Magicide

by Carolyn V. Hamilton

  “Molly, go back and sit down. I’ll handle this.” Dayan’s father lowered his rattily voice. “Woman doesn’t take care of herself,” he muttered. “It’s all we can do to get by here, see? The wife’s medication takes most of our social security checks. I don’t care what Dayan’s doing with that man for money, but he could send a little this way, don’tcha think? It’s that magician’s fault. Dayan was always a good boy till he hooked up with”—he spat the word—“Maxwell.”

  Mr. Franklyn was willing to talk, but most of what he had to say were derisive judgments against the man he believed had corrupted his son.

  Cheri realized they weren’t going to get much further here and cut him off in the middle of his diatribe, thanking him for his time.

  Pizzarelli handed him a business card, which the man took before he closed the door. At the same time the porch light snapped off, leaving the two detectives to pick their way carefully down the porch stairs in the dark.

  “Not much new there,” she said, clicking on her flashlight. “Notice we have yet to find anybody with something nice to say about Maxwell. Dayan may be the only person.”

  “It would take some magic to get a kid a life better than this,” Pizzarelli said. “So why would he kill his golden goose?”

  She hit the key pad that unlocked the Explorer and they got inside. “That’ll be our first question when we find him.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Wednesday, August 10, 10 p.m.

  Cheri frowned as she turned into her driveway. No lights on in the house. She hit the clicker to open the garage door and pulled the Explorer inside. She collected her duty bag and keys and got out. Not even a whisper of rap or any other kind of music in the house. She let herself into the kitchen and called, “Tom?”

  No answer. Okay, Tom was sixteen and driving, but they’d agreed that on a school night he’d be in by ten p.m. A quick search of the house confirmed what she’d suspected. She scanned the counters and tabletops—no note from Tom saying where he’d gone, or note from Bon that he may have called and left a message.

  She hadn’t realized she’d been slamming doors and making so much noise until Bonni poked her head out of her bedroom with a quizzical expression. “What’s happ’nin?”

  She didn’t bother to apologize. “Where’s Tom?”

  Bonni, wearing nothing but bikini panties, yawned. “How would I know? I was sleeping—in fact sleeping just fine until you came home. I set my alarm for two.”

  “Was he here when you went to bed?”

  “Nope. Came home from school, let’s see…early, got a phone call, left.”

  “I suppose it’s too much to ask you to remember if he said where he was going?”

  “Hey, I’m not his mother,” Bonni snapped.

  Cheri clasped her arms tightly around her chest as if to hold in her exasperation. “Bon, we had a deal. When I let you move down from Seattle, you said you’d help me around the house, you’d help me with Tom. Kind of help me look after him. The hours I keep—“

  “Are your own choice. Just like I have to work graveyard because I chose to take the first job I could get so I could pay you rent.”

  This argument was going nowhere Cheri wanted to go. She let her arms relax and sighed. “I’m sorry, hon. I’m just so worried about Tom. He’s not keeping his end of our cell phone bargain, and I don’t know what to do. I know I can’t keep track of him every minute, but this fascination with magicians has me totally off center.”

  The hurtful expression on Bonni’s face softened. “He’s a big guy, kiddo. He can take care of himself. When I was his age—”

  Cheri held up both palms. “No, no, don’t tell me. Too much info.”

  “You worry too much.” Bonni smiled. “And you know why the magic thing bothers you so much.”

  Cheri couldn’t bear to have that conversation again, and especially not right now. “Go back to sleep, Bon,” she said, turning away. She couldn’t even tell her own sister that her new fear was that her son might be keeping company with a killer.

  CHAPTER 36

  Thursday, August 11, 7:30 a.m.

  After a restless sleep—she’d lain awake until she heard Tom come home at 12:30 a.m.—Cheri awoke with a headache.

  A shower and two aspirin helped, and by the time she was dressed and in the kitchen she was ready to confront her son about his late previous-night activity.

  When she started to make coffee, she discovered the canister empty. Didn’t anybody in this house keep track of anything? When something ran out, Bon should either buy it or tell her.

  She thought the noise she’d made in the kitchen would draw Tom down from his room, but now she realized the house was quiet. She leaned her head to her shoulder, ear upward, but could hear no sounds of running water from his bathroom or overhead footsteps in his room.

  She went upstairs and discovered that while his bed had been slept in, Tom was not in the house. He had apparently risen early and already departed for school. A good sign or a bad sign? A bad sign, she decided, annoyed that now she’d have to put off their talk until evening.

  * * *

  In the break room at South Central, Cheri regarded the coffee carafe with its quarter inch of coffee, boiled to mud. On the cupboard above the hotplate was a hand-written sign that read, “Clean up after yourself. Your mother doesn’t live here.” One thing police guys sure couldn’t do was make coffee. She dumped the pot, rinsed it out, and began to brew a fresh one.

  She thought about why she hadn’t slept well. Her mind had been busy rehashing the matter of who was responsible for the deaths of Maxwell and the six roller coaster committee members. Why did this case bother her so? Because it involved magicians? Because she sensed Tom was in danger? But what danger could he really be in? So many questions with answers she couldn’t grasp. Why couldn’t everything in her life be balanced on the easy side for a change?

  Pizzarelli was seated in his swivel chair when she walked into the office. He leaned forward and she cocked her head. No familiar squeak.

  “W-D Forty?”

  He nodded. “Desk sergeant Adams did it. Said the squeak drove him nuts.”

  “So where are we this morning?”

  “Who’s your favorite suspect on the Maxwell case?”

  Tom’s comment about Robert the Great being a mentor came to mind, and she didn’t immediately answer. She started to sit down and then changed her mind.

  “Off the top of your head,” Pizzarelli said, tapping his pen against the desk with impatience.

  Arms crossed, she walked to the window and stared beyond a vacant expanse of the desert to the I-15 freeway. “Okay, off the top of my head—Dayan Franklyn. Where is he, anyway? If he’s not guilty, why has he disappeared?”

  “My pick, too.”

  “He’s definitely a subject needed for questioning in this investigation. Let’s put out an ATL for him.” An attempt-to-locate could sometimes produce results faster than footwork.

  “I think some people know more than they’re telling. Digbee and Meiner, for two.”

  “And Peter and his mother for three and four. Then there’s the girl friend, Regine.”

  Pizzarelli shook his head. “Still can’t get over that operation thing. I’ll never look at red hair the same again.”

  She turned and circled his desk, too restless to sit. “All of them were present the night of the performance. They all have motive, not to mention opportunity, intent and capability.”

  “That’s what bothers me.” He patted a tiny piece of paper on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving. “Dayan Franklyn—what’s his motive? Maxwell was good to him, supported him financially, taught him everything, even did his teeth. A young magician couldn’t possibly have a better tutor. Why would Franklyn want him out of the way?”

  “It’s kind of a stretch, but maybe he thought he was ready to take Maxwell’s place as a master illusionist.”

  Pizzarelli shook his head. “Don’t think so. He could’ve left h
im, gone off on his own. I don’t see intent there. Peter was going to inherit everything—no money there for Franklyn. He’s the only magician without a decent motive.”

  “Except that Dayan filmed the ritual and made the DVD. Maybe he wanted something on Maxwell so that if Maxwell found out about his relationship with Peter, he couldn’t drop him. But why kill him?” She walked to her desk and finally sat down. “You’re right. He does seem to be the only magician without motive.”

  “That we’ve found yet—he’s also the only one missing. Now it looks like we have a missing person in addition to a homicide. And the money missing from Maxwell’s accounts isn’t in Edmund Meiner’s account.”

  She fingered the corners of some papers on her desk. “Let’s not forget, according to Peter, Dayan had the incriminating video. He could have held it over Maxwell’s head to get whatever he wanted. He could have blackmailed him. He and Peter were lovers—maybe the two of them were in on it together and quarreled over what to do with it.”

  “My coffee’s cold,” Pizzarelli said. “And you haven’t had any yet.” He rose from the swivel chair, cup in hand, and she followed him to the break room. He took a fresh mug from the cupboard, set it on the counter next to his own and poured coffee from the fresh pot.

  “Thanks,” she said, “How about we all chip in and buy a new coffee pot with some gourmet coffee that isn’t over-roasted to go with our new offices?” She raised her mug, considering their next move. “Let’s go talk to Robert the Great. He was technical advisor. Let’s see if he has more to shed on what happened.”

  Pizzarelli took a cautious sip of the hot coffee. “Both good ideas. Good-bye, Fourbucks.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Thursday, August 11, 9:45 a.m.

  At The Rabbit & The Hat, Robert Digbee had just walked to his front door and had keys in hand when he saw in the parking lot the two detectives get out of an SUV. They were headed in his direction, all brisk-looking and business-like. They squinted from the bright sunlight, which he thought made them look even more menacing.

  Before he could lock the door and disappear into his workshop they’d spotted him. The badges they displayed glinted in the sun. “Robert Digbee?”

  “I haven’t got time to talk to you,” he said abruptly. He rattled his keys. “I’m closing this morning. Important appointment.”

  “We could do it later at the station,” Pizzarelli said, matching Digbee’s hurried tone. “Your choice.”

  Digbee scowled. He really didn’t want this distraction now. The boy was coming. He had magic business in the workshop and later at the hotel, where he would evaluate the sounds and lights and staging for his forthcoming performance. Maybe he’d take the boy with him. Give him a taste of the real thing. “Five minutes, then.” He opened the door and the detectives followed him into the shop.

  Pizzarelli eyed the magic magazines, costumes and paraphernalia for sale. “Amazing place you have here. How long have you owned it?”

  “Is that what you want to talk about?” Digbee asked rudely.

  “Not really,” Cheri said. “We want to ask you about Dayan Franklyn. You know him, don’t you? When did you see him last?”

  “Maxwell’s protégé. He was supposed to help with the production of the roller coaster escape.” His voice filled with disgust. “I saw him backstage about six o’clock in the evening. I sent him to help Maxwell dress, and I never saw him after that.”

  “So you’re saying you haven’t seen him since Monday night?” The detective picked up a beginner’s magic kit and turned it, appearing to read the back.

  Knowing he wasn’t here to buy, Digbee took it out of his hand and placed it back on the display. “No. When I do, he’ll have some questions to answer.” He turned to Cheri. “Is that all?”

  “Not quite. What do you think of Dayan, him being Maxwell’s protégé and all?”

  Protégés. A magician’s dream—to pass on the legacy to a worthy “son”—or his worst nightmare. Digbee hesitated, at the same time curious and suspicious of this line of questioning. “Do you think he murdered Maxwell?” he asked.

  “We don’t have any evidence of that, as yet,” Pizzarelli said. “But we’d sure like to talk to him. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  “You try his apartment?”

  Pizzarelli nodded. “Landlord hasn’t seen him. Nobody seems to know where he is.”

  “Well, I can’t help you. I never approved of the effort Maxwell put into the boy’s career, but that was his business.”

  Cheri produced a digital notebook and began tapping its keys. “Why didn’t you approve?”

  “He should have put that energy into helping Peter. Peter has great talent that he’s wasting on kids.” He jingled his car keys. “I have things to do. Are we done here?”

  “No,” Pizzarelli said. “What can you tell us about the religion Maxwell was involved in? Some kind of magician’s thing?”

  Robert Digbee shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked at his watch. Magic as a religion had never been a comfortable subject for him. How had these detectives sniffed out that track? Edmund Meiner, no doubt. The idiot couldn’t keep his mouth shut, had probably let something slip.

  “Sooner you answer our questions, the sooner you’ll be off for your appointment.”

  Could he put them off by offering to come later to the station to answer their questions? No, later he would be at the theater, and he needed all his powers of concentration for the Bullet Catch. Still, he summoned a relaxed tone and tried. “Can we talk about this later?”

  Pizzarelli ignored the question and pressed. “We want to know about the summer solstice ritual up on Sunrise Mountain.”

  “It’s nothing. Just an annual thing Maxwell does for publicity,” Digbee said smoothly. “Ancient Celts believed midsummer, when the sun is at its highest, was the time to celebrate the power of the God and Goddess. The Goddess is pregnant and the God is most virulent, at his greatest strength.” Suddenly his words came fast and hard. “Maxwell tells everybody the summer solstice ritual renews his powers. The fans love it—they eat it up. It helps his reputation.”

  Cheri said, “I read that ancient pagans celebrated midsummer by building a big bonfire to boost the sun’s energy so the harvest would be good and people jumped over the fire for luck.”

  “Well, whatever.” Digbee jingled his car keys again.

  “Is this a black magic religion?” Pizzarelli asked.

  “Of course not. I don’t know anything about black magic religions.”

  “But you’re a master magician. You would—if they existed—right?”

  “If they existed. I’m telling you, nobody pays any serious attention to that stuff.” He shook his head vehemently. “Whatever you’ve heard, don’t believe a tenth of it. You can’t imagine the rumors that spread in the magic community at the slightest provocation. Magicians are notoriously jealous of each other, and all of them were jealous of Maxwell.”

  “Were you jealous of Maxwell?” Cheri asked.

  Digbee felt his face redden. “Of course not. I taught him everything he knows. Now, if you’re through, I have to go.”

  Pizzarelli gave him a friendly smile. “We appreciate your help.”

  He opened the front door for the detectives and desert heat swooped in.

  The detective paused in the doorway and said, “Oh, by the way, one of the people in the roller coaster was substituted at the last minute. His wife took his place and she died in the crash. How would that affect the stunt?”

  Digbee sighed in frustration. “Throwing the weight factor off affects the speed of the car. If a lighter person was in the car, it would travel faster down the track. The second-count timing that the magician would be counting on would be thrown off.”

  “Who was in charge of managing the people who were supposed to ride in the car?”

  “The technical director, me. I talked to all the people in the committee before the ride. The big guy was eating
a hamburger he wasn’t supposed to be eating. I made him throw it away.”

  “He told us a vendor came through with a tray of burgers for everyone and said it was okay to have one. Did you see anyone else eating?”

  “What vendor? The committee was secluded in a green room. It was off-limits to anyone else.” The green room was a stage and television designation for a room where performers gathered to wait before going onstage. Behind Digbee the automatic air conditioning in the building kicked on. He glared at them, calculating how much money he was losing by keeping the door open for detectives who didn’t budge.

  Cheri said, “So they were all there by themselves when you left them?”

  “Yes. Look, I must excuse myself.”

  Pizzarelli thrust a business card at him. “If you hear from Dayan Franklyn, we’d like a phone call. Otherwise, that’s it for now.” He stepped through the doorway, his gaze now towards the parking lot, “but don’t leave town.”

  The old magician pocketed the card without a glance and gave them a sarcastic sneer. “You must be kidding,” he said, closing the door in Cheri’s face.

  * * *

  In his workshop Robert Digbee peered at the air conditioning thermostat. The day promised to be another August scorcher. The overhead unit continued its steady, reassuring throb of sound, and he decided against turning it up to max.

  The chill he felt in his body had nothing to do with air conditioning. Images of Maxwell’s summer solstice ritual danced in his head. Had those detectives thought it was black magic? What did they know? More importantly, how did they know? How had they found out about the taping? Maybe not Meiner’s big mouth. Had that little prick, Dayan, told them? This whole thing was getting out of hand. It would require his greatest powers of concentration to remain calm in order to deal appropriately with the dark evil rising around him.