Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler)

by Margolin, Phillip

  Dana turned on the TV and channel-surfed to kill time while she waited for Benedict to call. Rick Hamada and Bobby Schatz had primed the pump by building up the importance the prenuptial agreement held for the commonwealth’s case, and Dana could tell that Benedict had been excited by the bait she had dangled in front of him. Now they had to hope that the cover that had been provided by Marty Draper and the hastily constructed website for “Myra Blankenship’s” fictitious business would hold up.

  Nothing on TV held Dana’s interest and she switched off the set. Her room had been rigged with surveillance cameras and microphones in case Benedict attacked her in the room. One of the microphones crackled when Stephanie Robb tested it.

  “Can you hear me?” Robb asked.

  “Yeah, you’re fine.”

  “Benedict is still at his office. I’m guessing he’ll wait until it’s dark to make his move.”

  “I hope he does it soon. That damn wig makes my head itch.”

  “Hey, no one ever said police work was easy,” Santoro quipped. “We’ll tell you when he leaves.”

  “Benedict is definitely a man of many talents,” Robb said shortly after sunset. “He just boosted a car from a shopping mall and he’s headed your way. We’re going to get him, Dana.”

  “Just make sure you’ve got me covered. I don’t want to end up as his next victim.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ve got undercover cops all over the hotel. Just sit tight until he shows up.”

  Twenty minutes later, the phone rang.

  “Yes?” Dana said.

  “Hi, it’s Charlie Benedict. I took care of my other business and I’m going to go to the jail to talk to Horace. Do you have the prenup?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great! I’m in the parking lot. Can you bring it down? It will save time, and I know you’re in a rush to find out what Horace is going to do.”

  “I really appreciate this, Mr. Benedict.”

  “Charlie.”

  “Where are you parked?”

  “Come out the back. I didn’t want anyone to see us, so I’m in the next-to-the-last row. I’ll blink my lights when you come out the rear door.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  “Did you get that?” Dana asked Robb after she ended Benedict’s call.

  “We’re repositioning everyone now. Give us five minutes.”

  Dana put on her wig. When five minutes were up, she threw a trench coat over her jacket and shirt. Then she grabbed a copy of the prenuptial agreement that Jack Pratt had worked up and took the elevator to the ground floor.

  Dana took her time walking to the back of the hotel. Few people were in the back lobby and fewer still were in the parking lot. A set of headlights flashed at her as soon as she stepped out of the hotel. They were in a section of the lot toward the back that was completely dark. Every other section was lit by well-spaced lamp poles.

  Charlie had stolen a beat-up Honda that was all alone in the next-to-last row of the hotel lot. Dana noticed shards of glass from a shattered streetlight littering the asphalt. Benedict got out of the car as soon as Dana reached it. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and scuffed trainers. Dana knew how he had dressed when he went to Ernest Brodsky’s shop, so she wasn’t surprised, but she frowned as if his getup puzzled her.

  “Hi,” Benedict said with a disarming smile. He pointed at the manila envelope Dana was holding. “Is that the prenup?”

  “Yes. Why are you dressed like that?”

  “Before I tell you, would you like to see a magic trick?”

  “What?” Dana answered, feigning confusion.

  Benedict pulled back his sleeves. “Nothing in my hands or up my sleeves, right?”

  “Uh, yes,” Blankenship answered.

  Benedict made a pass and a large hunting knife suddenly appeared in his hand. Dana’s mouth opened and her eyes went wide with surprise. Benedict had practiced the move he’d used to kill Ernest Brodsky, Tiffany Starr, and his other victims so often that it was automatic. As soon as Dana was distracted by his trick, his hand snaked out and he stabbed her, anticipating the thrill when the knife sliced through her flesh and invaded her heart. Instead, the knife recoiled and it was Benedict who looked as if he’d just witnessed magic.

  Before he could move again, Dana grabbed Benedict’s wrist and twisted. The lawyer felt a bone snap, his eyes widened with pain, and he dropped the knife. Dana sidestepped and smashed an elbow into Benedict’s temple. Then she swept his feet from under him. Benedict fell hard. His head bounced off the asphalt and he was momentarily dazed. Before he could react, Dana broke his arm, then rolled the lawyer on his stomach and cuffed his hands behind his back. The pain in his broken wrist and arm was excruciating and he screamed. Dana knelt down and whispered in Benedict’s ear.

  “The wrist was for setting Gregor Karpinski on me, and the arm was for Tiffany Starr. I can think of a lot of other things I’d like to do to you but cops are here to take you into custody, so you’re lucky.”

  Moments later, Frank Santoro, Stephanie Robb, and four uniformed police officers ran up.

  “Good work,” Robb said.

  “It was my pleasure,” Dana said as she took off the wig and glasses she’d worn to play the role of Myra Blankenship. Then she spread back her overcoat and looked at her torso. A tear in her shirt revealed a Kevlar vest.

  “You were right, Frank,” Dana said. “Benedict used his knife in the same way he used it on Brodsky and Starr.”

  “I was pretty certain he wouldn’t change a successful MO.”

  “My wrist!” Benedict gasped. “Take off the cuffs. It’s broken.”

  “You should have thought of that when you tried to kill Ms. Cutler,” Santoro said.

  “Who is Cutler?” Benedict asked.

  “Tiffany Starr knew her as Loren Parkhurst and you thought she was Myra Blankenship, but she’s the person who figured out how to nail you, Charlie.”

  Dana drove to police headquarters and gave a statement. She was finishing up when Robb and Santoro walked in.

  “Really good work, Dana,” Santoro said. “If you ever want back on the force, you’ll get a letter of recommendation from me.”

  Dana smiled. “Right now, all I want is a good night’s sleep.”

  Santoro laughed. “I hear you.”

  Dana grew somber. “It dawned on me as I was driving here that everything I’ve done in this case has been for Carrie Blair, but I only met her when she was pretending to be Margo Laurent. What was she like?”

  “She was tough,” Robb said. “Dedicated.”

  “She loved putting bad guys away and she hated to lose,” Santoro added.

  “What was she like off the job?”

  “I didn’t know her in that way,” Robb said. “When she married Horace Blair she became ‘The Society Prosecutor.’ It put a lot of people off and made a lot more uncomfortable. Most of us make a decent living, but none of us can even dream of being in her tax bracket.”

  “I think she buried herself in her work because she was unhappy,” Santoro said. “From what I hear, the marriage hadn’t worked in a long time. Of course, I got that from the gossip columns and wagging tongues in the prosecutor’s office and the cop shop.”

  “I feel sorry for her,” Robb said. “She got what most of us can only dream of getting—the money, the mansion, the fancy cars—but it didn’t seem to make her happy.”

  Dana wondered if she and Carrie would have gotten along. She guessed they might have, but she’d never know now.

  “I’m really beat,” Dana said. “Do you need me anymore?”

  “Go home and get some sleep,” Robb said. “And thanks again. We’d never have gotten Benedict if it wasn’t for you.”

  “Remember, you don’t have him yet,” Dana said. “He is one tricky bastard. Don’t let your guard down for a minute.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Frank Santoro had tried to question Benedict when they drove out of the hotel parking lot. Befo
re the first word was out of the detective’s mouth, Benedict asked for a lawyer and demanded that he not be questioned. The detectives drove in silence to the closest hospital, where his broken wrist and arm could be treated. The last thing they wanted was a motion to dismiss for police brutality.

  Charles Benedict had never taken an IQ test but anyone with near perfect SAT scores had to have a hefty amount of brain power. He began tapping into every bit of it during the drive to the hospital. By the time he arrived, Benedict had devised two plans.

  For Plan A to work, Benedict had to get out of custody. Magicians were experts at disappearing. Benedict had disappeared from Kansas City with half a million in drug money and had never been found by the Mexicans or the Kung Fu Dragons. He had planned for another escape years ago. If he could get out of jail, he would vanish into thin air. Stashed in safe places were disguises, documents that would establish false identities, and offshore accounts that would let him live in luxury.

  Plan B was his backup. It involved asking for witness protection and spilling his guts about Nikolai Orlansky’s operations. That plan could pose serious problems for his health, and he did not want to go there unless all else failed.

  At the hospital, Santoro cuffed Benedict’s good hand to the bed and the detectives watched him closely. As soon as he had doctors and nurses for witnesses, Benedict demanded that he be allowed to phone an attorney, leaving the detectives no alternative but to honor the request. Benedict called Marcus Foster and told him to meet him at the jail. He also whispered the number of his secretary, who could let Foster into Benedict’s office so that Foster could get several checks from the register in Benedict’s desk.

  Foster was waiting at police headquarters and asked to confer with Benedict as soon as the prisoner was booked in. The first thing Benedict did when the door to the interview room closed was sign one check for Foster’s retainer and a blank check to cover his bail.

  Benedict was asleep in his cell when the noise of the bars opening awakened him at 3:30 a.m. Benedict blinked at the guard.

  “You’ve been bailed out,” he said.

  Benedict’s spirits soared. In minutes, he would be out the door and into the night. Before dawn, he would be gone.

  Marcus Foster was waiting in reception. Benedict thanked him for acting so quickly. The two attorneys walked out of the jail into the crisp night air and Benedict looked up at the stars. He smiled and took a deep breath. Freedom was great!

  “Can you give me a lift?” Benedict asked his lawyer. “They took my car.”

  “Sure. I parked down the street.”

  Benedict followed Foster. Before they reached his car, a black SUV with tinted windows pulled to the curb. A very large man got out. Charlie recognized him as someone who frequented The Scene.

  “Glad to see you’re out, Charlie,” the man said as he flashed a wide smile.

  “It looks like you’ve got a ride,” Foster said. “Let’s meet at my office at noon. That will give you time to get some sleep.”

  Warning lights were flashing.

  Charlie was about to ask Foster to wait when Peter Perkovic got out of the car and pulled his jacket aside so Charlie could see his gun. When Benedict turned toward Peter, the first man slipped a needle into his neck.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “Benedict is free on bail!” Christopher Rauh screamed.

  “I have people out looking for him,” Stephanie Robb said.

  “How did he make bail so fast?” Rauh asked.

  “We took him to the hospital because his wrist and arm were broken,” Frank Santoro said. “He lawyered up while he was there. We couldn’t listen to the conversation because of the attorney-client privilege. I’m guessing he told Marcus Foster to spring him right away. Foster was at the jail in record time.”

  Rauh swore again.

  “Calm down, Chris,” Hamada said. “We’ll find him. Santoro, Robb, and I are working on the presentation to the grand jury. I’ll get a murder indictment so we can hold him without bail.”

  “Has Benedict shown up at his condo?” Rauh asked.

  “Not so far.”

  “So where is he?”

  Nikolai Orlansky knew that part of Charles Benedict’s training as a magician involved escape from restraints, so Orlansky made sure that the lawyer was gagged and confined in a straitjacket, with his ankles securely manacled to a ring embedded in the cement floor of the warehouse to which Peter Perkovic had transported him.

  Shortly after Benedict regained consciousness he realized that he had little chance of escaping. Even if he could get out of the straitjacket and the manacles, two of Nikolai’s goons were watching him.

  Benedict had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, so he had no idea how long he’d been a prisoner. He was starving, so it could have been days. He was still disoriented from the drugs that had been injected into him, so maybe that meant he’d only been out a short time, unless they’d given him more drugs. The lawyer tried calling to the men, but they ignored his muffled cries. He tried to remain calm and think of ways to escape, but nothing came to mind.

  After what seemed like hours, a door opened. The guards looked behind Benedict, who could not turn his head far enough to see what was happening. Footsteps echoing off the concrete told him that someone was drawing near. Then Nikolai was standing in front of him, with Peter Perkovic at his side.

  “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” Nikolai said with a sad shake of his head. “What a mess you are in.”

  Benedict tried to speak. Nikolai nodded to Perkovic, and Peter removed his gag.

  “What the fuck, Nikolai?” Benedict said as soon as he could generate enough saliva.

  “I am sorry, believe me,” Orlansky answered. “But you see my problem.”

  “No, I do not. I have no idea why I’m tied up in this fucking warehouse. And I’ve got to pee, so can you let me out of this S&M getup?”

  “I am also sorry for your discomfort, but it won’t last for long.”

  “What have I ever done to deserve this?”

  “It is not what you have done, although I do have a bone to pick with you about the way you treated Gregor. No, Charlie, it is what you might do that troubles me.

  “Peter has been keeping me apprised of the police investigation into several murders. You are in trouble, Charlie. The authorities have an open-and-shut case against you for trying to murder a woman in that hotel parking lot last night, and there is considerable evidence that you framed Horace Blair for the murder of his wife, which suggests that you were the person who murdered her.”

  “They can’t prove I killed anyone.”

  Nikolai nodded. “You are very skilled at covering your tracks, but there may be too many tracks this time. If I were in your shoes I would cut a deal. I would tell all you know about my activities in exchange for freedom.”

  “I’d never rat you out,” Benedict stated emphatically. “Look, Nikolai, I’ve got an escape plan. If your men hadn’t kidnapped me I’d be gone by now and no one would ever find me.”

  “The world has changed, Charlie. If they can find bin Laden, they can find you. When they find you, the authorities will be pissed off that you gave them such a hard time. They will want to make you pay for wasting taxpayer money on the manhunt that could have financed education, or higher pay for politicians, so they will want to see you on death row. They will want blood, Charlie.”

  “Jesus, Nikolai, we’re friends. I’d never sell you out.”

  “I don’t doubt that you are sincere now, but will you still feel this way when you are facing a death sentence? I like to think the best of people, but I cannot take the chance that I might be wrong, because I do not want to pay for my crimes. So I must hope for the best but plan for the worst.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “I have to, but I really do like you, so I will make sure your end will be painless. So long, Charlie.”

  “Wait!” Charlie said, but Nikolai gave terse orders to the two guards and
walked away.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Horace Blair sat in his breakfast nook and looked out at his garden. He had been out of jail for a week and today would be his first day in the office. Everything had happened very quickly after Benedict was fired. Soon after, Jack Pratt and Bobby Schatz had come to his cell with Rick Hamada to tell him that Charles Benedict was under arrest, and that he was a free man. He had left the jail in a daze, not really believing that his ordeal was finally over.

  Horace wanted to thank Dana Cutler, but he had not seen her since Pratt brought the private investigator to the jail. She had made it clear during her visit that she was acting for Carrie and did not want to be paid. But he would figure out a way to let her know how much he appreciated what she had done for him.

  Blair’s ordeal had taken a lot out of him. Anger had kept him going much of the time while he’d been locked up, but he felt as if he had only a limited supply of energy, and fighting for his freedom had drained most of the tank. When he took a bite out of his croissant it tasted like cardboard. He set it down half-eaten. He had no appetite. When he woke up at five he had thought about swimming, but he didn’t have the energy for it so he’d stayed in bed for another hour. He’d given his newspapers a cursory read, but he couldn’t concentrate. The garden, which usually gave him joy, now left him cold.

  An image of Carrie invaded his thoughts and suddenly he was choking up. He had not loved Carrie for some time, but he had always cared for her. It made him sad to think that she had died young and in such a terrible way. He could not imagine how she felt when Charles Benedict snuffed out the vibrant flame that animated her, and he prayed that her death had been mercifully swift and free of suffering.

  Horace’s eyes filled with tears. He could not remember the last time he had cried. Was he crying for Carrie or himself? Maybe he was crying for both. He was one of the most powerful men in America but he did not feel powerful. He felt old, empty, and alone, and he had no one with whom he could share these feelings.