Murder by Magic

by Catherine Vale

  So, dressed in a duplicate, but fresh, set of clothes, her wet hair restrained in a thick braid, she pulled on her jacket. Halfway to the door, she remembered her cell. It had disappeared in the sheets, and it took her longer to find it than was strictly necessary.

  With it in her pocket, she headed out to her car. There was no frost this morning, but it was just as cold. Her car started, and she let the heater run for a minute, trying to think of everything she knew about Vincent Parnell.

  The first thing that came to mind was lawsuits. Frequent, bitter, protracted. Parnell was a real estate mogul, one of the premier developers in the city. That was all well and good, but he had a penchant for buying low-rent properties, evicting the residents, and then building luxury apartments. Petitions had been sent to the Mayor—that would have been the previous Mayor, not Jason Lansing. Jason Lansing, and Vincent Parnell, had been in each other’s back pockets.

  Jessica pulled into the street, turning toward the Marchland Towers. It was on the Magnificent Mile, rising above other glittering high-rises, the upper floors commanding a spectacular view of Lake Michigan. And Parnell’s condo took up the top floor. God, this was going to be another forensic nightmare.

  The latest lawsuit, in a long string against Parnell, had been the headline on every paper of note in northern Chicago. Parnell had bought a block of high-end retail shops, including an art gallery, and several boutiques. Together, the owners had filed suit, in a desperate attempt to halt the purchase, and save their businesses. But the behind-the-scenes workings of Lansing, using the power of his office, and the very public workings of Parnell’s lawyers, had gotten the lawsuit dismissed on some obscure technicality. Pockets were lined, and the owners were displaced. And Parnell built another glittering building, full of luxury apartments.

  Jessica turned the car down the almost deserted Michigan Avenue. It was hardly dark, the light from the streetlights reflecting off the fronts of the buildings, creating an artificial daylight. She shivered, even though the car had warmed up. This was going to be worse than Lansing’s murder.

  The lights from the squad cars added their colors to those of the overhead lights, giving the whole affair the look of some bizarre circus. She pulled her car to the curb, turned off the engine, and listened to it ticking as it cooled. Her heart was already in her throat, and she kicked herself. This was her job; the job she’d wanted from the day she’d entered the Academy.

  Then why was this so damn hard? The work was demanding, yes, the crimes she’d been investigating the worse the City would throw at her. The promotion had made her giddy with excitement, for a short time at least. She’d celebrated…

  Don’t go there. The last thing she needed to think about now was that day, that little bubble of time between patrol, and starting in homicide. The last time she’d been happy. The last time she’d been with…

  “Stop it.” She banged the heel of her hand against the steering wheel. That hurt, but it jarred her out of that little trip down memory lane, and back to where she needed to be. There was a dead man, and it was her job to figure out what had happened. To find who had done it.

  The air was colder here, the wind funneled between the buildings, moaning through the housings of the streetlights. She locked the car, and walked toward the yellow tape. There was no way they could cordon off the whole street; there would be chaos and bedlam. Even in the early morning, there was enough traffic that someone would complain if they blocked the street. And there was nothing they could glean from a street with traffic, with pedestrians. If anyone ran that way, any trace would be long gone.

  There were no reports…yet. Jessica kept her head up, refusing to look over, refusing the overwhelming urge to look for Euros. But she knew by the tingle on her skin, the flush of goose bumps that rose on her skin, that he was close. Damn him. Damn him for still having that effect on her. How the hell did he get here so fast?

  Ahead of her, yellow tape extended across the whole width of the Marchland Building, out to the curb. She took out her badge, and showed it to the patrol on duty. It was a different uniform than last night. This one wasn’t green around the gills. He nodded at her, lifted the tape, and pointed her toward a small door beside the large double doors that opened into the main lobby.

  “You can go through there, then take the elevator. It’s a direct shot up to the penthouse.”

  The solid metal door was propped open, a faint dusting of graphite powder marring the surface of the handle, the frame. The door had no lock, but she saw on the wall to the side, tucked away in a discrete little alcove a keypad. Looking closer, she saw it too had been dusted with finger print powder. She didn’t hold much hope the killer had stopped on the street, punched in the code, and left her a pristine print. The surface of the buttons was smeared and greasy looking. Glancing back at the street, she wondered how many people stopped, punched buttons at random, hoping to penetrate the inner sanctuary of Parnell’s lair. She turned back to the patrol officer.

  “Is Carter here?”

  The uniform shook his head. “CSI has been here about twenty minutes, and they processed as much as they could here, so we could use this to access the penthouse. There’s a CSI guy at the elevator who’ll take you up.”

  She walked through the door, thinking this was a far different scene than Lansing’s. For one, no one had thrown up, no one was smoking a cigarette at her crime scene. Her heart sank a little. With a cursory glance, she could see a myriad of prints in the powder.

  The small lobby beyond was decorated…but she couldn’t exactly say it was done in a tastefully way. The carpet was probably expensive, but the pattern was garish. The wallpaper was flocked, something that made her think of her Aunt Lydia’s living room, last decorated in 1974. There was a half-round table against the wall, holding a statue of a nymph. At least she thought it was a nymph. She bent closer. The woman held a basket of fruit above her head, posing her in such a way to show off all her assets to their best advantage. Something sheer fell from her shoulder in an attempt at modesty, but all it served to do was make the perky little breast look all that more alluring.

  “No accounting for the tastes of the rich, is there?”

  Jessica turned toward the voice. The guy from CSI, Something Riley—she was going to have to learn names soon—wearing a white suit, stood in the open elevator, a fluffy brush in one hand, a jar of powder in the other.

  “You’ll be wanting to go up then.”

  “Yes. You’d make a good detective.”

  He smiled, then bowed as she entered the car. “Just don’t touch the buttons. Allow me.”

  With a flourish, and gloved hand, he turned a key in the panel where there were usually floor buttons. The doors closed, and the car began its smooth ascent to the penthouse.

  “You’ve processed this?”

  “Yes, we have. The victim is in the bedroom, closer to the service entrance. This lift hadn’t been used, as far as security could tell by the tapes, so we processed this first, leaving the other taped off. A whole team is going over that area. I’ve processed the floor, the doors, and the panel. The key was provided by security, unfortunately. No prints on that, but my own, and the guard who gave it to me.”

  She nodded. “Please note that in your report, and bag the key.” The man arched an eyebrow, but she was already looking closely at her surroundings.

  The car was plush, almost bigger than her living room, decorated in the same style as the lobby. “So it’s assumed whoever came and went used the back entrance, and that…” She arched an eyebrow at the man. “The lift? You’re not from here, are you?”

  “I see why you’re a detective, ma’am. I’m originally from London. Worked as a Scene of Crime Officer, before I met my wife…well, she wasn’t my wife then. But, you know what I mean. We married, came here. After I became a citizen, I switched initials. SOCO for CSI.”

  The elevator glided to a stop, so gently Jessica wasn’t sure it had reached the penthouse. The door slid open,
and she stepped out. With a final tip of his head, Mr. Riley turned the key, and disappeared, as the doors slid closed.

  She found herself in a foyer. Another table held another statue, this one of a couple entwined in a passionate embrace. The position was gravity-defying, but their faces were a study of blissful rapture. Beyond that, she could hear voices, and she moved down the center of the room, wondering where the hell the rest of the team was. And where was her victim?

  Then it hit her, the same tingle that she’d felt at Lansing’s home. It wasn’t as strong, just a brush of something against her skin, like smoke, there and gone. She turned, looking for…something…anything that would explain. A draft from the elevator, an open window. Craning her neck, she looked up, looking for an air conditioning vent in the ceiling.

  Lack of sleep, not enough coffee. “I’m losing it.”

  “Oh, Detective.” A white-clad woman appeared in the archway at the end of the foyer. “They said you were here. I was getting you some booties.” The woman held out a pair of blue paper booties in one hand, and the ever-present latex gloves. Jessica took the booties, slipped them over her boots, and then pulled on the gloves. She hated how they made her hands look, like fat little sausages, or bloated zombie fingers.

  “I’m Monica Vance, lead CSI.”

  “Detective Jessica Sharpe. Who was first on the scene?”

  Vance pulled out a black leather-bound note book, flipped it open, and began reading. “Henderson, and his partner, Schroeder. The call came in at 1:24 a.m. Patrol was almost on top of the building when the call came in. Henderson entered the building through the front lobby. Schroeder went down the alley to the rear. There’s a private entrance at the back of the building, near Parnell’s private parking garage. Schroeder reported that he saw no one near the entrance, which was closed. He then secured the entrance, and remained there. Henderson got the elevator key from the guard on duty, and accessed the penthouse via the public elevator.”

  “How did he get from the lobby to the elevator? I thought there was only one entrance from the street.”

  “There’s access to the elevator from the security guard’s CCTV room. Fire code requires it, from what I understand. The elevator has two sets of doors, one camouflaged in the paneling. Henderson entered the penthouse here…” Vance pointed to the foyer. “He made his way down the hall to the bedrooms…”

  “How did he know where to go?”

  Vance frowned, scanning her notes again. “The call came from the guard downstairs. He said an alarm had sounded, and that it had come from Parnell’s bedroom. He gave Henderson directions to the master suite, which he followed. Henderson made his way to Parnell’s bedroom, where he found the victim.”

  “Got it.”

  “If you’ll come this way…”

  Jessica tried to construct a mental image of the penthouse, as the woman turned down a hallway. The air felt strange here, like there was less oxygen or something. It made her dizzy. She stopped, shook her head. Vance looked at her, head tiled. Jessica turned away, looking for something to focus on, anything. She noticed that the hall ran in both directions. Yellow tape ran across the entrance, blocking access.

  “What’s down that way?”

  The woman turned, her white suit crackling. “The public side of the penthouse. Living room, dining room, library. Beyond is the kitchen. This way…” She pointed. “This is the private wing. Bedrooms, another study. Mr. Parnell’s office. And the private entrance. The elevator you took, is the entrance Parnell used for visitors, or business associates. It has a keypad at the street level, and the elevator needs a key.”

  “Yes. I asked that the key be bagged.”

  Vance nodded. “We’re working from the bedroom, where Parnell is, out through the rest of the apartment. For now, the public area is off limits. Henderson, and his partner, cleared the apartment, but he was careful, didn’t touch anything. This penthouse is quite large, four bedrooms, a dozen bathrooms. At least four, or five, public spaces, plus two dining rooms, a library, a den, office. Plus, rooms for the books and art.”

  Jessica frowned. “You mean two libraries?”

  Vance smiled. “Not exactly. There is a library, shelves and everything, what you’d expect. But apparently, Parnell had a penchant for collecting unusual books. The book room is…I guess you’d call it more of an art installation? The books are on display, like a gallery.”

  “What’s so unusual about them?”

  Vance bit her lip, the smile fading. “I guess it’s the subject matter I find unusual. The occult, manuscripts, arcane topics.” She shrugged. “My bookcase is full of bodice ripper romances, so maybe my tastes are limited. But they seemed rather creepy to me.”

  They’d started down the hall, Jessica sticking to the side that Vance indicated. “Henderson walked down here. His are the only footprints we could lift from the carpet with the electrostatic kit. As far as we can tell, it was vacuumed today, but no one had walked on it.” Vance pointed. Jessica could see little wheel marks, and the direction of the carpet fibers.

  “Vacuum cleaner marks. We’re trying to find the housekeeper. Parnell had apparently given the staff the night off.”

  “What staff?”

  “There’s a housekeeper, a cook and a part-time maintenance man.”

  “Did you do electrostatic?”

  “Yes. It was inconclusive. Some looked like Henderson’s. We’ve got his shoes.”

  They continued down the hall, Jessica glancing into open doors they passed. All the lights were on, and she saw there were many bedrooms, each themed with a color and decorated just as lavishly as the rest of the apartment. Each room also had yellow tape across the doorway.

  “How many bedrooms in total?”

  The voices ahead of them grew louder, and she recognized the voice of Dr. Greene.

  “The victim is in the master bedroom.” Vance pointed to a large double door, standing open, at the end of the hall. Beyond, Jessica saw movement, white-clad figures each doing their individual actions that, she hoped, would give her a lead in this case.

  “He’s beside the bed.” Vance stepped aside, and Jessica stepped into the room.

  The instant Jessica saw Parnell, her heart stopped for a split second, and then started up again in a sickening way. Her stomach turned, because as bad as it was to have a murdered body in front of her, what she saw made it worse.

  Parnell was on his back, one hand flung casually across his chest. He wore what probably had been white satin pajamas, and a dark paisley-patterned robe. The pajama top was soaked in blood, the fabric shredded, but only from the waist up. Parnell’s legs were stretched out, almost relaxed, and completely free of blood, the silk pristine.

  “Déjà vu all over again?”

  She looked up, and into the face of Dr. Greene. This time the face held no mirth, the eyes bloodshot, and pouched beneath with dark circles. It occurred to Jessica that he probably hadn’t gotten much sleep either—probably about as much as she’d gotten—in the past 24 hours.

  “Dr. Greene.”

  “I wish I weren’t.” He leaned back, the joints in his back cracking. “I’d trade pretty much anything to be anyone else now. Except…” He pointed down at Parnell with one long bony finger. “Except Mr. Parnell.”

  “What do you have so far?” She dreaded asking the question, and she was sure Dr. Greene dreaded the answer he had to give.

  “Knife, multiple wounds, none above the neck. I won’t know more until we get him back to the morgue, of course.”

  “Do you need me again to help you turn him over?”

  Dr. Greene looked behind Jessica, and she turned around to find Derek standing at her shoulder. He looked as grim as she felt.

  “I think we’ll find the same as we found last night. Through-and-through, severed aorta.”

  “You think it’s the same kind of weapon?”

  Dr. Greene held up his hand. “Can’t say until I do the post.”

  “Right. Yeah. I
know. But are there enough similarities?”

  The man looked at her and in his eyes, she read the answer before he spoke. “Enough. Yes. Through-and-through, probably into the floor. I suspect there will be a bruise from the hilt.” Dr. Greene stood, slowly, looking very much his age.

  They were silent for a moment, Dr. Greene staring up at them. Even Derek was still, for once not scribbling in his notebook. She finally broke the silence.

  “Rush on this post. I need to know…”

  “No. You don’t.”

  She spun around. Michael Ross stood behind her, hands folded in front of him, looking as if he’d just stepped out of his office for a cup of coffee.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said, you don’t need to know.” Ross’ expression was neutral, but she saw something hard flicker in his eyes. “As of now, you are no longer lead detective on this case. Or the Lansing case.”

  For the first time, she realized Fisher was behind Ross. The man swaggered forward, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his cheap brown suit. He fixed her with narrowed eyes, and an arrogant grin.

  “Dr. Greene, I’ll need the autopsy report from Lansing on my desk ASAP. And yeah, a rush on Parnell’s post.”

  Jessica stood in stunned silence. It didn’t make sense, couldn’t be…

  “Why?”

  Ross pulled himself up, looking down his nose at her, eyes glittering and cold. “The reason is on the floor at your feet, Detective. It was your job to find Lansing’s killer. And you failed. Now we have a second murder.” He took a step closer to her. A wave of his cologne washed over her, subtle, expensive. She resisted the urge to take a step back, held her ground.

  “You are not up to this task. You’re not seasoned, experienced enough.” His gazed flicked to Derek, and for a moment, a tiny glimmer of hope flashed through her. Second to Derek, yeah. I can handle that.

  “You work under Fisher. Desk duty; phone calls.” He nodded at Derek. “Carter, you're second.”