by Don Passman
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In loving memory of my Mom, Bea; Thanks for always taking me to the magic store.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Author’s Note
Also by Don Passman
About the Author
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
When I drove my battered green Toyota into a parking space marked SUBSTITUTE TEACHER, the woman getting out of the next car raised her eyebrows. It was probably my black jacket with sequins on the lapel. Could’ve been my red tie with the yellow shooting stars. Maybe the white cockatiel perched on my shoulder.
I felt the woman’s eyes on me as I turned off the ignition. My car shuddered as the engine shut down. I leaned over to the passenger seat and pawed through the mess of papers, crinkling the fast-food wrappers as I threw them on the floorboard. Ah. There it is. I grabbed that day’s teaching assignment, sat up, and opened the car door. As I climbed out, my bird, Lisa, dug her claws into my shoulder.
I smiled at the woman who was still standing there and said, “Good morning.”
Guess she didn’t hear me.
As I walked toward the school building, I took Lisa off my shoulder and slid her into the secret pouch of my jacket. My jacket has a secret pouch because it’s the same outfit I wear onstage when I do magic. That’s my real job: magic. Substitute teaching just pays the bills until I make it as a magician. Well, it pays most of the bills anyway.
See, the real dough for magicians is in Las Vegas. David Copperfield, Lance Burton, Siegfried and Roy in their day. Guys with their own theaters built for them. That’s where I’m headed. I’ve already designed the tricks that’ll get me there, and as soon as I have enough money to build them, I’ll get a Vegas gig. Maybe just a small one to start. Hey, I’ll even work in one of those casinos with a red-and-yellow sign that says 99¢ SHRIMP COCKTAIL. Whatever it takes to get in the game.
In the distance, a class bell rang. Ooops. As I picked up my pace, Lisa shifted around in her pocket.
When I neared the redbrick building, I heard the slamming of two car doors. Glancing over at the street, which was maybe fifty yards away, I saw two men dressed in white shirts and black ties, walking away from a parked gray car. Although they weren’t looking at me, it felt like they had me in their sights. Something dangled from one of their shirt pockets. Too far away to tell what it was.
I smiled at them. They looked down at the sidewalk, like they didn’t see me.
I hurried up the steps to the school building, opened the door, and hustled down the empty hallway of Walter Reade Junior High. The only sound was the slapping of my leather soles. Breathing heavily, I stopped at the administration office, then looked behind me down the hall. No sign of those men from the street.
I opened the office door and went inside. Behind a long counter, three people were standing in a cluster, holding Styrofoam coffee cups and chattering away. A horse-jawed man glanced my way. His eyes widened as he took in my outfit. He tapped a short woman on the shoulder, who nudged a heavyset matron with gray hair pulled into a tight bun. The volume of their conversation dropped, and they gave me those quick glances that you get after someone whispers, “Wait a couple of seconds, then sneak a peek over your shoulder.”
The bun-haired matron broke from the huddle and strode my way. She stopped about a foot behind the counter. “May I help you?”
“I’m Harvey Kendall. Subbing eighth-grade English for”—I pulled the coffee-stained assignment sheet out of my jacket—“Mrs. Duggan.”
The woman stepped a little closer to the counter. She picked up a clipboard with several pages clamped to it, lifted the half-glasses that were dangling on a silver chain around her neck and set them on the end of her nose. After flipping through a few pages, she looked up. “You’re late, Mr. Kendall.”
I smiled at her. Truth is, I usually get to class a little late. I think it’s better to come in after the kids are already sitting down. That, and the fact that I can’t seem to estimate time very well.
The matron placed the clipboard on the counter. “Room two eleven. Second floor.”
I spun around and started off.
She called after me. “Mr. Kendall?”
I turned back.
“Do you think that’s appropriate clothing for a teacher?”
I turned my palms up. “It’ll have to do. My chicken suit is at the cleaners.”
* * *
I hurried out of the office, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and looked at the numbers painted on the doors. There. Two eleven.
Through the closed door, I heard kids talking in the classroom. I looked at my reflection in the door’s glass panel and tried to poke down the wildest strands of my curly black hair. Didn’t really help. No matter what I do, my hair always looks like the springs of an exploded mattress.
I straightened up, smoothed my coat, and yanked the door open. That shut up the kids. As I walked to the teacher’s desk, their eyes followed me. I didn’t need much peripheral vision to see a few mouths open.
I turned to face them and said, “Good morning!”
A few of them squinted at me. A couple were stifling grins.
I grabbed a piece of chalk and wrote MR. KENDALL on the blackboard. When I finished, I turned around and dusted my hands, so they could see they were empty, and said, “Everybody needs to behave in my classroom. If not, I’ll know about it, even if I’m not looking.”
In the back, a freckled boy leaned over to whisper something to a blond girl in the next row. He saw me looking at him and straightened up.
I said, “How do I know what’s going on behind my back? A little birdie tells me.” I whisked a red silk scarf out of my breast pocket and waved it up and down, like I was on a ship about to pull out of the harbor. While the kids’ eyes were on the handkerchief, I sneaked my other hand into the coat, grabbed Lisa around her wings, and brought her up behind the scarf. When I let go of her, she flapped her wings and came out of my hands like she was materializing right there.
A couple of
kids started clapping. Then everybody did. One boy stuck the tips of his pinkies in his mouth and whistled.
I let Lisa step off my hand and onto my shoulder. She sidestepped toward my neck, then bit my earlobe just like I trained her. I looked surprised and said, “Ow!”
The kids laughed, then sat back in their seats.
I clapped my hands. “So. I understand you’re reading Huck Finn. Who wants to tell me?—”
The classroom door flung open. The heavyset schoolmarm from the administration office hustled in so fast that the glasses around her neck bounced against her large chest. She stopped a few feet away from me, panting, and looked at the bird on my shoulder. The bird looked at her. The class sat up straight.
The woman curled her lip. “Mr. Kendall?”
“Yes.”
Her face was beaded with perspiration. “Could you step outside for a moment?”
“What’s the problem?”
She took a crumpled Kleenex from her skirt pocket and dabbed her forehead. “It’s a private matter.”
Lisa cocked her head, like she was wondering, What’s up with the old lady?
A boy in the back said, “Let him stay.”
A girl said, “Yeah.”
The woman glared at the room, swiveling her head like she was fanning the area with a machine gun. The kids looked down at their desks. The only sound was the squeak of a student’s chair.
The woman said, “Please step into the hall.”
I whispered, “I only dress like this on the first day. It’s just to put the kids at ease.”
“Outside, please.”
I looked at the kids and shrugged. Most of their eyebrows were raised, like they were saying Awwww. I walked toward the door, rubbing the bird’s chest with my index finger, as the woman told the class, “Keep quiet and study on your own. Another teacher will be here shortly.”
Just outside the door, I saw the two white-shirted men from the street. One of them started toward me.
Now I could see what was dangling from his shirt pocket.
A leather holder with a gold badge.
CHAPTER TWO
The man with the badge looked like he was in his late fifties and stood at least four inches over my five foot ten. He was bald on top, except for a gray patch of frontal hair that looked like a hairy island in a sea of skin. Behind him was a skinny guy with a pencil mustache, carrying a worn leather briefcase.
The badge man stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Sergeant Morton, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. No relation to the salt.” He chuckled. The skinny guy smiled like he’d heard that joke a few thousand times.
I shook Morton’s hand. “Harvey Kendall.”
Morton gave me a quick nod. He gestured toward the skinny guy and said, “This is my partner, Lieutenant Dupont.” Dupont stared at me.
Morton turned back to face me. “Nice bird. What’s his name?”
“Lisa.”
The policeman scratched the back of his neck. “You’re twenty-nine years old?”
“Yes…”
And you live on Moorpark in North Hollywood?”
“What’s this about?”
“Is that you?”
“Yes, yes.” I glanced back at the classroom. “What do you want?”
Morton threw his head toward the hallway behind him, in a “Let’s go that way” gesture. He said, “The school’s been nice enough to let us use one of their offices. We can talk more privately there.” Morton turned and walked away. Dupont stepped around behind me.
As I followed Morton down the stairs, the back of my neck prickled with the feeling that Dupont was staying very close. I picked up my pace.
We walked down the main hall, where Morton opened a door and gestured for me to go inside. I glanced back at Dupont, then went into a small office with bare white walls. The only furnishings were a gray metal desk with a high-backed leather chair, and two metal guest chairs.
Morton said, “Have a seat.” He gestured for me to take one of the guest chairs. I went around the desk and pulled out the high-backed chair. As I sat, Lisa dug her claws into my shoulder.
Morton lowered himself into a guest chair. Dupont set his briefcase on the floor and stood behind Morton, staring at me.
Morton said, “Were you arrested for a DUI in Virginia a few years back?”
I jolted. Lisa fluttered her wings, slapping my neck. I said, “That was just some college stupidity. The charges were dismissed.”
“We know. No problem there.”
I leaned back a little. “What do you want?”
“Mr. Kendall, do you remember that they took a sample of your DNA when they arrested you in Virginia?”
I certainly did. They wanted to take my blood with a needle and I freaked out so badly that I had to be restrained by two officers. I couldn’t help it. I have this horrible phobia of needles, because I was really sick when I was a kid and I got a lot of painful injections. The few times I needed shots as an adult, they had to first give me something close to a horse tranquilizer. Remembering it, I felt my pulse beat in my neck.
I swallowed drily. “What’s this about?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I’ve got students waiting for me.”
“Won’t take long.” He kept smiling at me. His grin was starting to feel like saltwater taffy, the way it starts out sweet in your mouth but then you keep chewing and pretty soon you think your teeth are going to rot.
I said, “What’s this all about?”
“You thirsty? Want something to drink?”
“I guess.…”
Morton turned to Dupont. “Grab us a coupla Cokes, okay?” He turned back to me. “Coke all right?”
“Just water.”
Dupont left, closing the door behind him.
The room went quiet.
The air felt thick.
Morton massaged his temples with his fingertips. “How’d you get interested in magic?”
“How do you know about my magic?”
He chuckled. “I used my detecting skills. First clue was your outfit.” Morton leaned back, tipping his chair onto its back legs. “And to be honest, I’ve done a little nosing around. I love magic. How’d you get started?”
“Sorry, but what’s that got to do with my DNA?”
Morton leaned forward, clunking the chair legs against the floor. He held up his palms in a gesture of Hey, didn’t mean any harm. Morton said, “Just making some friendly conversation.”
I stood up. “I need to get back to my class.”
Dupont came through the door with two Coke cans and a bottle of water. He gave Morton a can and handed me the icy plastic water bottle. I twisted off the top and gulped down a mouthful, feeling my Adam’s apple bob as I swallowed. I sucked in more water, squeezing the bottle hard enough to make the plastic crackle. I felt a chest freeze from the ice water.
Morton popped the top on a Coke can, took a sip, and let out a sigh like it was a good year for that batch of syrup. He said, “Please sit down, Mr. Kendall. I promise this won’t take long.”
I slowly sat, keeping my eyes on him. Dupont stood against the wall behind Morton.
Morton said, “You know someone named Sherry Allen?”
Both men watched me intensely.
I scrunched my forehead. “Who?”
“Sherry Allen.”
“No.”
Morton leaned forward. “Woman in her early twenties. From Van Nuys?”
“No.”
“Single mom, with an eighteen-month-old son. She worked with autistic kids.”
I shook my head.
Morton said, “Maybe you know her under another name.” He reached back over his shoulder with an open hand, moving his fingers in a request for Dupont to hand him something. Dupont opened the battered briefcase, took out a photo, and placed it in Morton’s waving fingers.
Morton stood up and handed me a picture of a young woman with electric blue eyes and long blond hair t
hat brushed across her bare shoulders. She was smiling sensually at the camera, biting her bottom lip like she was keeping a delicious secret.
I shook my head. “I’ve never seen her. Why do you keep asking?”
“She was raped and murdered.”
“What?” The picture suddenly felt grimy in my fingers. I handed it back to Morton. He didn’t take it.
I dropped the picture on the desk. “Why are you showing me this?”
Morton still had that jovial expression. “We found DNA at the murder scene. When we ran it through the databases, we got a match.” His smile dimmed a titch. “It matched the DNA they took from you in Virginia.”
CHAPTER THREE
I stared at Morton.
He stared at me.
I leaned forward in the desk chair and said, “Is this a joke?”
“No sir.”
The bird on my shoulder cocked her head.
I said, “Did some of my buddies at the Castle put you up to this?”
“The castle?”
“The Magic Castle. It’s a private club for magicians.”
“It’s not a joke, Mr. Kendall. Your DNA matched the DNA at the crime scene.” Morton looked hard into me. “Miss Allen was tied up on her bed, beaten, and strangled. Do you tie people up in your magic act?”
I glanced down at the desk, then looked at Morton. “Only myself sometimes. You know, escape routines.”
“How did your DNA wind up at her murder scene?”
I shook my head. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s a fact.”
“There’s been some kind of mistake.”
“Not likely. But if there was, help us clear it up.”
The bird moved closer to my neck. “Are you accusing me of murder?”
“Should we be?”
I forced a laugh. “Do I look like a killer?”
Morton raised his eyebrows, as if asking, Well…?
I shook my head. “I never met that woman. I don’t know anything about this.”
Morton kept staring at me. “Do you mind if we take your picture? For our records?”
I felt my chest tighten.
Murder? Me?
Ridiculous. This is some colossal screwup. Why don’t they see that?
Morton said, “Mr. Kendall?”