How could he even think about working when the man he loved most in the world had disappeared from his life?
Larissa pressed, her voice tight. “So when should I tell him you’ll call him back?”
He shrugged and wrapped the towel around his neck, pulling the ends tightly. “Later,” he said.
Into the telephone Larissa smiled her words. “Peter’s still sleeping. The doctor gave him a heavy sedative. He’s very distraught. I’m sure he’ll be able to speak to you later this afternoon… aye, it’s been a terrible experience… of course, I’ll tell him you understand…thanks so much for your call, Aaron.”
She tapped the button to disconnect and stared at her son.
“I’m worried about you, luv. You have to think about your show. You can do an extra taping tomorrow and another next Tuesday and that’ll catch you up.”
He dug his fingers into the towel and glared at her. “I don’t give a damn about the show.”
“Peter! So many children adore you. How can you say such a thing?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s stupid. They’d all be better off without me. Besides, I have no right to entertain children—I haven’t a clue what it’s like to be a child.”
“Oh, Peter, what’s happened to you? Once you were proud to be Peter Parrot.”
“It’s all a sham, a silly way to make a living. Aaron must have finally figured out I have no talent whatsoever.”
Larissa’s alarm showed in her widened eyes. “Peter—” She waved the phone in a helpless gesture.
“Leave me alone.” He brushed past her and stomped into the house.
She hurried to follow him, lost her footing on one of her high sandal heels, and stumbled through the kitchen door.
He heard her swear, but he didn’t look back. He picked up the tee shirt he’d left on the kitchen bar stool, pulled it over his head. She was staring at him, lips parted. He grabbed his car keys and headed for his Lexus in the garage.
“Where are you going?” she whispered.
“Someplace where no one can bother me.”
CHAPTER 29
Wednesday, August 10, 1:30 p.m.
Pizzarelli took a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Hot out there. Prob’ly a hundred, already.” He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and took out the onion bagel with jalapeno cream cheese he’d picked up at Bagles ‘n Shmeer.
“At least,” Cheri said, thankful for the Explorer’s healthy air-conditioning. They were headed down Maryland Parkway to check out the apartment address Meiner’s secretary had given them for Dayan Franklyn.
“’urn here,” Pizzarelli said, his mouth full, pointing with one cream-cheese smeared finger. “’ai’air a’nue.”
Cheri grinned and turned the Explorer off of Maryland Parkway and right onto Mayfair Avenue. “I didn’t get that last bit, and the scary part is, I knew what you meant.”
She found a parking space in front of the blue stucco building where Dayan Franklyn lived. This neighborhood, not far from the university, seemed familiar.
Sure, it reminded her of her struggling college days, but there was something more. She remembered it as a nicer neighborhood than it looked now. There had been lots of young people, students and casino workers, living here. Every weekend had seen a grand party hosted somewhere in one of the apartments or condos, and you didn’t have to be invited—you just looked pretty, followed the noise, smiled a lot and entrance was assured.
Now you were lucky if you didn’t get mugged in broad daylight by a wanna-be gangster with pants around his knees and his baseball cap on backwards.
The memory came to her as clear as this morning’s stop at Bagels ‘n Shmeer. Mayfair Avenue backed up to Buena Flora, the street where she’d lived with Larissa. Except for its mansard roof, their apartment building had been like this one. And one night in that apartment had changed her life forever. Even as she choked down the flush that accompanied that memory, she glanced up and down the street, half-expecting to see people staring at her, people who knew what she had done.
Pizzarelli took a short-cut across the yellowed grass. “Guess they turned the sprinklers off for the summer instead of the winter.”
She forced herself to remember why she was in this neighborhood now. Today could be their lucky day. Today they could find Franklyn and the DVD, and today everything could fall into place. Or not.
At apartment 118 they knocked, but there was no answer. They rang the bell, still no answer. “Let’s find the landlord,” Pizzarelli said.
They circled around to the back of the building where they found an old woman emptying trash. She made darting glances around the area and hefted two black plastic bags as if she were twenty years younger. The wary look on her face said she’d lived in the neighborhood forever and wasn’t happy about it at all. She showed no surprise to see two people wearing police badges. She told them the landlord, Herm Henke, lived upstairs in 210.
“Shouldn’t have eaten that bagel so fast.” Pizzarelli held his stomach with both hands as they climbed the stairs.
The landlord proved friendly. From the noise coming from Henke’s living room, they’d interrupted his viewing of a daytime television game show, but he didn’t seem to mind. He seemed to welcome the distraction. She pointed to her badge and introduced herself and her partner.
“Call me Herm,” he said.
Shorter than Cheri, he had the demeanor of a wrinkled, retired bank clerk, someone who’d spent an entire career waiting on other people. He wore long cotton pants and a long-sleeved plaid shirt, the uniform of an old man who liked to stay warm in his air-conditioned apartment.
He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and, without turning off his television, closed his door and locked its two deadbolts. He led them downstairs to Dayan’s apartment, where he knocked, waited, and then unlocked the front door.
“Whoa,” he said. “How can people live like this?” He swiped his nose with the back of his hand as if he were about to sneeze.
They stepped inside. A one-bedroom apartment, reminiscent of seventies construction, larger than most comparable places today.
Cheri narrowed her eyes in the gloom created by the blackout shades. Every drawer in the counters and furniture had been yanked out and its contents scattered. Books and videos and CDs with broken jewel cases were strewn everywhere. Furniture had been upended. Stuffing popped from slashed pillows like ripe cotton flowers and an explosion of clothes had settled throughout the room. The remnants of what had once been a potted dieffenbachia lay dead on the floor in the center of a wide circle of splattered potting soil.
In the kitchen, cereal boxes and chip bags had been emptied onto the floor. A pot of mold on top of something unidentifiable sat in the sink. An open Styrofoam box on the counter contained half-eaten Chinese take-out. The hot air had a rancid tinge that made her nostrils flare.
“Place has been ransacked,” Pizzarelli said. “And from the smell of it, nobody’s been here in awhile.” He turned to the landlord. “Mr. Henke, when was the last time you saw Dayan Franklyn?”
The landlord held a hand over his mouth and nose, affectively muffling his answer. “Maybe a week ago. Rent’s not due for ten days. He was leaving the apartment. I saw him from upstairs.”
“Was he alone?”
“I think so, but wait—” Henke took his hand away from his face. “His friend Peter Jones came by right after he left. When I said, hello, he ignored me. He let himself in, came out, seemed upset and in a big hurry.”
“It’s awful how young people have no respect,” Pizzarelli said in an agreeable tone meant to encourage a flow of information.
Henke made a disgusted face. “Not young people—entertainers.”
“Why do you say that?” Cheri asked.
The look he gave her asked, how long have you lived here? “That Digbee—used to be Robert the Great, you know—he came snooping around, too. I told him…” He trailed off his words for dramatic effect.
“What?” Pizzarelli asked.
“What an asshole. So full of himself, so high-and-mighty, like he’s talking to the little people. He said, ‘Do you know who I am?’ and demanded I let him in. I told him if Dayan wanted him in, he’d let him in.”
“Dayan was home at the time?”
“No.” Henke’s annoyance caused his eyes to squint. “I just said that to make a point.”
She gave him her best smile. “You said Peter Jones let himself in. He had a key to the apartment?”
“Yeah. And that other high-and-mighty magician, the one that ate the roller coaster—Maxwell. I tell ya, those people are nuts.” He shook his head and jingled the keys in his pocket. “All that black magic mumbo jumbo. I see stuff, ya know. I know what’s going on.”
Cheri nodded to show she believed him. “What did you see that made you think of black magic?”
Henke hesitated. “Well, I don’t know if it’s black magic exactly, but I tell ya, they’re into some evil religion that sacrifices animals. I seen ‘em last Halloween all leaving in some hooded get-ups, carrying these big, thick candles…let’s see, some coiled ropes…” He cocked his head. “And mirrors, too.”
“Halloween? Everybody’s nuts on Halloween,” Pizzarelli said.
“Yeah, but I saw ‘em again a couple of months ago, dressed the same way, carrying the same things, with a kid I’d never seen before. A nice-looking boy, he was. Maybe fourteen, fifteen… it’s hard to tell these days the way kids dress, ya know?”
“The summer solstice, you think?” Cheri said to Pizza. “Mr. Henke, Can you remember the month and the day?”
“I dunno the exact date. ’Round the end of June.”
“And you know they sacrifice animals because…?” she prompted.
In an indignant move the old man straightened his body. “Everybody knows human sacrifice is part of black magic. All magicians do that in their religious beliefs, and they don’t want nobody to know about it. But I don’t discriminate. That’s their business. I rent to everybody, no matter how crazy their religion. I just don’t like being talked down to.”
Cheri reached down to the floor and pick up a photo that had been knocked from a dusty sideboard. She set it on the tabletop and turned two more upright. “Hey,” she said to Pizza. “Dayan Franklyn and Peter Jones together, here and here, looking real friendly.”
“Boy-boy friendly,” Henke smirked.
Pizzarelli said, “You think?”
The landlord peered at the photos on the sideboard, looking pleased for the opportunity to peek into the lives of a tenant. “They’re gay. Plain as day.”
“Mr. Henke, do you know where Dayan Franklyn might be right now?”
Inside his plaid shirt, Henke’s skinny shoulders raised. “With his lover?”
CHAPTER 30
Wednesday, August 10, 2 p.m.
This kid has real talent, Digbee decided. From the side, he watched him work the mechanism that guided the Woman Sawed in Half effect as he dramatized the story that went with the illusion.
“Slow down your patter, Tom,” he said. “You want to draw out the suspense, have your audience on the edge of their seats in awe. To do that, you must speak more confidently and dramatically.”
Business at The Rabbit & The Hat was slow on Wednesday afternoons, and Tom had skipped his last classes so that they could have the afternoon to work together in the back room. Tom stood on the small stage Digbee had built into the room for practice performances. Even though the room was icily air-conditioned, Tom’s tee shirt was already sweat-soaked.
“I know you’re nervous,” he said in a soothing tone, “You must trust me. Everything will be fine.”
Tom smiled, a natural boyish grin that almost dimpled his chin, that Digbee knew audiences would respond to and love.
“Let’s strike the apparatus and start from the beginning.” A wave of exhilaration heightened his senses. That special high that emanated from the excitement in the younger man’s face as he discovered the world of magic. It was almost like working with Maxwell again.
Maxwell. What a glorious time they’d had together. What a glorious son-of-a-bitch he turned out to be, he thought bitterly. The more powerful the other man had become, the blacker his heart had turned, leading Digbee to fantasize about how it would all end. How it had ended, in reality, had not been something he’d foreseen. Maxwell had performed the ultimate sucker effect.
“Show me again what you do here to separate the body. Should I be turning the apparatus and moving my hands more quickly?” Tom asked.
“You’re doing that part fine. You just need more practice.” He showed Tom the move again.
After another hour had passed, Tom began to show signs of fatigue and Digbee decided it was affecting the performance. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That’s enough of that for today. Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk. Leave that stuff there. I’ll attend to it later.”
From the cupboard he removed a crystal decanter and set it on the stained Formica counter amid the array of plastic spoons and chipped coffee mugs. “I like to have a little boost in my coffee,” he said. “Want to try it? I won’t tell.”
Tom grinned. “Sure. What is it?”
“A liqueur called Frangelica. It’s sweet, like the amazement of the crowd when you’ve dazzled the bejeesus out of them.”
Tom’s laugh was hearty. The laugh of the gusto of youth, Digbee thought, and realized he liked to see Tom laugh. He appreciated the natural ability Tom had shown in his hand and eye coordination, the fluid movements of his body about the stage. He was glad the boy had come to him to help him with his magic.
They settled themselves on two barstools. “Have you thought about your future? What you want to do when you finish school?” he asked.
Tom shook his head and shrugged. “I love magic. And I don’t see that I really need a high school diploma to do it. You’ve taught me more in two hours than I’d ever learn in school.”
Warm pride made Digbee thoughtful. “Don’t think that magic doesn’t take a lot of work and dedication…”
“Oh, I don’t.” Tom took a sip of his coffee. “I like it—the Frangelica, I mean.”
“Good.” Digbee set his coffee mug on the counter. He clasped his hands between his knees, then unclasped them and began rolling on his finger the gold ring on the middle finger of his left hand. “There’s something I want to tell you. It may be a bit premature. However, I have a sense that you have greatness in you.”
Tom grinned his surprise, and when he started to speak Digbee held up one hand.
“Hear me out. If you work hard in the coming months, by next June I’ll have a surprise for you. I’m not going to tell you now what it is, just trust me, it’s something that will take your magic talents to a level you cannot imagine. It’s a secret I taught Maxwell, and I want to teach it to you.”
CHAPTER 31
Wednesday, August 10, 3 p.m.
“Break time. I’m famished,” Cheri said. Back in the Explorer, headed up Maryland Parkway, she added a preference for Italian food.
Pizzarelli made a sour face.
“I know you hate it, and you just stuffed yourself with a bagel, but I found this great little place in the Albertson’s shopping center. I’ve been dying to try it. Tom and Bon love Italian, but with our crazy schedules, it’s hard to get all of us together to go out to dinner. I’d like to be able to tell them about it.”
Pizzarelli pretended disgust, but she knew he was going to humor her. “You can eat eggplant parmesan,” she suggested.
Since it was well after the lunch rush, they had no trouble getting a table in the small neighborhood restaurant. Cheri was pleased to discover that Mama DePalma’s Pizza and Bistro offered a nice selection of Italian specialties at reasonable prices, did a good take-out business, and offered home delivery as well. Maybe Friday night she could treat Tom and Bonni…
They were greeted by the owner, who introduced herself as An
gelique. A curvy physique to match the name, Cheri thought, eyeing the red tee shirt she wore with black letters that spelled, “Nice Strombolis.”
As Angelique showed them to a table, Cheri could almost see Pizza’s interest in Italian food rise several notches. He gave Angelique his best smile as they sat down. He ordered the eggplant stromboli and a side of sautéed onions and peppers. Cheri thought, you’d never know he normally ran from Italian food because his mother’d been a rotten cook.
“So where’s Dayan Franklyn?” Cheri mused out loud. Their visit to the protégé’s stuffy Mayfair Arms apartment had turned up nothing new. As friendly as the landlord had been, he’d watched their every move, hovering over them as if he thought they’d steal something.
“Peter?” they both said in unison.
“You’d think,” Pizzarelli said. “But I got the impression when we were at Larissa’s house that he doesn’t know, and he’s not happy about it.”
She swallowed a big gulp of a glass of water with a lemon slice and said, “Plenty of motives, lots of suspects.”
“All of them magicians. I’m starting to feel like the whole world is made up of magicians.”
“Maxwell’s world, anyway.”
“A missing protégé and a missing video DVD that could be incriminating.”
Angelique brought a basket of warm garlic knots, set them on the table, and returned to the kitchen.
Pizzarelli leaned into the basket, inhaled deeply and picked up one of the bread pieces. “Suitcases in the closet,” he said. “Wherever Franklyn went, don’t think he planned to be gone a long time. These knots are good—have one. Who’s your favorite on the suspect list?”
She helped herself to the basket. “Right now, Edmund Meiner. He’s got motive, ability, and opportunity.”
“So does Larissa—maybe Regine not so much.”
Cheri chose to ignore the women for the moment. “Let’s follow the money. Where would the millions be if Meiner did embezzle them?”
“Find the money, find the DVD, it’ll come together,” Pizzarelli said, his eyes following Angelique as she moved around the kitchen. “Don’t forget the fifty million reasons why Larissa would kill him.”
Magicide Page 13
