The Magician Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  “Were you performing the bullet catch?” Dreyfus asked.

  “No. I only perform the bullet catch on special occasions now. At one thirty in the morning I got a call at—from Michael saying we’d been robbed. He pretended to accuse me of being behind it all.”

  Pretended?

  Jason said, “So, your theory is your husband hired someone to come in and steal the collection after you left on Friday night?”

  “Exactly. It’s not a theory. That is exactly what happened.”

  “What do you think the plan for the collection is?”

  She narrowed her eyes at some thought, studying the red tip of her cigarette. She shook her head.

  “Do you believe your husband intended to sell the collection?”

  “I don’t know. He definitely didn’t want to sell, but if it came down to selling or letting me have my half of it, yeah, he’d sell first.”

  “He’d still have to split the insurance money with you.”

  Her smile was tight. “He’d prefer that to me getting my hands on his precious floating light bulb.”

  “I’m sorry?” Dreyfus said.

  Minerva’s gaze dismissed her and returned to Jason. “It was personal with him. All the way.”

  “Do you have any idea who this accomplice of your husband’s might be?”

  Her gaze was approving. “Yes. I sure do. I’ll bet you money, Mike got Ian Boz to help him.”

  Jason asked, “And Ian Boz is—”

  She looked taken aback. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  Minerva looked from Jason to Dreyfus. “You really don’t know who Ian Boz is?”

  Dreyfus looked at Jason, but Jason was drawing a blank on that one.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t watch TV? Boz was on that show America’s Most Talented. He’s a magician. Was. Not bad either. He got all the way up to Judges’ Pick Round, but then some reporter found out he’d been in prison for identity theft—among other things—and that he was on the run after violating probation. Anyway, he was recaptured by the authorities and put back in prison. When he got out, Michael helped him open Boz’s Brew.”

  Jason vaguely remembered something about the tabloid-dubbed Indictable Illusionist. “Which is what?”

  “A magic shop. The biggest magic shop in Wyoming.”

  “Why would your husband do that?” Jason asked. “Aid an ex-con like Boz. Were they previously acquainted? Were they friends? Had they worked together?”

  “You must be joking. Michael didn’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart. No doubt he figured Boz would eventually make himself useful—which I believe he did Friday evening.”

  “Again, do you have any actual evidence that your husband and Ian Boz conspired to commit theft and possible insurance fraud?”

  “See, this is why I pay taxes,” Minerva said. “That’s your job.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The pale, slender youth behind the counter at Boz’s Brew was too young to be Ian Boz.

  As Jason and Dreyfus pushed through the glass doors of the shop—to the accompaniment of pixie dust door chimes—the youth glanced up from a hardcover copy of Mandrake the Magician, smiled, and recited, “Hi! Welcome to the largest selection of supplies for sorcery, spells, and shticks in the Western United States. How can I help you?”

  Dreyfus showed her badge. “Mr. Boz?”

  “FBI?” The kid’s smile faltered.

  “Agents Dreyfus and West. Are you Ian Boz?”

  Jason sighed inwardly. Dreyfus was so young—practically as young as the kid behind the counter.

  “N-No. I’m Terry. Terry Van der Beck.”

  Dreyfus said in her most official voice, “Is Mr. Boz in, Terry?”

  Terry’s green eyes rounded in dismay. “Sure. I-I’ll get him.”

  He left the counter and vanished into the back room.

  “Are you really not going to tell me how she caught that bullet in her teeth?” Dreyfus said.

  “It’s against the magicians’ code to reveal a secret.”

  “It’s not against the FBI’s code!”

  Jason laughed. He moved away to examine a row of framed posters.

  He whistled softly.

  “What is it?” Dreyfus came to join him. “Did you find something?”

  Jason nodded at the row of posters featuring such notables as Marshall the Mystic and His Hats, Ionia, L’enchanteresse, and Prince Ali Raji Oriental Magic—with the confusing tag: African Magician. Magic had changed a lot through the years, but one thing that had not changed was its diversity.

  “I think these are legit.”

  She said skeptically, “Legit?”

  “The real thing. Not repros.”

  “Oh.” She leaned in to study the price tag on the 20 x 30” half-sheet lithograph of a young woman in a red gown, reaching out to a tuxedoed man standing amidst a crowd of gentlemen. The bold typeface heading read: CAN YOU LIFT HER? And below: Twenty men try it every night— & fail.

  “$4500! They’re priced like they’re the real thing. That’s for sure.”

  Jason moved on to a 1925 poster of a winged devil cranking the handle of a small box from which ghostly figures and tiny turbaned people spilled out. The giant floating head of a magician frowned disapprovingly on the whole operation. The header read: CHEFALO – MAGICIAN & ILLUSIONIST. Typeface at the bottom of the poster proclaimed: ASSISTED BY THE MAGDA-PALERMO MIDGETS!

  A bargain at $3500. He took out his cell phone and snapped a photo. He moved down the row of posters, taking photographs of each one.

  Here was an obvious potential fence for the Khan collection. Too obvious? Maybe.

  There were advertisements for Jansen, Chung Ling Soo—incidentally, a victim of the bullet catch—Mrs. Eva Fay, oh, and who could forget that “Jolly Prince of Funmakers,” Mr. Herbert L. Flint.

  “Why so many devils and demons?” Dreyfus whispered—as though fearing the devils and demons might hear her.

  “It’s code. The magicians have learned the arcane secrets of the spiritual world.”

  “Why not angels and saints, then?”

  “Angels and saints wouldn’t be nearly so interesting. This knowledge is forbidden knowledge.”

  “And what about the flames?”

  “A lot of early illusions revolved around fire. Fire breathing, fire swallowing, fire bathing, walking through fire, flames shooting from the magician’s head—”

  “Now you’re joking.”

  “No. Not at all. The idea was that magicians could control the elements—as well as the spirit world. Plus, fire is symbolic. It represents all kinds of things: purification, knowledge, rebirth, divinity, inspiration, hell… It’s subliminal advertising.”

  Dreyfus made a sound of disapproval. “Okay. Never mind. I get it. In that case, I won’t ask about the turbans, harem girls, snakes, buzzards, lizards, and sinister Asian men. Do you recognize anything from the Khan collection?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I don’t remember every piece of the collection off the top of my head.”

  “If these are the real thing, how would someone like Ian Boz get his hands on them?”

  Jason turned as Terry called from the doorway to the office, “He’s not here.”

  “You said he was here,” Dreyfus said.

  “I know, but he’s not in his office. I thought he was in the bathroom, but he must have stepped out for a coffee or something. He uses the back door sometimes.”

  “Then he’s coming back?”

  Terry shrugged. “I guess.”

  “How long have you been working for Boz?” Jason asked.

  “About two years.” Terry looked defensive, as though he feared he was about to be arrested for working for Boz.

  Jason smiled. “Do you like it?”

  “Sure. Yeah.” Still wary.

  “Are you a magician too?”

  The kid—okay, not really a kid, because he was probably in his late twenties, now that Jason had a
closer look at him—relaxed a little. “Yes. Well, I’m training to be.”

  “Are you Boz’s apprentice?”

  Terry wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Not him, no. I was training with Mateo Santos.” A shadow crossed his face.

  “Do you know Michael Khan?” Dreyfus asked. “Was he a regular visitor to the store?”

  Terry’s expression grew wary once more. “I know he’s dead. Everyone knows. They found his body at Vedauwoo.”

  “Vedauwoo?” Jason repeated.

  Both Dreyfus and Terry looked at him in surprise. After all, it was a National Park and a popular destination by all accounts. It was just he’d only ever heard of it in connection with Ethan’s death.

  “Everyone’s talking about it,” Terry said. “What it means that he would be found there.”

  “What does it mean?” Jason asked.

  “It’s a sacred place. Sacred to the Arapaho anyway. It’s where the young men went for their vision quests. Where the medicine men went to make their medicine pouches.”

  Dreyfus said in the tone of one who does not want to encourage superstitious nonsense, “It’s a campground as well as being very popular with climbers and photographers.”

  The sound of pixie dust sprinkled over them, and the glass door to the store swung open. The man who entered was about forty, medium height, and built like a classic cartoon henchman. He held a bag of fast food. The tips of what appeared to be some pretty impressive ink tickled his jawline and covered his massive hands. The impressiveness of the tats and his array of piercings was sort of undercut by a skimpy hairdo that more than anything called to mind Tintin.

  “Ian Boz?” Jason inquired.

  Boz’s beady eyes moved from Jason to Dreyfus, who was reaching for her badge like it was a magic amulet. “Who wants to know?”

  Terry wavered. “It’s the FBI!”

  Boz reared back, feeling for the door handle behind him.

  “Don’t run,” Jason warned him.

  Boz turned and ran.

  The door swung shut behind him with another twinkling of pixie dust.

  Jason swore. Dreyfus yelled, “FBI, halt!”

  “Dreyfus, we don’t have just ca—”

  Dreyfus bolted after Boz, the musical sound of fairies floating down as the door opened and closed again. Two seconds later she raced past the rain-streaked plate glass front windows, shouting, “FBI! I said halt.”

  “Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?” Jason said.

  Terry met his eyes and spread his arms in a Don’t Look at Me, Man.

  Jason pulled out his phone. “Where’s he live?” he asked Terry.

  “You think he’s going home?” Terry was doubtful.

  “Yep. I think he’s running straight home the way he’s been doing since he was five years old. Because that’s what they all do.”

  “He lives down the street. Over the old fun house.”

  Well, yeah, of course, because this was an alternate universe called Wyoming. “Where the hell is the fun house?” Jason questioned.

  “Down the street to your left. It’s the big yellow and blue building with an evil clown over the doorway and a neon sign that says Fun House. You can’t miss it. It’s right on the corner.”

  Plus…evil clown. Kind of a giveaway. Jason pressed Dreyfus’ contact info. The number began to ring as he reached the door.

  Dreyfus did not answer her phone.

  Jason pushed through the door, closing off the silvery sprinkle sounds, and found himself on an empty sidewalk. He listened tensely but did not hear gunshots, so that was the good news. In fact, he did not hear anything but the rush and splash of cars speeding past. He started walk-running in pursuit, trying to avoid the rain puddles, ignoring the pain of his ankle, which was not healed enough for running or even cautious jogging.

  “Dreyfus, I’m going to ground you for the rest of your life.” He tried her again.

  No reply.

  No sign of her up ahead either.

  He hop-skipped on, wishing he’d thought to bring dear old Grandad Kennedy’s shillelagh on this jaunt. At least he was carrying his Glock. That would make Sam happy. Although hopefully Sam would never hear about this.

  His cell rang. “Where the hell are you?” he barked.

  “Just getting into my car, honey,” Ruby said after a surprised instant. “Where would you like me to pick you up?”

  Someday this would be funny.

  Unless Dreyfus got hurt. Or worse.

  “Um, why don’t you head on back to the ranch. I’ll find my own way back.”

  “It’s no problem. I can wait for you.”

  Jason, still clumping along as fast as he could, panted, “No, really. Thank you…but I’m in the…f-ouch…middle of something…I don’t know how long…I’ll be.”

  Ruby said reluctantly, “If you’re sure? We’re still on for dinner?”

  “…yep!…still on…what time?”

  “How about six?”

  “…see you then…” Jason gasped, and disconnected.

  He covered two long slippery blocks of city sidewalk, and finally came to a painful halt at a large intersection. There was no sign of Dreyfus or Boz, but he could see the fun house on the opposite corner. Terry was right. You couldn’t miss it.

  Jason hop-hitched across the street, managing not to get hit—or drowned—by the passing cars. Out of breath and pissed off, he reached the double doorway beneath the giant leering head of the evil clown.

  It was an old structure. Probably early 1900s. A large, long building with a plain brick façade and plenty of industrial-style windows. It had probably begun life as a factory of some kind.

  The weather-beaten wooden sign on the door said CLOSED.

  Which was false advertising given that the door stood open about a foot. On the other side of the entrance was a spilled bag of fast food.

  “Dreyfus?” he yelled.

  To his relief, he heard her yell back, “West! In here! I can’t find the darned door!”

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  Did he call for backup or continue on? Technically, legally, Boz was within his rights to refuse to answer their questions. They did not have a warrant. Boz had not been placed under arrest. Running away was strange and highly suspicious, and they could probably charge him with some variation of fleeing, eluding, and obstructing, but no way was that ever going to trial—unless he did turn out to be involved in the theft of Michael Khan’s art collection.

  No. The best thing to do was find and retrieve Dreyfus and persuade Cheyenne PD to execute a search warrant on that shop, Boz’s home, this place—and whatever additional storage facility Boz owned.

  What he did not want to do—could not afford to do—was turn up in any police report or newspaper story. If that happened, Sam would have a fit—and rightfully so.

  He slipped through the open door, avoiding the spilled soda and slimy contents of several scattered burgers, and found himself in a dark corridor about the size of a large walk-in closet. It smelled old and unstable: an unhealthy blend of deteriorating wood, rotting cloth, and fried electrical circuits.

  The only light was afforded by the daylight from the outside entrance. He did not see an interior door, but he walked up a gradual incline to the wall in front of him, pushed, and the wall turned out to be a giant swinging door. Jason walked through the door and found himself in another longer, slanted corridor. By the illumination of the yellowed emergency lights, he could see the peeling walls were painted with clowns chasing balloons and rabbits and each other. The style looked maybe mid-20th century. The faces of the clowns seemed oddly malevolent, but their pastime looked harmless enough.

  There were several identical doors in a row. Jason tried one, and it led to another corridor which led to another corridor which led to another corridor which led back to the room with the clowns.

  Square one. Literally.

  The second and third doors opened onto closets as black as night and painted with glittering stars
and planets. The floor of one closet was a few inches lower, so when he stepped inside it felt for a crazy second like he was falling through space. Which, given the swollen and soggy condition of the wood, was probably a real possibility.

  The fourth door led down a corridor which led to a mirror maze. So…progress? Jason glimpsed disorienting views of himself stretched ten feet tall and then ten feet wide and then upside down. Sometimes his head was enormous and his body tiny. Some of the mirrors were broken. One of the mirrors was not a mirror but a silvered painting on glass, so that it looked like a hooded figure was staring at him. That one made Jason grab for his weapon, even though he knew better, and did not improve his mood.

  Dust. Cobwebs. Mold. All present. In fact, the only thing missing was booming, maniacal laughter coming from everywhere and nowhere. Happily, no way would the sound system in this place still work. Even turning on the lights was liable to set the structure on fire, and he hoped to God Dreyfus did not press any buttons or throw any levers.

  “Dreyfus?” he yelled.

  This time she did not answer.

  “Shit.” But she could easily be a couple of corridors ahead and not hear him.

  He had to hand it to Boz. Leading them in here had been smart. He had basically invited them to get lost—and they had accepted the invitation. By now, their quarry was probably halfway across the county.

  To Jason’s relief, the maze of mirrors led onto a deck with a huge skylight. Despite the years of grime, gray daylight poured down, illuminating macabrely cheerful wall paintings of more demented clowns and anthropomorphic animals wearing sailor suits and ballerina tutus. The artwork here was more modern, maybe late forties, early fifties? Jason could finally see where he was—and that seemed to be the heart of the fun house.

  Several rickety staircases led off in different directions, he glimpsed the middle section of a giant slide disappearing into what was probably the bowels of hell, and four distinct clown-head entrances led to rooms that almost certainly meant more delays and sidetracking. No thank you.

  A sunken floor in the center of the deck offered a view of dingy stuffing spilling out of ripped padded walls surrounding some kind of giant disk. Presumably, in days of yore, fun seekers had piled onto the disk so they could be hurled against the wall for laughs. What would liability in a place like this be now days?