The Magician Murders

by Josh Lanyon

  “It might not even go to its legal owner. Given the number of claims people had against Khan… The entire collection could be held as evidence for years while the courts try to sort it all out, and you know what evidence lockers are like. Things get lost, damaged. There’s no question of climate control or—”

  “Jason, stop.”

  Jason stopped.

  “You’re a sworn officer of the law.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a sworn officer of the law.”

  “I know.” He realized abruptly that he had just placed Sam in a very difficult position. “I’m sorry.”

  “This isn’t— You’re not your grandfather saving the world’s cultural heritage from the Nazis. These are a bunch of stage props and costumes and posters—and yes, I understand that some of those lithographs are extremely valuable—but this is a matter for the courts.”

  Jason met Sam’s gaze and nodded.

  “At best it’s vigilantism.”

  Jason did not answer.

  “You learned that one in fucking nursery school. Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  Ouch. Jason nodded.

  Sam shook his head, turned away to put his mug in the sink. He turned the taps on, rinsed the cup. Turned the taps off. He glanced at Jason. “You’re not even officially on this case, so if you’re… I don’t know. Ethically conflicted? Ethically compromised? The thing to do is step away. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you cannot do the job, you need to step away.”

  Jason said tersely, “I heard you. I understand.”

  “Have you shared your theory with Dreyfus?”

  “Not yet. No.”

  Sam said nothing, but Jason could feel his gaze.

  Sam said finally, “You could be wrong. Basically, this is instinct and guesswork. You don’t have any evidence yet.”

  Jason nodded. “True.”

  Sam was silent again. Then he said in normal tones, “I’m going to have a shower.”

  “Okay.”

  Sam hesitated. Said lightly, “Want to join me?”

  Jason appreciated the message behind the invitation. He smiled faintly. “Rain check. I think I should give Dreyfus a call.”

  “Right.” Sam smiled too. There was a hint of sympathy in his eyes, but for Sam this situation was black and white, no shades of gray possible. “When I come out, you can explain to me why you think there’s a serial killer stalking the magic community of Cheyenne.”

  Jason’s lip curled. “Don’t tell me you haven’t already heard from SAC Reynolds about that possibility.”

  “I want to hear it from you.”

  “It’s instinct and guesswork there too.”

  “But see, I trust your instincts,” Sam said.

  Yeah. Well.

  Sam disappeared into the bathroom. Jason sat on the bed and turned on his laptop, listening absently to the sound of the running shower as he checked his email.

  There was a brief message from Shane Donovan in NorCal saying that he had spoken to Ursula Martin and she had informed him she had reached an out-of-court settlement with Fletcher-Durrand.

  “Goddamn it,” Jason muttered. Not that it was really a surprise. It was a disappointment, though. With Martin’s defection, their case was now officially dead and buried.

  On the bright side, this eliminated any motive anyone associated with Fletcher-Durrand had to get rid of him.

  Speaking of which, he spotted an email from Jonnie with an attachment.

  Jason opened the email.

  Hi Jason,

  Hope you’re feeling better. Sam asked me to forward these photos of Dr. Jeremy Kyser attending the Toronto conference on forensic psychology.

  Not the best quality, but the man in the photos does resemble the man on Kyser’s book jackets and photo ID. Let me know what you think.

  J.

  Jason clicked on the first attachment, which turned out to be a photo of people attending some kind of banquet. They looked as thrilled as people always did when facing an evening of long-winded speeches and hotel conference food.

  At first, he couldn’t even find Kyser in the mass of scholarly faces. Finally, he located him at a table in the back. Not a great photo, as Jonnie had said, but at that distance the man did appear to be Jeremy Kyser. It had been nearly a year since Jason had seen Kyser—and he’d only seen him the one time and for no more than a few minutes—so yeah, he thought that was Kyser.

  He wouldn’t want to stake his life on it.

  He clicked on the next photo. This shot was a formal group picture, and everyone’s head was about the size of the hole left by a paper punch. There were at least three wild-haired, fever-eyed, intense-looking mad scientist guys in that photograph that could have been Kyser. Jason couldn’t have sworn to any of them.

  Nor could he swear they weren’t Kyser.

  He heard the taps squeak in the bathroom, the sound of running water turning off. He heard the pop of the glass door.

  He clicked on the third and final attachment.

  This was a candid shot taken in a hallway. The photo had been snapped at a much closer range. There were several people wearing name badges, milling aimlessly around a hallway as people were prone to do between conference sessions. They carried cups of coffee, pastries, laptops, business-card cases, notepads, and chargers—and all wore the vaguely uncomfortable look of people silently practicing their “elevator pitches”—all but one.

  Kyser was nearest the conference-room door, and he was greeting two colleagues with a smile that was best described as frantic. Jason frowned at that manic grin and popping eyes.

  Overall…the guy looked right, looked as Jason remembered. Tall and rawboned, a frizzy mass of salt-and-pepper hair framing a bony, gaunt face. He couldn’t see the subject’s eye color, but his eyes seemed to be dark, so that was right. It all seemed right, seemed to line up with what he recalled of that one brief encounter.

  And yet…something about the man in the photograph struck Jason as off. False. A ringer.

  The problem was, his memory of Kyser had faded over time, and looking at these images of Kyser-like guys wasn’t helping.

  The bathroom door opened, and a gust of warm, soap-scented air wafted out.

  “It’s all yours,” Sam said.

  “Mm-hm.”

  What was it that wasn’t right? Or was he imagining it? He went back to studying that too-big smile and those frightened eyes.

  Frightened eyes…

  “Something wrong?” Sam asked.

  “Hm?”

  What was the guy—Kyser?—so frightened of?

  Jason looked closer, inspecting the people greeting Kyser. It was like examining all the figures in one of those crowded Italian Renaissance paintings. Like in Botticelli’s Spring or Raphael’s The School of Athens, sometimes you learned more about what was really going on by scrutinizing the supporting cast rather than the major players.

  And those two unknown scientists greeting their colleague, Dr. Jeremy Kyser? One looked surprised. One looked confused.

  They thought they knew you, but they don’t.

  Jason went back to poring over Kyser’s expression.

  And you know they don’t.

  He jumped as Sam rested a hand on his bare shoulder. “You okay, West?”

  Jason stared up at him.

  Sam’s brows drew together. “Jason, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s not him,” Jason said. “He wasn’t at the conference. That isn’t Jeremy Kyser.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sam was still on the phone when Jason stepped out of the shower.

  He nodded silently at Jason as Jason stood in the doorway, toweling his hair. “Okay, thanks, Jonnie.” He listened for a moment. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  Sam clicked off. “According to Kyser’s PA—”

  “Kyser has a personal assistant?”

  “Yes. Kevin Anderson. According to A
nderson, Kyser most certainly did attend the conference in Toronto. He claims his boss is currently on vacation and out of the country.”

  “Out of the country where?”

  “Still traveling in Canada.”

  “Then he should be able to be reached by phone, right? He should be able to answer a few questions?”

  “You would think, but according to Anderson, the purpose of vacation is to not answer phones.”

  Jason said sardonically, “He’s obviously never met you.”

  There was a warning glint in Sam’s gaze. “Or you.”

  “Point.”

  “Anyway, we’re looking for him. That’s all we can do at this juncture.”

  “I know.”

  Sam said grimly, “Put some clothes on. I want to show you something.”

  Jason dressed quickly, wondering what was up. Sam was waiting for him in the kitchen. He nodded at the back door.

  “I know it’s locked. I checked it last night,” Jason said.

  “It’s locked.” Sam unlocked the door and stepped outside. Jason followed.

  Sam walked over to the large picture window and pointed to the square screen leaning against the house.

  Jason stared at the screen. He felt slightly sick.

  “Look at this.” Sam indicated gouges in the wood siding where someone had attempted to pry the inexpensive metal window frame from the wall. Sam’s eyes met Jason’s. “He was coming in. That was his plan.” And in case Jason didn’t get it, “Van der Beck didn’t come to talk.”

  Jason could feel blood draining from his face. It had not even occurred to him to check for an attempted break-in. He had been suspicious of Terry’s middle-of-the-night visit but had imagined he’d intercepted him almost immediately. He hadn’t realized how fast and determined Terry had been.

  Sam said, “He couldn’t get through the doors because of the single-sided deadbolts. So he went for the window. If the dogs hadn’t woken you, he’d have been inside in a matter of minutes.”

  Jason swallowed. “Yes. I don’t know how he— He must have followed Dreyfus when she drove me home.”

  Sam said, “We need to have a word with Mr. Van der Beck. Let’s get over to the Cheyenne RA, and you can bring Chuck Reynolds up to speed on your magician murders.”

  An occasional tumbleweed bounced and rolled along the side of the road as Sam drove toward Cheyenne. Jason stared out the car window at the endless sweep of blue sky and tall green-gold grass rippling in the wind. In the distance he could see blue snow-dusted mountains.

  Sam had not had much to say since they had left Ruby’s. The sexy, playful morning seemed like a long-ago interlude, but Jason was used to that. He had been reassured by their conversation the night before. Sam’s honesty had been unexpected, but really, why? If anything, Sam erred on the side of too honest.

  He did still wonder about a couple of things, and since Sam had seemed to indicate the topic of Ethan was not off-limits, he decided to take a leaf from Sam’s book and just ask.

  “Did you—they—ever catch Ethan’s killer?”

  He thought he knew the answer, so he was astonished when Sam replied, “I think so. I believe we got him when we got the Roadside Ripper.” Sam’s gaze never left the long, empty road ahead. “I’ll never know for sure, but that’s my best guess.”

  Jason stared. “You think Ethan died twenty years ago at the hands of the Roadside Ripper?”

  “Yes. I believe so.”

  “Do you have corroboration, a confession from the Ripper?”

  “No.” Sam was still not looking at him. He sounded detached, analytical. “The timing is right. The MO is right. I think there’s a lot of indicators that the Ripper is—was—our guy.”

  Jason felt another of those unpleasant jolts. Why wouldn’t Sam have said anything about this? He hadn’t given even a hint that he believed Ethan’s murderer had finally been brought to justice. It was just…weird. Right? Not that Sam was typically communicative about a lot of his work, but this wasn’t the usual case. Even for a personality as stoic as Sam’s, this had to be a big deal.

  Uneasily, Jason kept picking at it, despite his sense that Sam already regretted giving him permission to ask these questions. “But I thought the Ripper’s hunting ground was Interstate 5?”

  “It was. For the last fifteen years. But we don’t have a clear picture of where he was during the five years before he returned to the West Coast. We know he spent some time driving trucks in Montana and Colorado. My theory is he was in Wyoming as well.”

  “That’s…kind of news.”

  Sam said nothing.

  “Are you going to tell Ethan’s father?”

  “I did tell him. The last time I was here. I told him we did not have conclusive proof, would not be able to get conclusive proof, but it’s my belief Ethan’s killer is dead.”

  Jason had no response. If anything, he felt more confused than at the start of their conversation.

  Sam glanced at him. “If you’re thinking about Ethan because of the threat against you—”

  “It’s not that.” But actually, yeah, maybe it was partly that. Jason was afraid. Not so afraid that he couldn’t function. Not so afraid that he couldn’t put his fear out of his thoughts. But yes, knowing someone wished him harm, was actively out there trying to do him harm, did weigh on him.

  To distract himself—and Sam—he said, “When you retire, do you think you’ll move back to Wyoming?”

  “Retire?” Sam repeated it like he’d never heard the word.

  “Yeah. Eventually.”

  Sam seemed to think it over. “No. Wyoming is a nice place to visit, but…”

  Poor Ruby.

  “I wouldn’t mind visiting again,” Jason agreed. “I still haven’t seen a buffalo.”

  “I like Virginia,” Sam said. “I wouldn’t mind staying in Virginia.”

  Virginia was nice. Jason liked Virginia. But it would be difficult to leave California for a lot of reasons. Of course, it wasn’t like Sam had ever asked him to leave California. Or ever would.

  Into his silence, Sam said casually, “I like California too.”

  Jason looked at him, and Sam’s mouth quirked. “You have a very nice smile, West,” he said and turned his attention back to the road ahead.

  * * * * *

  “So you’re the art expert?” SAC Reynolds greeted Jason when Sam introduced them.

  “Next best thing,” Jason answered, shaking hands.

  The minute Jason saw Sam with SAC Charles Reynolds he knew Reynolds was one of the old friends Ruby had referred to when they’d talked about Sam’s boyhood. He should have made the connection sooner, of course, but for some reason he just didn’t think of Sam as having friends within the Bureau.

  The change in Sam wasn’t dramatic, exactly, but it was obvious from the relaxed set of his shoulders to the warmth of his gaze that he knew Reynolds well and liked him a lot.

  And it was obvious from the easy, no-bullshit way Reynolds talked to the legendary Sam Kennedy, that Reynolds felt the same. In fact, it turned out that Reynolds was the one who had originally talked Sam into joining the Bureau all those years ago. He was probably a wealth of information on the topic of Sam Kennedy, but there was no time for reminiscences.

  The bank robbers had been successfully captured. The Cheyenne RA was fully staffed again and a bustling hive of activity. In fact, the only person missing was Abigail Dreyfus, who had phoned in sick that morning.

  Jason had received a brief call from her before they’d left for the drive to Cheyenne.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” she’d apologized. “I had grocery-store sushi for dinner last night, and it turns out to have been a huge mistake.”

  Sushi in Wyoming? And grocery-store sushi at that? That did sound like a mistake.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. I hope you feel better,” Jason replied.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

  Yeah. Maybe not.

&
nbsp; In the meantime, Sam was waiting for Jason to make his case to his old pal.

  Reynolds was as tall as Sam, but rail-thin. What Jason’s grandfather had called “a tall drink of water.” Reynolds had to be Sam’s age, but he looked older. Iron-gray hair and mustache. Pale gray eyes that appraised Jason with a shrewd but not unfriendly directness.

  Reynolds led the way to his office. “Take a chair, son. Either of you want coffee?”

  Jason and Sam declined coffee.

  Reynolds gave Jason another of those keen-eyed looks. “Sam tells me you think we’ve got a serial killer running around Cheyenne, knocking off magicians?”

  Jason winced because yeah, that just sounded really…ridiculous.

  Sam closed the door to Reynolds’ office and took the chair next to Jason’s. “I’ve only heard half the story, but I think it’s worth listening to. West has an eye for details.”

  “Well, the devil’s in the details,” Reynolds said. He nodded at Jason. “So far I haven’t heard from Cheyenne PD, but okay. Let’s hear it. What have you got?”

  Not a lot. Jason would have been the first to admit. He told them about Mateo Santos—a man nobody could possibly wish harm to—and Michael Khan—a man everyone wished harm to. He told them about the tarot cards, which were not items used in either man’s magic act, but historically had been used for divination purposes—and were still regarded by some to hold mystical and spiritual significance.

  Reynolds heard him out, only once stopping Jason in order to buzz his assistant over the intercom. He requested background checks on Ian Boz and Terry Van der Beck. “Okay, go on,” Reynolds told Jason.

  When Jason was finished, Reynolds was silent for a moment. “That’s pretty thin, Sam.” He glanced at Jason. “No offense, West.”

  “It’s thin,” Sam agreed. “And the MOs don’t line up. If the kid at the magic store hadn’t come after West, I’d be inclined to wait and see what turns up during the course of the Khan homicide investigation.”

  “The Van der Beck kid’s behavior is concerning,” Reynolds agreed. “It’s not like he didn’t know West was FBI. That wasn’t just bold, it was downright defiant. We don’t know what action he would have taken had he gained access to the house, but that’s probably just as well.”