by Steven Henry
The clerk at the Hilton was surly and unhelpful until Erin showed her shield. Then he became surly but cooperative. As far as he knew, Louis Miller was still in the building, in his suite on the forty-fourth floor. “It’s fine to bring your pet in,” he added, “but you can’t leave him unattended.”
“I don’t see any pets here,” Erin retorted and led her dog to the elevators.
She was glad it was January Second, and not the First. Times Square wasn’t a cop’s favorite place to be on New Year’s. Bits of confetti nestled in the corners of the elevator, waiting for the overworked custodial staff to finish cleaning up after the biggest party of the year. As she waited for the elevator to reach the appointed floor, she leaned against the wall and pressed the bridge of her nose with her fingers. So far, the year was turning out to be one long hangover.
Maybe the Lincoln hadn’t been following her. And that guy in the second car had only been visible for a second. He might’ve been some random New Yorker who looked a little like Ian Thompson. Besides, the Irish Mob wasn’t about to whack a police detective in the middle of Manhattan in broad daylight. That would be insane.
She tried to concentrate on the job at hand. Miller was a slippery son of a bitch, and she’d need to be on her A-game to keep up with him. She organized her thoughts as best she could, squared her shoulders, and watched the numbers on the elevator.
Erin knocked on the door to the King Deluxe Suite, wondering for a moment what it would cost to spend a night there. Hundreds of dollars, naturally. Everything in Manhattan cost hundreds of dollars.
After a short pause, the door swung open to reveal Louis Miller in an honest-to-God crimson silk bathrobe. He’d obviously just stepped out of the shower. Erin saw a thin haze of steam in the air, and his hair was still wet. He gave her his best showman’s smile, all straight white teeth and dark, intense eyes.
“What a surprise,” he said. “If it isn’t Detective... O’Reilly, unless I’m mistaken. And woman’s best friend at her side. I can only imagine what brings you to my door. Come in, please, and do forgive my... ah, disheveled state. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I thought magicians could see the future,” she said, stepping inside and reflexively checking the corners of the room. No one else was there. The living room was well furnished, with panoramic windows offering a great view of Times Square. Far below, a few workmen still scurried around, sweeping up the remains of New Year’s Eve while the business of the city went on around them.
“Perhaps I can,” Miller laughed. “But I don’t think I should tell you your future.”
“Why’s that?” she asked, moving to the bedroom doorway and making sure that room was empty, too.
“You seem the sort who would do the opposite of what I said, simply to prove me wrong,” he said, still smiling.
“You told me you were sixteen when you took up magic,” she said. “Why’d you start?”
“I wished to unlock the secrets of the mystical universe and initiate myself into its underlying truth.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
His smile became more self-deprecating. “Well, that, and I wanted to impress a girl in study hall.”
That got an answering smile from her. “What tricks did you learn?”
“Oh, all sorts,” he said. “I bought a book of sleight-of-hand. You know, making coins pop out of ears, pulling scarves out of sleeves, that sort of thing. Simple tricks, not needing much in the way of props.”
“Did they work?”
“Oh yes, definitely.” Miller’s eyes took on a dreamy cast, remembering. “Mindy Cartwright,” he said. “I took her to the Homecoming Dance in eleventh grade. That night I learned there were all kinds of magic, and I’d only scratched the surface.”
“Want to show me a trick?”
“Would it impress you?”
“Try me.”
Miller nodded and held up a finger on his left hand. “I’d be delighted. But just a moment. You’ve caught me a little unprepared. Let’s see...” He made an exaggerated show of patting the pockets of his robe. “Ah, here we are!” He snapped the fingers of his right hand. A cigar appeared between his index and middle fingers. He held it out toward her.
“I don’t smoke,” Erin said. “And it’s not allowed here.”
“Hmm, you’re right,” Miller said. He raised it to his lips. “But maybe just a puff. If I have a light...” A gold cigarette lighter appeared in his other hand. He flicked it, but instead of a flame, a small cloud of multicolored sparks popped and fizzled out the top. Erin blinked, and saw the cigar had been replaced by a carrot.
“Much healthier, you’d agree,” he said, spinning it around in his hand and offering it to her.
“You’re quick,” she said, looking at the carrot. It was, indeed, a carrot.
“Not particularly,” he said. “Speed isn’t the point. The point is misdirection.”
“I was watching the wrong hand,” she said, understanding.
He grinned. “The point of every magic trick is for the audience to be watching the wrong thing. However, this is crucial, they need to think they’re watching the right thing. People have to imagine they’ve seen something miraculous, not simply missed the moment. It’s all smooth showmanship, Detective. I suppose it’s the exact opposite of what you do.”
“And what’s that?”
“You seek to dispel deception. I encourage it. You want answers. I enjoy making people ask questions. Would you like something to drink?”
“Thanks, but I’m on duty.”
“Very well,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just fix one for myself.” He went to the minibar and deftly mixed himself a cocktail, using ingredients from the bar and a few things from a brown paper bag on the table. He came up with a drink that was a very unusual color, a sort of sparkly black.
“What’s that?” she couldn’t help asking.
“Black magic,” he said with a smile. “You want to try one?”
“What’s in it?”
“I can’t tell you. Trade secret.”
“In that case, no thanks.”
He settled himself into an armchair and sipped his drink. “You want to ask questions, I want you to ask them.”
“I want you to answer them,” she corrected.
His smile showed just a hint of teeth between his lips. “Maybe we’ll both get what we want.”
“What do you think of Ron Whitaker?”
“The Great Ronaldo? He’s a good technical magician, but he trusts his toys a little too much.”
“How do you mean?”
“He relies on gadgets more than on stagecraft and showmanship. He lacks flair and substitutes for it with dangerous stunts. It really was only a matter of time before some awful mishap occurred.”
“Have you known him long?”
“We stage magicians are a small community. Even more so in Detroit. Michigan isn’t exactly known for masters of the arcane arts. Ron and I have known of each other most of our careers.”
“Would you call him a rival?”
“Everyone on Earth is a rival for something. Food, shelter, fame, power, women...”
“Which one of you is the better magician?”
Miller’s smile widened. “You get right to the heart of the matter,” he said. “Surely you don’t think I did away with the Great Ronaldo’s assistant out of some misplaced sense of jealousy, do you?”
“Did you?”
Miller’s eyes were unreadable. “If I did, I certainly wouldn’t simply come out and say so.”
He reminded her very much of a mobster in that moment. It was exactly the same sort of answer Carlyle would have given. Magicians liked mystery. They liked playing the game. But this wasn’t a game. A woman had died.
“What did Kathy Grimes want from you?” she asked, deliberately shifting gears.
He didn’t even blink. “Quite a few things.”
“Such as?”
“She’d heard some things about
me,” he said, looking her lazily up and down. “She wanted to know if they were true.”
“Besides the sex,” Erin said, not letting him get to her.
“Something you should understand about Kat,” Miller said. “She was a manipulator, particularly of men. Everything she did was for her own advancement. It was always a bargain, a deal, or a scam. But it was never enough just to put one over on an unsuspecting fellow. She was a con artist who was like a graffiti tagger. She couldn’t resist whenever she saw a nice patch of wall. She always had to paint her name. That’s what made her such a good stage assistant. She loved the spotlight. I think she always wanted to be one of those reality-TV starlets. You might shudder at the thought of your private life splashed across the pages of the tabloids. She thrilled at it.”
“So what was Kathy’s con? What was her angle on you?”
“She wanted to learn my trade secrets.”
“So she could take them to Whitaker?”
Miller looked thoughtful. “I think she wanted to be a magician in her own right,” he said. “Or perhaps just an accomplished pickpocket. The skill sets are virtually interchangeable.”
“Did she steal anything from you?”
“Nothing I was sorry to see her take.”
“Did you take anything from her?”
“Besides the obvious?” He didn’t quite wink, but managed to imply it.
“Yeah, besides that.” She didn’t smile.
“She offered an exchange.”
“Of what?” Erin paused. “Besides the obvious,” she added.
“Secrets.”
“Magic tricks?”
He nodded.
“Did you agree?”
“I showed her some things,” he said. “Simple sleights-of-hand that she could sex up with her stage presence. Nothing terribly valuable.”
“Did you like her?”
The sudden change of tack startled Miller, but he was quick to recover his poise. Erin was sure he’d had plenty of practice on stage when things went wrong. “I did, if you believe it. Kat was easy to like, in spite of her flaws. It was only after she left on each visit that I recalled the ways she could be difficult and irritating. She had charisma. I swear, the woman could explain away a bloody butcher’s knife in her hand and a body at her feet, and do it so convincingly you’d never question it until you were halfway home.”
“Maybe that’s why she was killed the way she was,” Erin said out loud.
“A booby trap would prevent the killer from hesitating,” Miller agreed. “Or from having second thoughts.” His smile took on a hint of sadness. “It’s a pity Kat couldn’t fully appreciate the manner of her death. The theatricality of it would have pleased her.”
“I don’t think that was on her mind while it was happening,” Erin said sourly. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Miller. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”
“What if all I’m looking for is some light dinner con¬ver¬sa-tion with a charming woman?”
“Then you better call someone else.”
Chapter 10
Erin ended the day tired, grumpy, and with a headache. They’d gotten no closer to finding Kathy Grimes’s killer. In fact, what she’d learned had left Erin with a certain amount of sympathy for the evil bastard who’d murdered her. Kathy didn’t seem to have had a single genuine friend in the world. There were just people she played off each other to get what she wanted.
They’d spent the rest of the day tracking Ronaldo’s Phantasmagoria across state lines and checking police reports, after Erin had finished filling out the arrest reports for Hugo Bucklington and Devon James. It was a day she’d really missed Patrol work. Pounding pavement and dealing with street-level bad guys felt a lot more like being real police. This was more like being a white-collar cube drone in an office filled with really unpleasant coworkers.
Something was up with the other cops in the precinct. She noticed it when she passed uniforms on the stairs, in the lobby, and in the parking garage. She was catching too many sidelong looks, hearing too many conversations that were cut off mid-sentence when she got close. Erin had seen those signs before. It meant some dirt was being passed around on her. She was marked.
It didn’t make sense. At least, not unless word had gotten out about her and Carlyle. And she couldn’t think how that would’ve happened. Whatever else he might be, Morton Carlyle was no gossip.
It was just one more puzzle, one she didn’t have the energy to tackle at the end of a shift. She loaded Rolf into her Charger and drove back to her apartment, the city a blur of streetlights, headlights, and crowded cars.
The apartment’s parking garage was cold and dark, matching her mood. When she parked, she just sat there for a minute and tried to collect herself. Rolf had picked up her mood and was curled up on the floor of his compartment, snout tucked under his tail.
She sighed and finally got out of the car. Her senses, numbed by the long, pointless day, were sluggish. It took her a couple of seconds to realize it was too dark in the garage. The overhead light was out. Still annoyed, not yet alarmed, she glanced up at the fixture. She saw two fluorescent bulbs, both dark.
What were the chances of two bulbs burning out at once?
A thrill of danger shot down her spine. She retreated a step to put her car at her back and reached for the door to let Rolf out. As she did, she saw a black Town Car two spaces over, in the visitor parking spot. And she saw movement in the corner of her eye.
Erin was suddenly wide awake. “Police!” she snapped, turning and going for her Glock.
She caught a quick glimpse of two big guys closing with her. Then she had her gun in hand and was bringing it up, a split second too slow. A large, strong hand grabbed her wrist and slammed her arm against her Charger’s window-frame. It hurt, but she kept her grip on the gun. She drove her other hand up into the man’s chin, an open palm strike. His teeth clicked together and he staggered, but didn’t go down. He hit her with his free hand just under the eye. The shock of bone on bone jarred her and she saw stars.
Erin had grown up in a family of boys, with an old-school dad who’d believed in playground justice. Sean O’Reilly had taught her brothers how to fistfight. But Erin was a girl, smaller than some. He hadn’t taught her how to fight fair, face-to-face. He’d taught her to fight dirty, and win.
The other guy was on her before she could wrench her gun-hand free. Erin stomped on the first man’s instep as hard as she could, pivoted on his foot, and heard his hiss of pain as she jammed her hand into the second goon’s throat. He gagged and grabbed his own neck.
Rolf was barking frantically, but he couldn’t get into the fight. Erin’s quick-release button was on her belt, but it was on her right side. That was the hand holding her Glock, the one her attacker was stubbornly holding by the wrist. She put her free elbow into his gut, just above the belt. Breath whooshed out of him. He went to his knees, but he still held on. Her arm twisted with sudden, excruciating pain.
Erin cried out and tried to pull away. She saw the other man coming in, recovered from the throat-punch. He was slipping something onto his hand. Knuckle-dusters, probably. She struggled, but the man holding her was half again her weight and a lot stronger.
The second man cocked his fist. Erin tensed, knowing she was about to get hurt.
Two gunshots exploded, so close together their echoes overlapped, rebounding off the concrete walls of the garage. The muzzle flashes lit up the darkness for just an instant. Both men froze. Then the guy holding Erin gave her right arm such a wrench that she nearly blacked out from the pain. He shoved her away. She fell, only barely getting her left arm up in time to break her fall. Dazedly, she rolled onto her side on the concrete floor. A car engine coughed to life. Headlights swung across her field of view and centered on her, blinding her.
Her arm felt funny, but its muscles obeyed her. She brought up her hand, still somehow holding her gun, and pulled the trigger twice as the car bore down on her. One of its
headlights went out. Then someone grabbed her under the shoulders and hauled her roughly back behind her car. The other car went past in a rush of black metal and squealing tires.
“Did you catch one?” someone asked.
“Huh?” she mumbled.
“Are you hit?”
“No, I... I don’t think so.” Erin was trying to identify the voice. It was familiar.
“Then you’re good, ma’am.”
That last word made the connection for her. “Ian? Ian Thompson?”
But when she turned her head, her rescuer was gone.
A couple of uniforms showed up almost before Erin called in the attack. A neighbor had heard the gunshots and called 911. Erin wasn’t surprised. The infamous Kitty Genovese murder, back in the ‘60s, had given New York the reputation of a city where you could be killed in broad daylight and no one would bother calling the cops, but Erin knew better. Even in that attack, a witness had called it in within a few minutes. Response time was the real problem. Fortunately, in Erin’s case, a squad car had been just down the street. The siren and flashers tipped her off, so by the time the Patrol officers arrived, Erin was holding up her shield in her good hand. The attackers, however, were long gone.
“Did you get a good look at them, Detective?” one of the uniforms asked her.
She shook her head. “Too dark, too fast.” There’d been that one moment of muzzle flash, but it’d been too quick to give her more than a glimpse, and the guys had been wearing watch caps and high-collared coats. “There were two of them. Caucasian. Black Lincoln Town Car. I didn’t see the plates, but one of the headlights is out. The left one. It’s got at least one bullet hole.”
One of the cops put the vehicle description out on the radio. Erin leaned against her car, Rolf beside her. The Shepherd’s hackles still bristled. He’d had to watch his partner fight it out just a few feet away, and missing the action had pissed him off.
“What’re they armed with?” the radioman asked.