Magician…Master Mystifier Houdini…Alexander the Man Who Knows…Bernardo…Kellar…Blackstone…oh, and the blandly handsome face of George the Supreme Master of Magic. That last one had always cracked him up. Something about a Supreme Master of Magic named George…
“These were all originals?”
Dreyfus replied, “According to the victim, Michael Khan, everything in his collection was original and of both historical and cultural significance.”
Jason continued to examine the photos. He murmured, “Maybe so.”
“Really?”
At the astonishment in her tone, he looked up. “Sure.”
“It’s mostly junk. Old milk bottles and fake coins. And, they’re magic posters,” she said, as though he might have missed that point.
“Right.”
“How can they be significant?”
He said patiently, “Significance assessment is a qualitative technique to evaluate the relative importance of cultural heritage items for management purposes.”
“Yes, I realize some of these items are valuable, and I realize Cheyenne PD doesn’t have the resources to investigate the theft of such unique items, but—”
“It’s not about that, though,” Jason cut in. “It’s not about commercial value. It’s about cultural heritage, and these items meet that criteria.”
Dreyfus actually looked dismayed. “They have devils and demons on them. They’re advertisements for trickery and…and deception. Levitation and mind reading and decapitation and fortune-telling.”
“Chicanery and shenanigans,” Jason supplied, smiling. “Yes. But they also meet two of the four fields of value.”
“What are the four fields of value?”
“Historic, aesthetic, scientific, and social. These posters are historic, and they’re beautiful. And I think a case could be made for social value since that’s always changing and subjective anyway. You could almost argue science given the ads for levitation and decapitation. Regardless, you only need to find significance in one field. You also have to take into account context, history, practical uses, and the item’s social and spiritual values.”
Her brows rose in polite doubt, probably thinking again about those tiny red demons and devils. She didn’t argue, though. She said, “Here’s the situation.”
Dreyfus gave a quick and summary accounting of the robbery that had taken place at the home of Michael and Minerva Khan nearly seventy-two hours earlier.
At five o’clock on Friday evening, Michael Khan had left his home in Cheyenne to have dinner with his agent. His wife, Minerva, was performing that evening. The Khans had no children, and the servants were not live-in. When Khan returned home late that evening, he found the front door standing open and his entire collection of art and memorabilia gone. “Vanished” was the word he used.
“Was the door broken or the lock picked?” Jason asked.
“The door was unlocked. There was no forced entry. Minerva Khan left the domicile after her husband. She insists all doors and windows were locked.”
“Was there a security system? Cameras? Anything like that?”
“There are cameras, but they were just for show. They’re not hooked up to anything.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Jason said, “What about neighboring security cameras? Maybe someone caught something.”
“Cheyenne PD is working on that. The best bet are the security cameras from across the street, but the owners are away on a skiing trip. The Khans do have a security system, but Minerva didn’t arm it. That’s not unusual, though. Both husband and wife agreed she often forgot. She told the detectives she had problems remembering the codes.�
��
“Uh-huh. What about the other neighbors?” Jason asked. “This is a sizable collection, and some of the items like the guillotine, the trunks, chambers, and tables would be pretty heavy. It would take a crew—certainly more than one person—a few hours and a moving van to remove everything. Are you saying nobody saw anything?”
“Neighbors reported seeing a white, unmarked moving van parked outside the house around eight o’clock. No one thought anything about it because moving vans are a common occurrence at the Khans.”
Jason’s brows drew together. “What does that mean?”
“The Khans get a lot of deliveries. It sounds to me like Mr. Khan was a compulsive hoarder. Also Mrs. Khan is in the process of moving out of the house.”
Now that was interesting. “They’re separating?”
“Yes. Michael and Minerva Khan are in the middle of a hotly contested divorce. In fact, each of them has suggested the other is involved in the burglary and theft.”
It wouldn’t be the first time.
“You said Khan was meeting with his agent? What is it he does?” Jason asked.
Dreyfus shook her head as though the very idea pained her. “He’s a professional magician.”
Jason smiled. “Is he?”
“Yes. So is Mrs. Khan.”
This was getting better and better. Jason considered. “Hm. Minerva. There was a famous 19th century female escape artist called Minerva the Handcuff Queen.”
“I don’t know about that, but Minerva Khan was a professional magician in Vegas before she married. She still does occasional shows for charity. Michael Khan is a regularly employed magician, if there is such a thing. He’s known as the Kubla Khanjurer.”
The name meant nothing to Jason. “Quaint.”
“In fact, Khan’s other theory is that his collection—and he does insist the collection belongs to him and is not community property—could have been stolen in reprisal.”
“Reprisal for what exactly?”
“The Kubla Khanjurer is primarily famous for going around exposing the secrets behind other magicians’ magic tricks.”
Jason’s gaze went automatically to a poster lavishly decorated with tombstones and dancing skeletons holding scythes. “I see. Like the Masked Magician.”
“I guess so. I hate magic shows, so I have no idea.”
She was probably too young to remember those TV specials of the 1990s where illusionist Val Valentino had incurred the wrath of his peers by revealing “Magic’s Biggest Secrets” during prime time. Supposedly he’d received several death threats.
“That would breed a lot of hostility from the magic community,” Jason agreed. “Even so, you have to know what you’re doing to pull off a heist on the scale of this. Someone had to be aware the Khans would both be out that evening and that neighbors would not be unduly interested in a moving van being parked outside for a couple of hours. Also, the unsub would have to know where to fence the articles. You can’t just list them on eBay or take them to a local pawn shop. These are valuable items, but the market for them is interest-specific. It’s not like unloading a Monet.”
That said, a poster featuring Houdini’s escape from his Chinese Water Torture Cell had sold for $114,000 in 2017, so it wasn’t like the art world was unaware of the value of such items.
Dreyfus said quickly, “Which is where I hope you can help, Agent West. Cheyenne PD is looking for direction, but this is not my field of expertise. I should be out helping my team search for our unknown bank robber.” Her tone was slightly aggrieved.
Jason didn’t bother to reassure her there would be no shortage of robberies in her career. He was eager to help. The sight of those gorgeous, arcane lithographs stirred him, triggered his boyhood love of both mystery and the mysterious. Absolutely he wanted in on finding and recovering those posters.
“It’s possible, but not probable, that your unsub will try to sell the items locally. The most likely scenario is to break up the collection and try to move it through the larger auction houses. Provenance should be more of an issue than it often is. Anyway, I can help you with that. I have the contacts and the resources.”
She brightened. “That would be terrific!”
They discussed a few other aspects of the case; then Dreyfus left copies of the insurance photographs and forms, the police report, and the initial interviews with the Khans and their neighbors, prettily thanked Jason in advance for all the help she knew he would be, and departed, ponytail bouncing jauntily as she headed for her unmarked GOV sedan. Jason watched her go. Dreyfus was nearly skipping in delight at having handed off a case she clearly detested.
He shook his head, closed the door, and returned to the dining room to gather up the reports and interviews.
He was already pretty sure one or maybe even possibly both of the Khans—depending on their insurance policies and whether they did really end up getting divorced—were behind the burglary and theft. One of his first lessons on the ACT had been how depressingly common insurance fraud was. Or at least attempted insurance fraud.
If Michael Khan was behind the theft, the entire collection was probably sitting safe and sound in a storage facility somewhere in Laramie county.
If the wife was behind the theft, there was a greater chance the collection would be broken up and sold for parts. That was the way spousal revenge tended to work. He didn’t buy the story of the lady magician with such a bad memory that she couldn’t remember a couple of security codes. He was also skeptical of the uncompromised front door.
Or were they really supposed to believe another magician had broken in?
That had been Michael Khan’s other theory, right? A disgruntled colleague was paying him back for revealing the secrets of the International Brotherhood of Magicians.
Colorful and dramatic, but insurance fraud was a lot more likely, especially when divorce was part of the equation.
Jason settled on the tufted beige sofa with a heating pad for his back and a stack of pillows for his ankle, and began to read through the police report.
Routine stuff except for a little handwritten notation in the margin. JDLR. Copspeak for Just Doesn’t Look Right. Meaning something not quite adding up, in the detective’s opinion, nothing the officer could put a finger on, but meriting a second look.
Jason wanted to talk to that investigator. Except…he was consulting on the art angle, not investigating the theft. So unless he could make a case for why he needed to involve himself in the ongoing investigation, he was liable to have Sam breathing down his neck.
Not that Sam breathing down his neck couldn’t be a pleasurable thing…
Jason blinked a couple of times and raised his head, realizing he was on the verge of nodding off. Despite a good night’s sleep, he was still tired from his recent ordeal. The warmth of the nearby fireplace, the dryness of police reports had a soporific effect.
From down the hall he heard a door close and footsteps coming his way. He sat up, spilling papers onto the wooden floor.
“Hey,” he called in greeting.
“Hey,” Sam returned. He took the chair in front of the fireplace, dwarfing the fragile arms and spindly legs. He was too big for the chair, for this room with its pseudo Queen Anne furniture—button tufts, wingbacks, and scallop-edges—the mirrors and throw rugs. The décor both here and in the main house was more formal than Jason would have expected, but really, his expectations just exposed his own biases. What had he imagined was Ruby’s style? Wagon-wheel tables and deer-antler chandeliers?
“Did I wake you?” Sam regarded him with that all-too-discerning gaze.
“No, no.” A yawn caught him off-guard. He admitted, “Maybe.”
Sam smiled faintly. “Sleep is exactly what you need. How did your meeting with Dreyfus go?”
“She’s a probie for sure. Very disappointed to be stuck pursuing lost art works instead of chasing bank robbers with all the other kids.”
“An FBI agent’s life is full of disappointments,” sa
id the guy with a practically unbroken string of successes to his name.
“I want to do this, though. I want to help her recover this art collection because these pieces are largely irreplaceable.”
“And you love magic.” The corner of Sam’s mouth was tugging toward a smile he seemed determined to suppress.
“Well, I used to. Magic is about uncertainty and possibility, and when you’re an adolescent, uncertainty and possibility kind of defines you. So yes, I loved magic. But also, yes, these works are of historical and cultural significance, and they deserve to be protected and preserved. But because they’re ‘magic posters’”—Jason made air quotes— “there’s a good chance they’ll fall into the hands of people who won’t recognize the value of what they’ve got.”
Sam said, “You don’t have to justify your interest to me. The minute I heard about this case, I knew you’d want to be involved.” He seemed to consider his words. “I like that you care so much. I admire your dedication.”
They had touched on this before, briefly.
Jason said, “I’m not catching killers. Usually. But I think what I do matters.”
Sam said seriously, “No question.”
It felt like a weight lifted. Why did Sam’s praise mean so much to him? Jason had not been conscious of any defensiveness with Sam about what he did. But yeah, maybe. Maybe he did deep down in some unacknowledged corner of his psyche fear that Sam still viewed him as a pretty dilettante. Because certainly at the beginning of their acquaintanceship that was how Sam had regarded him.
Nearly getting nabbed while getting takeout hadn’t done wonders for his self-esteem either.
Sam was still watching him in that thoughtful, assessing way. He said, “I have some news.”
Jason automatically sat straighter, bracing himself. “Okay.”
“From everything we’ve been able to find out so far, Dr. Jeremy Kyser has been in Canada for the past four days, attending a conference on forensic psychology.”
Jason digested that slowly. “Is that for sure?”
“It looks that way on paper.”