The Magician Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  “Okay, then! Follow me!”

  It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone

  It’s not unusual to have fun with anyone

  Ruby drove a fireball-red 2018 Lexus IS. When she turned the key in the ignition, Engelbert Humperdinck’s voice blasted out of the stereo speakers and Jason nearly blasted out of his seat.

  Which made it three for three because Ruby blasted out of the garage and took off down the dirt road toward the highway like Smoky running from the Bandits.

  Jason unobtrusively gripped the door arm and avoided looking at the speedometer.

  “Where do you want me to drop you?” Ruby shouted over Engelbert.

  “If it’s not too far out of your way, the FBI building on Airport Parkway.”

  “I can do that. How long do you think you’ll be?”

  “It’s hard to say. Don’t worry about waiting for me.”

  “Oh, it’ll be you waiting for me,” Ruby assured him. “What with the hair salon, the yoga studio, and the Cactus Café, it takes my gal a while to figure everything out.”

  “You’re working three different jobs?” Jason was horrified. Ruby was a lot younger than his parents, but she was no spring chicken.

  She guffawed. “No, honey. I’m retired now. My income comes from the businesses I own.”

  “You own a yoga studio?”

  “Sure I do. Yoga is fantastic. Everybody should do yoga. I try to tell Sam he should do yoga. It would do wonders for his nerves.”

  Jason had no response, momentarily distracted by the unlikely mental vision of Sam in yoga pants.

  Ruby chuckled again, apparently at however she interpreted his expression. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t even know what I’m thinking,” Jason said. “I had the impression Sam—” Maybe that wasn’t very tactful. He didn’t finish the thought.

  “You’re wondering why I let Sam buy me the ranch when I can afford to buy my own ranches?”

  “I… Not exactly.”

  “Sam likes to be the man in the white hat. That’s one reason.”

  The man in the white hat? Meaning the good guy? The guy who always charged to the rescue? Jason wasn’t so sure about that. He thought Sam had enough pressure already without the added weight of having to rescue people perfectly able of rescuing themselves.

  “Plus, if he can buy me things he thinks I need, he doesn’t have to feel so guilty about not spending time with me.”

  Now Jason really didn’t know what to say. Ruby gave another of those chortles and patted his knee. “You’re a nice boy. Don’t you worry. Sam and I understand each other.”

  Probably not. Almost certainly not. But if it made her happy to think so, he wasn’t about to argue.

  * * * * *

  It was kind of flattering—also kind of alarming—how very relieved to see him Agent Dreyfus was.

  The Cheyenne Resident Agency looked like every other satellite office Jason had been in. Beige walls, blue carpet, cubicles and cubicle-sized offices, plenty of official seals and ceremonious photographs. Or rather, it looked like every other satellite office after-hours, because the building felt like a ghost town. Empty, abandoned. With the exception of Abigail Dreyfus and some support staff, nobody was home.

  “I didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon,” Dreyfus said, showing him into her closet-sized office. A small, homesick cactus drooped atop her bookshelf. There were three framed photos on her desk: a beaming, bespectacled middle-aged couple, a handsome, eager-beaver young guy who looked like every aspiring US Attorney Jason had ever met—he had not noticed until then that Dreyfus wore an engagement ring—and an admittedly cute Pomeranian puppy in a pink party hat. “Agent Kennedy sounded like, well…”

  Jason took the chair in front of Dreyfus’ spic-and-span desk. “You spoke to Kennedy this morning?”

  “I phoned him right after my conference call. He was at the airport. His flight was boarding, so we didn’t talk long.”

  That was clearly a relief. Jason suppressed a smile. “You’ve had the coroner’s report?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed at some unhappy memory. “Michael Khan died from asphyxiation due to ligature strangulation. The same wire used to tie him to the tree was used to garrote him. Death was approximately at six o’clock on Sunday evening. He did not appear to have had an evening meal.”

  Unless you were a trained assassin, killing someone using a garrote was a moderately challenging enterprise. Once the blood supply to the brain was cut off, unconsciousness could take anywhere from ten to thirty seconds—worst-case scenario, a full minute—and the victim would presumably be struggling for his life all that time. Even thirty seconds was a long time in a fight. A strong and knowledgeable woman could successfully garrote a man, but it would not be a speedy process and she would probably sustain a few bruises.

  “Was there anything unique about the wire used to garrote Khan?”

  “No. Just ordinary heavy-duty wire for hanging pictures. They found similar wire at Khan’s house.”

  “And four-to-six weeks before you get the toxicology report?” Jason asked.

  “At the soonest.”

  By which time Jason would be long gone, back to real life and his own job.

  “Have the crime-scene technicians come up with anything relating to the tire tracks down below or the footprints at the site where the body was found?”

  “They were unable to separate the perp’s tire tracks from the tire tracks of the hikers who discovered the body—and the tire tracks of park rangers and law-enforcement vehicles.”

  Jason muttered. “Great.”

  “I know. As for the boot prints, they think they were able to isolate one pair, size nine at the very base of the tree. Nothing unique about the gait or tread. It could be an athletic woman with large feet or a small but very strong man.”

  “Just one set of footprints?”

  Dreyfus shook her head. “Impossible to know for sure because once again, the hikers and then the forest rangers trampled the surrounding scene before CRT arrived.”

  Into his silence, Dreyfus said, “Anyway, Routt SO is taking over the homicide investigation. Cheyenne PD is going to continue handling the theft of Khan’s art collection.”

  Jason glanced up. “There’s sufficient reason to believe the two crimes are separate?”

  “I wouldn’t bet money on it. But that’s the way Routt wants to handle it.”

  “It’s probably just as well. You’ve got a shortage of manpower at the moment.”

  “I’ll say,” she said bitterly. “There’s a reason Wyoming has the lowest rate of bank robberies in the West. They take bank robbery personally here. Every SO in the state is out looking for these yahoos.”

  “Where are you from originally?” Jason asked.

  “Arizona. I was hoping I might get posted there, but nope.”

  First-office postings were almost never in the agent’s own backyard, and there were good reasons for that.

  She made a face. “Anyway, I’ve been informed Routt doesn’t require our assistance.”

  “Okay, well, you’ve got plenty to keep you busy working the theft angle—assuming Cheyenne PD still wants help?”

  Another expression of disgust from Dreyfus. “Oh sure, Cheyenne wants our help. They’re only too happy to hand an art theft off to us.”

  Jason grinned sympathetically. “Makes sense,” he said. “We’ve got the resources. They don’t.”

  “I guess. But if the two crimes are connected, I don’t see how we can investigate the one and not the other.”

  He ignored that. “I did some calling around this morning.” He brought Dreyfus up to speed on what he’d learned from his contact at Sotheby’s.

  “You believe the collection is going to be broken up and auctioned off?”

  “Unfortunately, unless the thieves have already arranged for the private sale of the entire collection to a specific customer, that’s the most likely scenario. They can’t put the
collection as a whole on the open market because it’s bound to be recognized. Things like an original copy of a rare poster or that mind-reading machine? There aren’t that many of them floating around, so collectors keep an eye on who’s holding what.”

  “Is it possible a private collector could have hired the thieves?”

  Jason smiled approvingly. Now she was getting into it, showing a little ingenuity.

  “It’s possible, but I think unlikely because of the type of collection it is. Khan owned a lot of unique and valuable pieces, but as a whole they aren’t thematically cohesive.”

  “How are they not thematically cohesive? They’re all things to do with magic.”

  “True, and I’m not arguing that the collection as a whole isn’t extremely valuable. But it’s not like Khan was collecting all Houdini’s show and personal effects. Or the show and personal effects of any one magician. If that were the case, the idea of a fanatical collector would be more plausible. Obsession is focus.”

  “Obsession is focus,” she repeated obediently and made a note on a legal pad.

  “But here we have a number of items of unknown provenance, which is always tricky, not least for insurance purposes.”

  “One person we can rule out is Michael Khan,” Dreyfus said.

  “No. Unfortunately. We can’t. Especially if the prevailing theory is correct and the crimes are unconnected.”

  “But surely he had to be killed by the same person who stole his collection?”

  “Forty-eight hours later? Why?”

  “Well…” Dreyfus looked confused. “Because it’s too much of a coincidence. Isn’t it?”

  “Coincidences happen. Even if Khan was killed by the same person behind the theft, it doesn’t mean that person wasn’t Khan’s confederate.”

  “But if they were confederates, why kill him? How does that make sense?”

  “What’s the saying about when thieves fall out?” He shrugged. But yes, the question remained, why had Khan been killed? Why then? Why there? Why— But he had pretty much promised Sam to stick to investigating the art theft as a separate crime, and that’s what he intended to do.

  “Why would anyone else kill him?” Dreyfus persisted. “And why stage the murder scene so elaborately?”

  “The crime scene could have been deliberately staged to raise those very questions. As to why turn on Khan? There could be any number of reasons. It’s way too soon to draw conclusions. I know it’s difficult, but you can’t be distracted by any of that. You have to follow the art.”

  She sighed. “Okay. Where do I start, then? Mrs. Khan?”

  Jason pointed at her. “Exactly. You start from the inside and work your way out.”

  Dreyfus bit her lip. She threw him a doubtful look. “Would you want to—”

  Jason picked up his coat and rose. “I would,” he said.

  Chapter Eleven

  A shapely blonde woman in a silver bodysuit and sequined heels stood at one end of the brightly lit stage. She was speaking as she faced the sea of empty tables and chairs. “I want you to watch that marked bullet very, very carefully,” she instructed the imaginary audience. “At no time will that bullet leave The Maestro’s hand until the moment he loads it into the pistol.”

  On the opposite end of the stage, an African-American dwarf in navy silk trousers, red smoking jacket, and a cravat, held up a small and shiny object for everyone to see before turning away to tap the bullet against a glass target set up in the center of the stage.

  Minerva Khan, the grieving widow, was trying out her act in preparation for Top Hat White Rabbit club’s Friday grand opening.

  “Wyoming is not LA,” Arturo the bartender was saying to Jason and Dreyfus as they watched The Maestro and Minerva prepare for their bullet-catch trick. “If this convention is a success, it could completely change Cheyenne’s status in the world of magic. This convention could put us on the map.”

  “It is impossible for that bullet to penetrate the glass target without breaking it,” Minerva said from the stage.

  “What is she doing?” Dreyfus asked as The Maestro loaded the bullet into a Lugar. “Is that a real gun?”

  “Bullet Catch,” the bartender said. “It’s what she’s famous for. She doesn’t perform it much anymore, which is why management is letting her rehearse it here for Thursday’s performance. You don’t want to make a mistake with that trick.”

  “I thought the club opened on Friday?” Jason asked.

  “Officially. Thursday night is a special Magicians Only night.”

  “I see. Who owns the club?” Jason asked.

  “Doug Devant. He’s a local magician.”

  They watched Minerva and The Maestro for another moment.

  Dreyfus said uneasily, “They’re not using real bullets, are they?”

  “The bullets are usually real,” Jason said. “It is a trick, though. The most dangerous trick in magic.”

  According to legend—and Ben Robinson’s book—at least twelve magicians had died while performing the bullet catch.

  “Don’t tell her!” Arturo objected.

  Dreyfus rolled her eyes. “Please. I know it’s not magic.”

  “It’s still a great trick, and it ruins it if you know how it’s done.”

  Silently, they watched The Maestro mount a small blue ladder and aim at Minerva, who had taken her place at the opposite end of the stage. Minerva tossed her hair back and lifted her chin. She raised her left arm.

  Despite knowing the different ways the trick could be worked—or maybe because he knew—Jason felt queasy.

  Minerva’s arm dropped; The Maestro fired. The glass target shattered. Dreyfus gasped as Minerva staggered back. Minerva steadied herself as The Maestro jumped from his ladder and ran to her. He held up a small silver plate, and Minerva spat the bullet onto the plate. The Maestro picked up the bullet and held it up for the invisible audience to ooh and ahh over.

  “How the heck did she do that?” Dreyfus murmured.

  “Minerva!” Arturo yelled. “You got company.”

  Minerva’s head jerked up. She raised her hand in acknowledgment, then spoke a few words to The Maestro before exiting the stage. A few moments later she joined them at the bar. Her skin was shiny, the hair at her temples damp. She smelled of cigarettes, a lot of perfume, and just a hint of perspiration. Maybe she was old-school when it came to her illusions.

  “More police?” she said.

  Her husband’s body had only been found the day before. If she was tired of cops now, she was in for a rough few weeks.

  “FBI.” Dreyfus held up her identification. “I’m Special Agent Dreyfus, and this is Special Agent West with the Art Crime Team.”

  “Art Crime Team? So you’re not here about Mike?”

  “Only as far as your husband’s death may be related to the theft of his collection.”

  “Of course it’s related to the theft of the collection. And it’s our collection,” Minerva added. “I paid for at least half that collection. Mike hasn’t—hadn’t—had a steady gig in four years. Not once word got out that he was the one going around spoiling everyone’s acts. I warned him he would ruin his own career, but as usual he knew best.” She lit a cigarette. “Look where it got him.”

  “You can’t smoke in here, Minerva,” the bartender said. “You know that.”

  In reply, Minerva blew a stream of smoke in his direction.

  The bartender shook his head as if at a naughty five-year-old sticking her tongue out. “It’s bad for your health.”

  “Really, Arturo? Have you seen my act? You think I’m worried about my social security going to waste?”

  Arturo shrugged. “It’s bad for my health too, you know.”

  Jason couldn’t help asking Minerva, “Have you ever been shot?”

  “Once. When I was first starting out.” She pushed her platinum hair back, and he saw the faded white line of a bullet scar along her jaw. “It was just a graze.”

  Not really. Not ju
dging by that scar.

  He had to hand it to her. She’d nearly had her head blown off, but here she was years later, still pretending to catch bullets between her teeth. Jason had been shot once—well, four times on one occasion—and he still got night sweats dreaming about it. Not as bad as it had been right after Miami, but bad enough.

  Jason asked, “What makes you think your husband’s death is connected to the theft of your art collection?”

  “Are you kidding?” She exhaled thoughtfully. “It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise. Right? I know damned well Mike was behind the robbery. And, as usual, he got greedy. Obviously, his partner or partners decided to knock him off.”

  “How do you know he was behind the robbery?”

  She gave him a deliberate look from beneath her false eyelashes. “Believe me, I spent ten years watching that man perform lousy magic. He didn’t have many secrets from me.”

  “I understand. Do you have actual evidence?”

  “Evidence.” She shook her head at the idea, took another drag off her cigarette.

  Jason cocked his head. “Forgive me for saying so, but for someone who spent ten years of her life with the guy, you don’t seem overly grief-stricken.”

  Her lip curled. “Oh please. I’m sure you know perfectly well that Mike and I were in the middle of an ugly divorce.”

  “Why was it ugly?”

  She glared at him. “What are you? Some kind of idiot savant? Because Mike’s the kind of guy who would rather go to the trouble of fake-stealing his junk collection than fairly splitting our assets down the middle. That’s why. He had no honor. As demonstrated by the fact he went around spoiling people’s magic acts.”

  “Can you take us through the events of Friday evening?” Dreyfus inquired.

  “Sure, although I’ve already given my statement to the police.”

  “Sometimes people remember things they forgot to mention the first time around.”

  “Not me. I have total recall.”

  “Is that so?” Jason asked politely.

  “Yes. That’s so.” She glanced at Dreyfus. “I left the house at five thirty to do a show at Miller Insulation. One of the biggest companies in Wyoming, for your information.”