Black Magic

by Steven Henry

  “Are you Bernard Grimes, the father of Kathy Grimes?”

  There was another pause. “Yeah,” he said cautiously. “What’s going on? What’d Kat do now? Do I need to bring a lawyer in on this? Christ, you know how much that girl’s cost us, legal fees alone?”

  Erin closed her eyes. “Mr. Grimes, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. There was an... incident at the magic show last night. One of the stage props malfunctioned. I’m afraid Kathy was killed.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Kathy was killed, pretty much instantly.” That was a lie, but a comforting one.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sir?”

  “Are... are you sure it’s her?”

  “She was identified by her employer, Mr. Whitaker,” Erin said. “We also have a fingerprint confirmation from...”

  “From her criminal record,” Mr. Grimes sighed. He sounded like he’d just taken a pretty hard hit to the stomach. “This is gonna break Loretta’s heart. I didn’t mean it, what I just said. We do love that girl, no matter how much crap she put us through.”

  “Mr. Grimes? I’m sorry to ask this, but do you know anyone who might have had a reason to hurt Kathy?”

  “I... I don’t understand. I thought you said there was an accident.”

  “It’s being investigated as a homicide, sir.”

  “How... how did she...” He couldn’t finish the question.

  “Do you know what Kathy’s job was?” she asked, looking for a way to avoid answering that. There were some details Kathy’s parents really did not want to know.

  “Yeah. She works for that magician, helping him with his magic tricks.”

  “What do you know about her work?”

  “We went to see her once, when they were in Detroit.” Mr. Grimes’s voice took on a heavy layer of disgust.

  “Only the once?”

  “Back before I was married, I went out to a club once with some of the guys,” he said. “I saw goddamn strippers wearing more clothes than my daughter had on that stage. I couldn’t believe it. It was the most humiliating moment of my life. Yeah, even worse than seeing her in court. Of course I didn’t go see her again.”

  Erin wasn’t quite sure where to go from there. “I’m sorry,” she said for what felt like the tenth time in the conversation. “Were you in close contact with your daughter?”

  “No.” Now Mr. Grimes just sounded worn out. “We had an argument after that show. I told her what I thought of her job. I was pissed off and I let her know it. She blew up and told me that at least she had a job. I was laid off, see. Been out of work the last couple years, living off unemployment. I used to work the line for General Motors. The job went overseas. You know how it is.”

  “Do you know if she knew anyone in New York?”

  “She said something to Loretta about a new boyfriend, I think.”

  Erin’s heart jumped. “Do you know his name?”

  “No. She wasn’t talking to me.”

  “Can I speak with Loretta, please?”

  “She’s at work.”

  “Would you please have her call me as soon as possible?”

  “Yeah, of course.” Mr. Grimes cleared his throat. “Uh, Detective, I don’t really know what we’re supposed to do now. Do you need us to come out there? Or can someone ship the, uh... How does this work, anyway?”

  “We’ve got a victim-assistance coordinator,” Erin said. “I’ll put you in touch with their office. They’ll help you through the process.”

  They stumbled through the rest of the call, exchanging the necessary contact info. Mr. Grimes wanted to know more, but there wasn’t much she could tell him, and what she did know, she was sure he didn’t want to hear. When the call ended, she was left wondering whether Kathy Grimes’s death had been more of a tragedy or a nuisance for him.

  Her mood wasn’t improved by the next thing on her plate. She had to go down to the morgue to get the preliminary report from the Medical Examiner. It was a good thing to do before noon. Better to lose her appetite than her lunch.

  It wasn’t the gruesome sights that got to Erin; it was the smells. The mix of lab chemicals and death was uniquely awful. Sometimes the cops on TV used Vicks Vaporub to kill the stink, but that didn’t really work. There was nothing on Earth you could put under your nose to keep out the smell of a dead body. You just had to get used to it.

  Levine was living proof that it was possible to deal with the stink. She’d obviously been there all night. She’d changed out of her New Year’s dress into her scrubs and lab coat, but she hadn’t bothered to take her hair out of its fancy styling or wash off her makeup. It made for a strange visual.

  “So, what’d they drag you away from last night?” Erin asked.

  Levine looked blank.

  Erin reminded herself that the other woman considered it her true calling to examine bodies. She might just as well have asked Levine if getting invited to parties ever dragged her away from crime scenes. “Where were you when you got the call?” she tried instead. “You said it was a party. What kind of thing?”

  “Oh. I was out with Jasper.”

  Erin let that sit for a few moments, waiting for Levine to elaborate, then gave up. “Who’s Jasper?”

  “My fiancé.”

  “I didn’t know you were engaged.”

  Levine didn’t say anything.

  “So,” Erin said when she felt the silence becoming uncomfortable. “What’ve you got on the Grimes woman?”

  “The bloodwork came back clean,” Levine said. “No drugs, toxins, or alcohol. Cause of death was longitudinal bisection of the abdomen and thorax, as anticipated. The autopsy was somewhat simplified due to the nature of the injury, as the standard Y-incision was redundant.” She gestured toward the table.

  Erin really didn’t want to look. She gave it as brief a glance as she felt she could get away with. “Yeah, I get it.”

  “The procedure was straightforward,” Levine went on. “I didn’t notice anything out of place. There was some bruising around the wrists and ankles, but I consider that to be due to the restraints I observed on the victim’s extremities at the scene.”

  “She tried to pull loose,” Erin said quietly. “When she realized what was happening.” She swallowed. “How long did it take?”

  “The massive drop in blood pressure would have caused rapid shock,” Levine said. “I expect the victim lost consciousness in a matter of no more than twenty seconds, probably less.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I swabbed the wound and found some foreign matter, but it appears to have been introduced during the incident.” Levine shrugged. “This wasn’t a mysterious death. She died exactly the way it looked.”

  “Right, thanks,” Erin said and got out of there. The smell was getting harder to bear.

  Chapter 4

  As expected, visiting the morgue had pretty much killed Erin’s appetite, but she still wanted to get out of the precinct at lunchtime. The brisk January air was a nice change from the stuffy Major Crimes office, and definitely an improvement over the blood and formaldehyde in the basement. She took Rolf for a walk while she tried to think.

  She kept remembering the scene on the theater stage, kept imagining what those last moments must have been like for Kathy Grimes. One minute it was all fun and games, a magic trick; the next, she was dying in front of hundreds of people, and by the time anyone realized what was happening, it was already too late. Who the hell could do such a thing?

  Erin was a career cop who’d spent eleven years working Patrol before earning her gold shield. She had good instincts that had kept her alive. It was an indicator of how preoccupied she was that she’d gone a good block and a half from the precinct before she realized she was being followed.

  In fairness, it wasn’t that obvious. Downtown Manhattan at noon was full of people, even on New Year’s Day, with half the populace nursing hangovers and catching up on sleep. Erin was just one of h
undreds of pedestrians on the street. At least half a dozen other dogs were getting lunchtime walks within view. And that wasn’t even taking into account the cars, taxis, and delivery trucks on the street.

  Still, she was being followed. She knew it with the sudden tingle on the back of her neck that every good street officer learned not to ignore.

  Erin didn’t panic. She unzipped her jacket, in spite of the cold, so she could get to her Glock in a hurry if she needed it. She shifted her hand on Rolf’s leash. She could turn him loose with a single quick flick and a word.

  Then she started working her environment. One of the assets of being in an urban setting was all the reflective surfaces. Shop windows were best, but parked cars had windows and rear-view mirrors. She started using them to check behind her, making sure to keep her motions casual, trying to catch a glimpse of her shadow.

  Until she made him, she was still wondering if she was just indulging her paranoia. But then she saw the man and recognized him.

  She’d seen him once or twice before. He was O’Malley muscle. He’d been one of Carlyle’s bodyguards, and it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that he was walking down the same Manhattan street she was, keeping within about twenty yards of her.

  Now that she’d seen him, Erin decided it was about time to turn the tables on these Irish Mob goons. When she got to the next corner, she turned, took a few steps, then spun around and came right back. She’d timed it well. Her tail was less than ten feet from her and coming on fast. They made eye contact.

  He had a hard face, with a military buzz-cut that showed a thin scar just over one ear. He wasn’t much taller than Erin and almost as lightly built, but he looked dangerous. His eyes were calm, almost expressionless. Killer’s eyes.

  He paused. Then he quietly said, “Excuse me, ma’am,” and started walking around her.

  Erin looked at his hands. They were empty and in plain view, which was good. “Hold on,” she said, sidestepping to block him. A couple of New Yorkers hesitated, glancing at them, but most of the bystanders kept on about their business.

  He stopped. “Yes, ma’am?” He seemed completely relaxed. That was either a good sign, or a very bad one.

  Erin didn’t know quite what to say. She fell back on a line from a movie. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  He finally looked startled. Then he gave her just a hint of a smile. She realized he was younger than she’d thought, mid-twenties at the oldest. “That’d be nice, ma’am.”

  In downtown Manhattan it was hard to be more than a couple hundred yards from a coffee shop. She led the way to the closest one, keeping an eye on him just in case. He wasn’t making any aggressive moves, but she knew better than to turn her back. Once inside, she flashed her shield to the barista, ensuring she’d have no trouble about Rolf. Erin ordered a cup of coffee, cream with no sugar. Her companion took his black. She found a two-person table by the window. Rolf sat beside Erin and kept an eye on the guy.

  “So,” she said. “You got a name?”

  “Thompson, ma’am. Ian Thompson.”

  “You’re former military, aren’t you.” The haircut, the way he talked, the scars, all pointed to it.

  “Yes, ma’am. Marine Corps.”

  “What’d you do in the Corps?”

  “Scout Sniper, ma’am. Sergeant.”

  “What’re you doing working for Carlyle?”

  If that surprised him, he didn’t show it. “My job, ma’am.”

  “And you’re riding my ass. Is that for my protection, or Carlyle’s?”

  Ian took a sip of his coffee. “Making sure you’re okay, ma’am. I didn’t intend to interfere. No excuse, ma’am.”

  Erin stared at him. “What are you, a babysitter?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What, exactly, is your relationship with Morton Carlyle?”

  “He’s my employer.”

  She was surprised to hear him admit it. Most mob associates would deny connection with other wise guys. “What’s your job description?”

  “Personal security, ma’am. Bodyguard.”

  “Then why aren’t you guarding him?”

  “I’m on special assignment.”

  “You carrying?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You got a permit?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Unrestricted Concealed Carry.”

  “Bullshit.” Pretty much the only people who got that kind of permit in New York City were cops, or retired cops. Even the National Guard couldn’t carry guns off-duty in Erin’s city.

  “I have the permit, ma’am,” Ian said. “Want to see it?”

  “Yeah. Careful.” Erin’s hand went inside her jacket to rest next to her Glock.

  Ian slowly took out his wallet and pulled the paperwork, handing it across the table. Erin scanned it. It looked legitimate.

  “What are you carrying?” she asked.

  “Beretta 92. What do you carry, ma’am?”

  “Glock nine-millimeter,” Erin said, too surprised to say anything but the truth.

  “That’s a good gun,” Ian said. “And this is good coffee. Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You can earn it by telling Carlyle something for me.”

  “What’s that, ma’am?”

  Erin gritted her teeth. “Tell him I don’t need a goddamn babysitter. I don’t need his goons tripping over me. If he’s got something he wants to say to me, he knows where I am. Otherwise, tell him to stay the hell out of my way.”

  Ian didn’t flinch. Erin noticed more scars on his knuckles where his fingers were wrapped around his coffee cup. “I’ll tell him what you said, ma’am,” he said calmly. “But Mr. Carlyle’s worried. I think...”

  “What?”

  Ian looked straight into her eyes. “He’d like to make things right.”

  Erin stood up. “Then that’s on him, not you. So if you keep following me, Ian, I’ll assume you’re stalking me. Which is, of course, a felony.”

  Ian stood up. “You won’t see me, ma’am. Thank you again for the coffee.” Then he walked out of the coffee shop and disappeared into the Manhattan crowd.

  “What happened to you?” Vic asked.

  “Nothing,” Erin said. She checked the break room and found half a glazed donut, only a little stale. She took it, went across the office to her desk, and dropped into her chair. Rolf took up his usual place on his carpet square next to her.

  “Bullshit. What’s wrong?” He spun his chair to face hers.

  “What makes you think anything’s wrong?”

  “For starters, people who’re fine never say that.”

  Erin wanted to slug him. “Before I said that,” she growled.

  “You checked your six when you came in the door.”

  “Like hell I did.” But he was right. She’d reflexively glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was following.

  “Whatever.” Vic shrugged and turned back to his desk, pretending not to care.

  “Where’s Webb?” she asked.

  “Talking to Whitaker again.”

  “What do we do till he gets back?”

  “Wipe out street crime in Manhattan. Got any suggestions?”

  “Just the two of us? I say we wait for the ice caps to melt and flood all the streets.”

  “Wouldn’t work,” Vic said. “Venice has street crime, I’ll bet.”

  “Gondola hijackings?”

  “I want to deal with that shit, I’ll join the Harbor Patrol,” he said. “Right now, I’m studying machinery. Trying to figure out who might be able to rig up a stunt like they did on that power saw.”

  “I guess I’ll keep digging on the victim,” she said.

  But that turned out to be a lie. Erin tried to work on the case, but she kept thinking about Carlyle and the O’Malleys. After trying and failing to put it out of her mind, she pulled up Ian Thompson’s records.

  Ian was twenty-six and came from Queens, just a few blocks from the house where Erin had grown up. She found an o
bit for his mom and arrest reports for his dad, a whole slew of DUIs and disorderly conduct collars. It was a typical sort of background for a mob associate. Happy families didn’t tend to produce mobsters.

  What was surprising was what she didn’t find. Ian’s record was a total blank from age thirteen to eighteen. As a general rule, if a guy was connected to organized crime, he’d done some jail time. The most unusual thing about Carlyle was that he’d never been arrested in the United States. Every one of his associates had been busted for something... except Ian Thompson. The only thing she was able to dig up on him was some piddling juvenile-delinquent stuff. When he’d been twelve, he’d beaten up a couple other kids in a playground fight that’d left one in the hospital with a greenstick fracture.

  The juvenile record had been sealed when he turned eighteen, of course, but something most people didn’t realize was that law-enforcement officers could still get at sealed records. The protection was for employment applications, housing, that sort of thing. If he’d been arrested for anything at all, it’d be in the database, and it wasn’t. Either he’d been a regular choirboy for five years straight, or someone had illegally scrubbed the records.

  Erin frowned and kept looking. She moved on to his military records at the National Archives. He’d been telling the truth about the Marine Corps. He’d been inducted just after his high-school graduation and done a tour in Iraq right out of boot camp. That deployment earned him a bronze star and a promotion to corporal. When he’d gotten back to the States, he’d volunteered for Scout Sniper training. Then he’d gone on another tour, to Afghanistan this time. She didn’t find much detail on that, but there was one thing that grabbed her attention.

  “What’ve you got there?”

  Erin jumped. She hadn’t noticed Webb come in. She fought the guilty urge to shut the database window. “Got some background on a mob guy,” she said.

  “Wait a second,” Webb said. “You think Grimes was a mob hit?”

  “No, but I ran into this kinda shady guy over lunch,” she said. “I wanted to check him out.”