Black Magic

by Steven Henry

  “Well, let’s have a look,” the Lieutenant said, coming around her desk. He started reading out loud. “The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star Medal to Ian F. Thompson, Sergeant, U.S. Marine Corps, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against the enemy as a Scout Sniper...” He looked up. “This guy’s a hero, O’Reilly. You sure he’s mobbed up?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Webb looked back at the screen. “Following the destruction of his squad’s helicopter during a nighttime operation in Kandahar Province,” he continued, “Sergeant Thompson rescued a badly wounded fellow Marine. Pursued by a force of at least thirty enemy combatants, and assisting his wounded comrade, Sergeant Thompson successfully evaded the enemy and, over the following four days, crossed over one hundred kilometers of enemy-occupied territory on foot, engaging the enemy on two separate occasions and inflicting an estimated thirteen enemy casualties. Sergeant Thompson had virtually no ammunition, supplies, or rest during this time. Sergeant Thompson saved his fellow Marine’s life. His courage, dedication to duty, and determination were in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.”

  “Damn,” Vic said. “You met this guy?”

  “Yeah,” Erin said, sitting back and staring at her computer.

  “You want some advice? Don’t piss him off.”

  “Yeah,” she said again, wondering why a man like that would be working for Carlyle, and why Carlyle had ordered him to keep an eye on her.

  “Well, now you’ve looked up the guy you met on your lunch break,” Webb said. “If you’d care to do some actual detective work, the Great Ronaldo has given us a suspect.”

  “Who?” Erin asked.

  “The Amazing Lucien.”

  “Seriously?” Vic asked. “Did we step into a bad comic book?”

  “Apparently he has the other big magic act in town,” Webb said dryly. “He and Whitaker don’t get along.”

  “So he saws up Whitaker’s assistant?” Erin asked. “I don’t buy it.”

  “It seems the victim was romantically involved with Lucien,” Webb explained.

  “That’s more promising,” she agreed. “Her dad told me she had a boyfriend, but he didn’t have a name for me.”

  “Let’s go talk to him,” Webb said. “Neshenko, mind the shop here.”

  Vic sighed. “Sure thing, boss. Do I get any time off for good behavior?”

  “That depends,” Erin couldn’t resist saying. “Have you ever done anything that qualifies as good behavior?”

  Chapter 5

  “I bet that’s not hurting our guy’s business any,” Erin said. The Amazing Lucien was performing at the theater directly across the street from The Great Ronaldo’s venue. She and Webb could see the police tape on the entrance to the other building.

  “They’re not the only two shows in town,” Webb said. “But that’s another motive, yeah. Taking out the competition.”

  “You think Whitaker’s ever gonna go back on the stage?” Erin asked.

  Webb snorted. “Even if he gets out of the legal trouble, the insurance premiums would kill him.”

  “Lucien’s here?” Erin asked as they arrived at the theater door. “His show doesn’t start until evening.”

  “I called his hotel,” Webb said. “This is where they said he’d be.” He opened the door to the lobby.

  A uniformed footman appeared, almost as if he’d been part of the magic show. “I’m sorry, sir. Doors don’t open until—”

  Webb put his shield in front of the man’s face. “Lieutenant Webb, NYPD. This is Detective O’Reilly. We’re here to talk to Lucien.”

  “He’s backstage, I think,” the footman said, suddenly nervous. “But he’s given specific instructions not to be disturbed.”

  “You don’t need to point me to him, then,” Webb said. “Just escort us backstage.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant?”

  “That would be true if we were searching for something,” Webb said. “But this location isn’t a crime scene... is it?”

  The footman’s face twitched. “Of course not! At least, I don’t think so. Is it?” He looked suddenly very young.

  “I’ve got no reason to think so,” Webb said, giving him a slight smile. “So there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay,” the man said doubtfully. “What about the dog?”

  “NYPD K-9,” Erin said. “What about him?”

  The footman looked at her, then at the German Shepherd, and decided not to make an issue of it. “Okay,” he said again. “This way.”

  He led them through an employee entrance and down a back hallway. They came out through another door into a space full of wooden crates and strange-looking pieces of equipment. Nobody else was in sight.

  Webb and Erin stood there, looking around. Rolf looked at Erin for instructions. The footman made himself scarce, backing through the door they’d come from.

  “Who disturbs the Amazing Lucien?” a deep bass voice boomed out. It sounded like it was coming from a shadowy corner. Erin saw a silhouette of a man there.

  “Sir,” Webb said, stepping toward the corner. “I’m Lieutenant Webb, NYPD. I just need to ask—”

  “The Amazing Lucien demands that you look at him while addressing him!” the voice said sternly. Now it was coming from behind them. The silhouette slipped and caved in on itself like an empty bedsheet.

  Erin spun around and reflexively dropped a hand to the grip of her Glock. Webb stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Okay,” Webb said. “You’ve had your fun. Are you ready to act like a grown-up now?”

  “The Amazing Lucien will not be mocked!” the voice called. It had changed location again, and was behind them once more.

  Erin was done with this. “Rolf, such,” she said, giving the dog his “search” command. The Shepherd obediently put his nose to the concrete floor, snuffled a couple of times, and angled sharply left, Erin on his heels. He went around the back of a big crate and barked sharply, indicating he’d found someone.

  Erin hurried after her dog and found herself face to face with a tall, good-looking man in a white button-down shirt and black slacks. He gave her a showman’s grin with a mouthful of straight, white teeth.

  “Okay, Detective,” he said in a more normal voice, raising his hands theatrically. “You’ve got me. Red-handed.” He twisted his right wrist and somehow, without Erin quite seeing how he did it, he was holding a red rose. He held it out to her, still smiling.

  She didn’t smile back. Cops didn’t like it when people did unexpected things with their hands. “Cute trick,” she said. “You’d be the Amazing Lucien?”

  “Eager to astound and amaze you,” he said, bowing slightly. “And well done. Illusions of the eye and ear are no match for such a discerning nose.”

  Webb caught up with Erin and glared at Lucien. “If you’re done jerking us around, sir, we need to talk to you.”

  The magician continued smiling. “Of course. But remember, misdirection and deception are my stock in trade.”

  “I’ve heard of those,” Erin said. “I think we call them obstruction of justice.”

  Webb sighed. “Let’s start with your name. Your real name, please.”

  “It’s true what they say,” the magician said with a sigh of his own. “The police really do suck all the fun out of everything. I suppose if you were supposed to have a sense of humor, the department would have issued it to you with your badges and guns. But if that’s the way you want it, here.” He held out a plastic card in his left hand.

  Erin blinked. She hadn’t even seen his hand move.

  Webb took the card and held it up, trying to catch the light of the overhead bulbs. Erin came forward and saw it was a Michigan state driver’s license in the name Louis Miller.

  “Thank you, Mr. Miller,” Webb said. “Now, can you tell us the nature of your relationship with Kathy Grimes?”

  “Kathy Grimes,” Miller repe
ated. He stroked his chin with one hand. Then he snapped the fingers of his other hand. A flurry of sparks showered from his hand. “Yes, of course. She went by Kat. With a purr to match. And the claws, unfortunately.”

  “Were you romantically involved with her?” Webb asked.

  “Romantically?” Miller laughed quietly. “No, I would hardly call it that.”

  “What would you call it?” Erin asked.

  “A great many things,” he said. “I suppose a dance of mutual attraction is the most appropriate description.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Are you using the word in its literal or colloquial sense?”

  “Literal.”

  He smiled again. “I suppose that question was irrelevant, because my previous answer remains unchanged. I saw her the night before last, sometime after midnight.”

  “Did she act unusual?” Webb asked.

  “Not by her standards.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Erin asked.

  “If your Lieutenant Webb, for example, were to exhibit similar behavior in my presence, I would find it unusual,” Miller said. “I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough to predict your actions, Detective.”

  “Do you know why anyone might want to harm her?” Webb asked.

  “Ah,” Miller said with an expression of sudden understanding. “You must be here about the unfortunate incident last night.”

  Webb gave him a slow, hard look. “You strike me as a fairly intelligent man, Mr. Miller,” he said.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “What he means,” Erin put in, “is that we recognize bullshit when we smell it, the same way my dog does.”

  “Then I hope never to have you on my stage as a volunteer,” Miller said with that same flashy, showman’s grin. “It seems you’ve caught me again. I did know why you were here. And yes, in the magicians’ fraternity, we do keep a close eye on one another. I was aware of the accident, and I do understand that dear Kat, being unfortunately gifted with only one life rather than nine, is best spoken of in the nostalgic past tense.”

  “You don’t seem very broken up about it,” Erin said.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase, ‘the show must go on.’”

  “Even when your girlfriend got sawed in half?”

  “Your hearing is not on par with your sense of smell,” Miller said. “As I said, the late Miss Grimes and I were not romantically entangled.”

  “Just physically,” Webb said.

  “Exactly,” Miller said. “A not uncommon state of affairs. No pun intended, of course.”

  “So, just to be clear,” Webb said. “You’re not sorry she’s dead?”

  “If it were performed on stage,” Miller said, “your leap of logic would require a safety net. I regret her demise, though I always thought the power saw stunt was needlessly dangerous. The safety protocols were slipshod. That was an accident waiting to happen.”

  “You sure it was an accident?” Erin asked.

  Miller’s smile was more genuine for a moment. “Detective O’Reilly,” he said. “I’ve been a magician since I was sixteen. I can assure you, whatever happened on that stage, it was not what it appeared to be.”

  “Funny,” she said. “Because it appeared a woman got cut in half with a buzzsaw. You saying that’s not what happened?”

  “I wasn’t there,” he said. “I’m only saying, there’s more to this sort of thing than meets the eye.”

  “Is he our guy, O’Reilly?” Webb asked.

  Erin stuck her hands in her pockets and suppressed a shiver. The January air whistled through the artificial canyons of Manhattan and stung her face. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’d like him to be.”

  Webb shook a cigarette out of its pack and lit up. “Goddamn Smoke Free Air Act,” he muttered. “Can’t smoke indoors in this crazy city. I’m gonna catch pneumonia and die.”

  “I think the law’s intended to protect your lungs,” she said.

  “Ironic,” he said. “But my lungs are a lost cause. The law’s intended to protect yours.”

  “Miller’s an asshole,” she said. “But we can’t arrest him for that.”

  “He’s got motive,” Webb said. “And he probably has the knowhow. He knows theater layout, and he just proved to us he can move around backstage. He’s our best suspect so far. But you’re right, we can’t arrest him yet. We’d just end up turning him loose.”

  Erin sighed. “No kidding. We could hold him for forty-eight hours, put him in interrogation, see if he cracks.”

  “You think he’ll crack?”

  “Not likely.”

  “I don’t either. Something wrong, O’Reilly?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You keep looking around like you’re expecting to get mugged.”

  “Just a little jumpy, sir.”

  Webb turned to look her in the eye. “How are you holding up, Detective?”

  She looked straight back. “I’m fine, sir.”

  Chapter 6

  The first thing Erin did when she got home at the end of her shift was to lock the door behind her. The second thing she did was pour herself a shot of whiskey. As the liquor burned down her throat into her stomach, she fed Rolf. Then she dropped onto the couch.

  She felt empty and frustrated. The stupid, senseless waste of Kathy Grimes’s death ate into her. People wanted to feel like their lives meant something. Their deaths, too. But cops knew better. Plenty of people lived pointless lives and died even more pointless deaths. But to die like that, chopped to pieces in front of a crowd of people, was worse than meaningless. It was obscene.

  Erin couldn’t tell whether the whiskey was making it easier or harder to think, so she got up and poured herself another. She stared at the amber liquid and reconstructed the crime scene in her memory. She saw the theater in her mind’s eye, tried to remember the pattern of the blood, the way the body had been laid out. She remembered the stage props, the dungeon apparatus.

  “Theater effects,” she muttered.

  Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t taken that drink. She was right on the edge of figuring it out. It was right there, but she was too tired, too burned out. Other thoughts kept sneaking in, too, like a certain Irishman she’d been trying to put behind her. She put down her drink and rubbed her temples.

  The knock on her door sent all her thoughts scampering for cover, like roaches in a kitchen when someone turned on the lights. Erin jumped to her feet. Rolf was up on his paws, too, staring at the door, ears perked.

  Erin’s apartment had a security door at the front. A visitor should’ve called up for her to buzz them in.

  She drew her Glock and checked the chamber. Rolf picked up on her body language. His hackles rose. A low growl started deep in his chest.

  Erin checked the peephole in the door. She was expecting some sort of trouble. But she wasn’t expecting quite as much trouble as she saw.

  Morton Carlyle stood in her hallway, alone. He was as neatly dressed as ever, in his customary charcoal suit and tie.

  “What the hell do you want, Carlyle?” she called through the door.

  “I’d like to speak with you, Erin. Preferably face to face.”

  She leaned against the door and tried to figure what to do. “Shit,” she whispered. She glanced at the pistol in her hand. Carlyle’s hands were empty. Besides, she wasn’t scared of him. At least, not that way. She holstered the Glock. Then she took a deep breath and unlocked the door.

  She opened it about halfway, making no move to step out of his way. Seeing his face, up close, brought a flood of memories, not all of them unwelcome. She saw the familiar look in his eye, remembered the hours of conversation, the secrets and dangers they’d faced together, their friendship. And she couldn’t help remembering the feel of his skin, the scent of him, the taste of his lips.

  Erin’s jaw tightened. “Okay,” she said. “Why are you here?”
<
br />   He smiled slightly. “You told me to come.”

  “The hell I did.”

  “Perhaps Ian didn’t recall your words correctly,” he said. “But the lad’s a fine scout. I hardly think he’d make an error on such a matter. You told him if I’d something to say, I knew where to find you.”

  “I blocked your goddamn phone,” she growled. “Didn’t that tell you anything?”

  He nodded. “Aye, it told me you didn’t trust yourself to talk to me.”

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “Perhaps you’d some doubts about how things stood.”

  “Or maybe I didn’t trust myself not to tear your damn head off. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t thinking, darling. Were you?”

  “No! But you’re always thinking, always playing an angle. What’s the angle here, Carlyle? You like getting cozy with a detective?”

  He wasn’t smiling any longer. “If I’d thought my attentions unwelcome, I’d not have pressed them upon you.”

  “You’ve got a hit man stalking me!”

  “Ian’s no hit man, Erin,” Carlyle said, and for the first time he showed a trace of anger. “He’s a friend and a good lad. I trust him with my life.”

  “Why the hell was he following me?”

  “I’ve been worried about you. You blocked my calls, you stopped coming to the Corner. I used to see you most days until our last encounter. Then you dropped off the Earth. I apologize if I hurt you. That was never my intention.”

  “So you expect me to believe he was protecting me?”

  “That’s what Ian does,” Carlyle said. “He protects people.”

  “How long has he been shadowing me?”

  “Only the past few days. I’d been wondering about you for a while, but I’d no wish to crowd you.”

  “How do you know him, anyway? He’s got no record. He’s a damn war hero. What’s he got to do with you?”

  “I’d be happy to explain, but perhaps we could do it more comfortably? It’s hardly proper to talk across a doorway.”

  “Give me one good reason to let you in.”