Magicide

by Carolyn V. Hamilton

  Since the night of Maxwell’s death, he’d left a multitude of messages on Dayan’s recorder, none of which had been returned. Now the recorder was full and wouldn’t accept any more messages. No answer on his cell phone, either.

  Peter had expected him to call after the event to share all the details of the evening’s success. After Maxwell’s death, he expected Dayan to call to commiserate. When he didn’t hear from his lover, his initial reaction had been confusion. Now he was angry.

  Did Dayan know he’d given the DVD to Carter for safekeeping? Anyway, Dayan wasn’t actually on camera. His voice could not be recognized since he hadn’t spoken. With the right story, Dayan’s involvement could be denied.

  As for the content, everyone in the magic community knew about Maxwell’s supposed “secret” to his success. A lot of them had probably heard about the DVD⎯news, especially bizarrenews, traveled fast among magicians⎯but nobody else had seen it.

  Peter stood in the middle of the kitchen, feeling paralyzed. He had to move, to do something, to take action. He picked up the garage door opener. He snatched his car keys from their hook by the kitchen door.

  A cold blackness crept through him as he got into his Lexus, raced down Eastern to Warm Springs, and finally turned onto Maryland Parkway.

  Had Dayan somehow gotten the DVD from Carter and skipped town? Did he plan to blackmail the two others? Had Carter been afraid to tell him Dayan had it? Was that the real reason Carter wouldn’t give it back? Maybe Carter felt guilty that he’d given the DVD to Dayan without asking Peter’s permission.

  Or—maybe Carter was in with Dayan on the whole thing.

  These thoughts slithered inside Peter’s head like writhing snakes, and a dark knot of anxiety cramped his stomach. Dayan had such a sweet disposition, yet deep down Peter could no longer deny that there was a side to his lover that was only interested in what was best for Dayan.

  He pulled up in front of the Mayfair apartments and parked as close as he could to number 118. The building maintenance man who trimmed scrubby bushes next to the cracked sidewalk raised his hand in greeting.

  Peter didn’t acknowledge the hello as he climbed the steps, withdrew the key from his pocket, and opened the door. He stepped into the gloom and closed the door behind him.

  A fierce smell brought nausea into in his throat, a warm pungent smell of things in a space that hadn’t felt fresh air or air conditioning for several hot days. He made a disgusting cough, and called, “Dayan?”

  His eyes swept the room, adjusting to the darkness. He was shocked to see that the living room was unusually disheveled⎯couch cushions on the floor, the Indonesian carved box Dayan kept on the coffee table upended, its contents spilled across the surface. Alarm replaced anger as he moved to the bedroom.

  “Damn, Dayan, where the hell are you?”

  The bedroom was a shambles. Drawers hung open, clothes scattered everywhere, the sheets and blanket torn completely from their mattress-folded corners.

  He moved into the bathroom and gagged. The odor, overpowering, seemed to emanate from the shower stall. Stepping carefully around the items from the medicine cabinet that were strewn on the floor, he swept aside the shower curtain. The body curled near the drain was not his lover—it was just a dead rat. Relief entered the mix of emotions that warred inside him.

  Back in the bedroom, his eyes took in the contents of boxes previously tucked away on closet shelves, now scattered about the dusty carpet.

  What had happened here? Obviously, someone had taken this place apart. Looking for the DVD? Of course⎯what else could they be looking for? Dayan always wore what little jewelry he owned.

  He’s gone, Peter thought. I’ll never see him again.

  Cloaked in a mantle of fearful abandonment, Peter fled the apartment, not bothering to lock the door behind him. He ran down the path as the man by the bushes called out, “Peter⎯?”

  He drove mindlessly out onto Maryland Parkway, traveling sixteen miles over the speed limit. Everything his father touched turned to shit. Maxwell was dead, and he’d left behind a legacy of double-crossing lies and deceit.

  Like his father, Dayan didn’t love him.

  CHAPTER 42

  Thursday, August 11, 4 p.m.

  Luckily Cheri had remembered to retrieve from the cleaners the navy blue sweater she normally kept in her locker. Now interrogation room one was overly air-conditioned. She wore the sweater over her sleeveless knit top and black slacks.

  Edmund Meiner, sitting across from her at the table, seemed perfectly comfortable—tie and white shirt loosened at the neck, sleeves rolled up. Pizzarelli looked comfortable as well. Men just didn’t feel heat and cold the same way women did, she mused.

  Lab Tech Jen Koek stood at the edge of the table. A single woman in her early forties, Koek had the tired eyes of someone who had seen too much at an early age.

  Cheri always thought Koek kept herself looking mannish, with no makeup and hair in a butch cut, to ward off any potential romantic interest from the opposite sex. One of Jen Koek’s gloved hands pointed a swab at Meiner’s mouth. “Open, please.”

  Now that Maxwell’s personal coordinator had been picked up and brought in, Cheri planned to ask him more questions. The DNA sample would be compared with the blood splatters on the accounting book, and his fingerprints would be compared with the second set of unidentified prints on the jump cuffs substituted at the last minute in the roller coaster escape. But she still had a lot of how and why questions.

  Meiner, clearly unhappy about this new ordeal, opened his mouth as instructed.

  “Thank you,” Koek said. “Anything else, detective?”

  Cheri rubbed the tops of her arms through her sweater. “No. Get back to me with the print report as soon as you can, though.”

  “It’s in the works.”

  She watched the lab tech exit the interrogation room, then turned back to the man at the table. “So, Mr. Meiner,” She said in her friendliest tone, “how about telling us how blood splatters came to be all over the accounting book?”

  “They’re not all over it. Just that page.” He gave her a sullen glare. “We had a fight over it.”

  “We? As in you and Maxwell?”

  He nodded. “He pulled a knife from a trick pocket in the sword in the hallway. He threatened me with it. We got into a terrible struggle. Both of us were cut.” He fiddled with the end of his tie. “The blood got on the book because it was open on the desk.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  As if a scrim had fallen over Meiner’s face, his eyes softened.

  “I worshipped Maxwell. He was the greatest magician alive. He was so successful, wealthy beyond our wildest imagination.”

  “And?”

  A pained expression caused his face to appear suddenly much older. “Maxwell accused me of stealing from him. How would he know? He barely paid any attention to his finances. I took care of everything. If it wasn’t for me, he’d have squandered all his money years ago. And there he was, accusing me of stealing. Furious at me.”

  Pizzarelli stood in front of the table with his arms folded. “Were you stealing from him?”

  Without raising his head to acknowledge the question, he said, “Certainly I deserved more than he gave me. He promised me so much in the beginning. I gave up a great career to help him. I don’t regret any of it, I just deserved more, that’s all. I deserved a percentage of all the money I made for him.”

  “Were you jealous of Dayan Franklyn?”

  “What magician wouldn’t be? Maxwell gave him everything. Time, attention, guidance⎯“

  “Money?”

  Meiner’s voice rose. “Yes, money. Especially money. I had to watch him like a hawk. The dentist thing was way over budget. Luckily I was able to negotiate a better rate with Dr. Danson than he’d initially quoted Maxwell.”

  “Is that Dr. Leonard Danson in the Quail Park Medical Center?” Cheri consulted her electronic notes. “He was listed in Maxwell’s r
olodex.”

  “That’s him.” Meiner’s voice turned sour. “Jaw reconstruction surgery and a full set of upper and lower caps for Dayan. He did do a good job.”

  Cheri leaned back in her chair. “That sounds extensive. Why so the jaw surgery?”

  “Maxwell thought Dayan’s face lacked what he called ‘character.’ That Dayan would look more dramatic under stage lights with a stronger jawline.”

  Where’s the knife that Maxwell used when you had the fight over your stealing?”

  “Schwartzy cleaned the cuts and bandaged them. I believe afterwards she took the knife from the room along with her medical kit. She probably washed it and returned it to its normal position in the sword case. Things like that are part of her job.”

  “We interviewed Trudy Schwartz,” Cheri said. “She never mentioned this fight.”

  Meiner’s tone was defiant. “Discretion is also part of her job.”

  “When did this fight take place?”

  “I don’t recall exactly.” Meiner’s eyes drifted upwards. “Let me think…maybe ten or twelve days before Maxwell died.”

  Cheri walked around the table, stood to the left of Meiner’s chair and purposefully positioned her body so that she was intimidatingly close to him, but leaning with her back against the table.

  “Sounds like you put up with a lot for his sake over the years. You must have been getting pretty tired of it, maybe even began to envy him or to hate him. You could have switched the handcuffs, even posed as a hamburger vendor and fed one of the committee a poisoned hamburger so he couldn’t ride in the car. A double insurance that Maxwell wouldn’t be able to escape in time.”

  Meiner’s wild eyes filled with desperation. “Maxwell was an icon. I idolized him. Of course, I didn’t kill him. So help me, God, I didn’t kill him.”

  “Detective Raymer?”

  She turned toward the young man who had entered the room. He wore a white coat, the stern expression of a new hire taking his job very seriously, and a badge identifying him as “Assistant ME.”

  “Good news?” she asked. The question was a standing joke between the detectives and the lab techies. “I’ll come out.” She left Pizzarelli with Edmund Meiner, followed the young man out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  He handed her a sheaf of papers. “Official coroner’s report on the autopsy of Maxwell Beacham-Jones. You’ll find the fourth page interesting. Lots of piercing on the fingers of his left hand from drawing blood. Beginning damage to the eyes and kidneys, signs of poor circulation, low blood sugar. Appears our magician had a reaction to an insulin overdose.”

  “Maxwell was a diabetic? That’s the cause of death?”

  “Probably, yes.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Probably?”

  “We can’t be sure he wasn’t already dead when the roller coaster hit him. The timing was awfully close.”

  “Thanks.” She returned to interrogation room one and handed the papers to Pizzarelli to read. Facing Edmund Meiner, she said, “Mr. Meiner, did you know Maxwell was a diabetic?”

  He heaved a sigh. “No, I did not…but I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. I suspected he had secrets he kept from me. Schwartzy might have known, though.”

  “Why would she have known and not you?”

  Meiner’s puzzled face took on a new expression. His eyes turned a cold gray that made Cheri think of stone in winter on Mt. Charleston. “She always made him German chocolate cakes. It was his favorite. She made them from scratch.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Thursday, August 11, 7 p.m.

  Carter’s hands vice-gripped the steering wheel of his Mustang. He felt like any minute he could explode. No trick—just explode from the weight of his burden and disappear into the universe, never to be seen again. Never to have dinner tonight with his parents. He’d always felt he could confide in them about anything and they’d reserve judgment until they had all the facts.

  This time the situation was more serious than anything he’d shared before. How would he tell them, he wondered?

  At Worthington Towers the valet took the car. Apparently Andrea sensed his mood because she didn’t speak as they rode in the elevator to the thirty-sixth floor.

  Inside the penthouse condominium, his father greeted them and offered drinks. While his father busied himself at the bar, Carter went to the large living room picture window. The sun was almost ready to disappear behind the Charleston mountain range.

  Where was the surge of confidence he usually felt when he gazed out at this incredible view of lights along the famous Las Vegas Strip? Tonight the dazzling display did nothing to distract his mind from his painful dilemma.

  “Here’s your vodka tonic,” Andrea said.

  He took it from her hand without a thank-you. She shrugged and went to offer Dawn help in her gourmet kitchen.

  Sam said, “I’ve been reading in the Post about Maxwell’s funeral tomorrow. You going?”

  “Yes.”

  “Speculation is Peter will inherit the estate, including all his father’s tools of the magic trade.”

  Carter sighed, turned his back to the window, and muttered, “I’m not sure he deserves it.”

  “Hey, do I detect a bitter tone?” Sam rattled the ice in his glass.

  “There’s just a lot going on the public isn’t aware of.”

  “Of course. That’s the nature of show biz, isn’t it?”

  His father’s constant confidence encouraged him. He had to say it now, while only the two of them were in the room. Easier that way. “I have the DVD.”

  “What DVD?”

  “The one of Maxwell and friends at the spring equinox that the police are looking for.”

  Sam’s eyes registered disbelief. “Is that why Maxwell was murdered?”

  “I don’t know. I just know a lot of people, including the press, would love to get their hands on the stuff that’s on that DVD. Peter’s been talking around that I was using it to blackmail Maxwell⎯”

  “Why would he say that?” Sam glared at his half-empty glass as if he saw Peter with the answer at its bottom.

  Carter hesitated. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his father about Peter’s sexual advance. Irrelevant, anyway. “Don’t know. But it’s not true. I’d never blackmail anybody.”

  “Of course not, son. Shame on Peter. He’ll get into trouble, spreading lies like that.”

  “Peter didn’t want Larissa to find it in the house, so he gave it to me for safekeeping.”

  Sam strode to the bar, picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels and refreshed his drink. He slammed the ice bucket on the bar, spilling ice on the marble counter. Both his hands and his voice shook. “So, what’s the big deal about this DVD?’

  “Maxwell does this every year, to ‘renew and strengthen’ his magical powers.” He raised his eyes from his drink to his father’s face. “He really believed that stuff, about black magic and rituals and all. Everyone’s heard about it. I never took it seriously, but he did. This year something went wrong. There was a kid—a teen-ager, for God’s sake—probably some runaway they picked up….” Carter stopped himself from going further.

  Sam took a heavy swallow of his bourbon. “Sounds like you have a decision to make.”

  “It looks as damaging as everybody says. The whole magic community is talking about it.”

  “What are you going to do, son?”

  “Peter wants it back. It doesn’t really belong to me, but I⎯”

  His mother’s voice interrupted. “Dinner’s served, all.”

  Andrea came out of the kitchen carrying a big bowl of salad. “Your favorite, mixed greens with avocados and pine nuts,” she said to Carter. “You were talking about Peter?”

  They took their places around the oval glass table. “It’s all right. Andrea knows about the DVD.”

  “What DVD?” Dawn asked.

  Sam’s eyes reflected a sober expression. “A video of Maxwell doing a magic ritual up on Sunrise Mountain.”
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  “So? He does that every year. His big grab for publicity.”

  “Apparently this time something happened that may have involved a death?” Sam’s voice went up at the end of his sentence in a question directed to Carter..

  “And that was what was filmed?” Dawn’s mouth remained open in shock.

  Carter felt Andrea’s agitated movement in the chair next to him as she folded and unfolded her napkin, placing it just so in her lap.

  Andrea murmured, “Peter didn’t want Larissa to see it. That’s why he gave it to Carter.”

  “Oh my God,” Dawn exclaimed. Her hand, holding her wineglass, froze in mid-air. “Baby, you have to take it to the police.”

  At the word police, Andrea turned her head sharply and stared at Carter.

  “It’s not mine to just do with what I want,” he said.

  Dawn was insistent. “It could be a clue to who murdered Maxwell and why. I don’t see that you have a choice here. Cheri Raymer would say you’re withholding evidence. You have a moral obligation to do the right thing.”

  Carter attempted a grin. “Spoken like a true mother.”

  “I’m only looking out for your well-being,” she said. “Pass the chicken, please. Sam? What do you think?”

  His father picked up the platter of roast chicken he’d been carving and said, “Your mother’s right, son. That DVD needs to be in the hands of the police. They’ll handle it.”

  “I don’t know...I gave Peter my word that I’d keep it safe,” Carter said. He glanced at Andrea, who averted her eyes as if she didn’t want any part of this decision.

  “Look at it this way.” Sam gestured with the carving knife. “If it’s as ugly as you say, better with the police than in the hands of anyone else—like the media. You don’t really want to see it on the eleven o’clock news, do you?”

  CHAPTER 44

  Thursday, August 11, 10:50 p.m.

  On the ride back to his apartment, Carter wondered, should I take the video tape to the police right away tonight or wait til morning? Maybe morning would be better. And how do I explain to the police what I’m turning in? How I came to have it? What if they think I had something to do with the ceremony? Like, what if they think I held the camera? How could I prove I didn’t?