by Steven Henry
Black Magic
The Erin O’Reilly Mysteries
Book Six
Steven Henry
Clickworks Press • Baltimore, MD
Also by the Author
The Erin O’Reilly Mysteries
Black Velvet
Irish Car Bomb
White Russian
Double Scotch
Manhattan
Black Magic
Death by Chocolate (coming soon)
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The Clarion Chronicles
Ember of Dreams
Copyright © 2019 Steven Henry
Cover design © 2019 Ingrid Henry
Cover photo used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Lia Koltyrina/Shutterstock)
NYPD shield photo used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Stephen Mulcahey/Shutterstock)
Author photo © 2017 Shelley Paulson Photography
Spine image used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Katerinina/Shutterstock)
All rights reserved
First publication: Clickworks Press, 2018
Release: CWP-EOR6-INT-E.M-1.0>ETSA01-1.1
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Sign up for updates, deals, and exclusive sneak peeks at clickworkspress.com/join.
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ISBN-10: 1-943383-54-5
ISBN-13: 978-1-943383-54-2
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For Aunt Mary
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Sneak Peek: Death by Chocolate
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About the Author
Also by Steven Henry
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Black Magic
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Muddle 12 fresh red grapes in the base of a shaker. Add ½ ounce Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge Liqueur. Shake with ice and strain into chilled fluted glass. Top with champagne and serve.
- OR -
In a cocktail shaker, combine ½ cup orange juice and ½ ounce triple sec over ice. Shake well and strain into a glass. Layer 1 ½ ounces black vodka on top by pouring slowly over an upturned spoon. Garnish with an orange wedge with one end dipped in black vodka.
- OR -
In a cocktail shaker, combine 2 ½ ounces black vodka, ½ ounce simple syrup, and ¾ ounce fresh-squeezed lime juice over ice. Shake hard for 30 seconds. Add a dash of edible pearl dust to the bottom of a martini glass and strain cocktail into glass. Add more pearl dust and stir with a bar spoon for extra sparkle and shimmer.
- OR, to treat a hangover -
Empty two 260mg capsules of activated charcoal into a small bowl. Whisk together the charcoal and 1 ounce honey syrup. In a shaker, combine with 1 ¾ ounces fresh lime juice and 2 ¼ ounces fresh beet juice over ice. Shake and strain into a rocks glass filled with fresh ice. The mixture should be jet black.
Chapter 1
“Five! Four! Three!”
Erin O’Reilly braced herself. She tried to look confident. She remembered what her dad had told her.
When you’re a cop, you always need to look like you’re in control. Especially when you’re not.
“Two! One!”
This was it. She took a deep breath.
“Happy New Year!”
She wasn’t quite close enough to hear the roar from Times Square. She was watching the ball drop on her brother’s TV set in his Midtown brownstone. Cars were honking their horns outside and people were cheering, all over the city.
Sean Junior put his arms around his wife, Michelle, and gave her a kiss.
“Eww,” Anna said, hiding her face in her hands. Erin’s niece had only just turned eight. She would think kisses gross for a few more years, thank God. Anna’s little brother, Patrick, hadn’t quite made it to midnight. He was curled up at one end of the couch, fast asleep in spite of the racket.
Erin turned to the guy she’d brought to their little New Year’s party. “How about it, partner? A kiss for good luck?” She bent over and brought her face close to his.
Rolf extended his tongue and licked her chin.
“Good boy,” she said and rubbed her K-9 behind the ears. She wasn’t feeling very celebratory, but spending the evening with her brother and his family beat drinking at home. And she’d been doing too much of that lately.
“You could’ve brought a date,” Michelle said. She raised her champagne glass and clinked it against Sean’s, then Erin’s.
“Dogs are better company than boyfriends,” Erin said.
“Says you,” Michelle said, winking.
“Anna, back me up on this,” Erin said. “Who would you rather have at a party? A boy, or Rolf?”
“Rolfie!” Anna said in tones of finality.
Erin shrugged. “I guess that’s settled.”
“Come on, Erin,” Michelle persisted. “You can’t not have a date on New Year’s Eve!”
“God, Shelley. You’re starting to sound like my mom.”
Michelle smiled. “Are you working in a police station, or a convent?”
“What’s a convent?” Anna asked.
“It’s where I’ll put you once the boys start sniffing around you,” Sean said. “Ow!”
Michelle pretended she hadn’t just shot her husband an elbow and kept looking at Erin.
“What?” Erin demanded.
Michelle raised an eyebrow and waited.
“Sis, I interrogate crooks for a living,” Erin said. “I’m not gonna give you anything.”
“So there is something,” Michelle said triumphantly. “Okay, spill.”
“No!”
“There must be a reason you don’t want to tell me,” Michelle said. “Let’s see. Oh, I know! It’s another cop. Maybe one your dad knows?”
Erin didn’t want to play this game. “Think what you want,” she said. “It’s late, and I work in the morning. Vic’s gonna be hung over, so I’ll have to pick up his slack.”
Michelle pouted a little. “Erin, something’s been bothering you all season, and I’m guessing it’s guy trouble. You were grumpy at Christmas.”
“I was not!”
It was Michelle’s turn to look to her family for support.
“I take the Fifth,” Sean said, turning his attention to the TV.
“Fifth what?” asked Anna.
“Amendment,” Erin said. “It’s something people say when they’re guilty but don’t want to say so. And I was not grumpy!”
“Yes, you were,” Anna said. “But it’s okay, Aunt Erin. We love you anyway.”
“She’s right,” Michelle said. “And you don’t have to tell me now. But you should probably tell somebody, sometime. The job you do, it’s not good to be distracted.”
Erin didn’t have an answer for that, because Michelle was right. She was distracted, it was guy trouble, and it was a problem. It’d been a little over two months since she’d let her emotions get the better of her judgment. As a result, she’d gotten too close to a man who was, to put it mildly, a risky relationship prospe
ct. Morton Carlyle was handsome, charming, and witty. He was also a mid-level member of the Irish Mob, a career criminal, and a very dangerous man to associate with. Erin had spent the past ten weeks trying to forget their last encounter had happened. She hadn’t succeeded.
Michelle was still watching her with sisterly concern.
It irritated Erin. “I’ve got plenty of worse things to worry about than whatever crazy ideas you’ve got about my love life,” she said. “You do know my job involves people who kill other people, right?”
“That’s true,” Michelle said. “But I’m not qualified to give you advice on that part of your life.”
Erin had to bite her tongue not to ask Michelle how being a stay-at-home mom qualified her to give advice on Erin’s relationship status. “I really do need to get going,” she said instead, draining the last of her champagne. “Thanks for having me over.”
“No problem,” Sean said, turning back toward her now that the girl talk seemed to be over. “Here, I’ll give you a good-luck kiss.” He planted a brotherly smack on her cheek.
“Me, too.” Michelle followed up on Erin’s other cheek. “You should come over more, Erin. Don’t be such a stranger.”
“Between my hours and hers, it’s a wonder she and I even know we’re still alive,” Sean said. He was a trauma surgeon who worked long night shifts, and Erin was a detective with the NYPD’s Major Crimes Division. “I just hope our professional lives stay separate.”
“Me, too,” Erin said. She got her jacket out of the hall closet. “Good night, Shelley, Sean, Anna. Hope this year is better than the last.”
“Always,” Sean said. “And I hope our jobs are boring and uneventful.”
Erin’s job stayed that way until she’d almost gotten back to her own apartment. Then her phone rang, and things got weird.
Chapter 2
“Where are you?” were the first words Lieutenant Webb said.
“South Manhattan,” Erin replied.
“You sober?”
“Yeah. What’s up?”
“Get to Midtown West right now. Theater District, Forty-Second Street.”
“On my way.” Erin’s heart lurched. She was thinking of all the things that could go wrong in a crowded theater. Fire, gas leak, bomb, active shooter.
Her car was an unmarked black Charger with a special compartment for Rolf in the back. She put on the siren and low-profile flashers and sped up. In October she and her squad had barely managed to stop a terrorist from blowing up a big chunk of central Manhattan. What if they were too late this time? “I’m ten to fifteen out,” she said. “What’ve we got?”
“One victim.”
“Just one?” Erin was relieved but confused. “Why isn’t Homicide handling it?”
“According to the responding officer, it’s a strange one,” Webb said. “Apparently our victim was cut in half.”
“In half?”
“That’s what I said.”
“We got any witnesses?”
“Apparently about six hundred.”
Erin wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “Six hundred?”
“O’Reilly, this will be a long conversation if you repeat everything I say.”
“What happened?”
“We’re going to figure that out. It’s our job, being detectives and all. Sounds like an actress got chopped up on stage, in the middle of a performance.”
“Jesus.”
“I don’t think so, but it’s a little early to rule out any suspects,” Webb said dryly. “I’m just about on site. Neshenko’s on his way. See you in a few.”
Broadway was packed with over forty theaters, but it wasn’t hard to tell which one was the crime scene. Half a dozen squad cars were out front, their blue-and-red flashers competing with the marquee lights. The sign over the theater proclaimed THE GREAT RONALDO’S PHANTASMAGORIA in blood-red letters. Big posters on either side of the entrance depicted a mysterious black-cloaked figure standing behind a screaming woman strapped to a table while a buzz-saw chewed through the wood. Under the circumstances, Erin found the posters in bad taste.
She parked with the rest of the police vehicles, retrieved Rolf from the back seat, showed her gold shield to the uniformed officers at the door, and went inside.
It was the busiest crime scene she’d ever investigated. People were everywhere. Most were in evening attire, suit coats and ties for the men, dresses for the women. Even the kids, and she was sorry to see a fair number, had on button-down shirts and cute dresses. Most of the kids, and more than a few adults, were crying. Others had stunned, shocked expressions on their faces and stared straight through whatever their eyes were pointed at. Erin had seen that look before, on survivors of car accidents and shootings.
A bunch of uniforms were doing their best to keep everyone in order, but there weren’t nearly enough cops on scene. Erin’s instinct was to pitch in and help. But she was a detective, and crowd control wasn’t her job. She worked her way through the lobby and into the auditorium.
Lieutenant Webb and Vic Neshenko were on the stage in front of the curtain. They were talking to a tall, thin man in a tuxedo and cape; presumably, the Great Ronaldo. The curtain had been drawn down by some quick-thinking stagehand, so the crime scene wasn’t visible to the audience, but Erin could see a garish fan of blood-spatter.
She and Rolf made it down to the front rows. The crowd thinned out here, and it wasn’t hard to guess why. Blood had splattered clean into the fourth row. She saw stains on the upholstery, on the floor, just about everywhere. The most disturbing thing was, several seat-backs had clean patches in the center, outlining where people had been sitting.
Erin planted her hands on the edge of the stage, careful to avoid the bloody patch, and levered herself up. Rolf leaped and scrambled up beside her. The two of them approached the other two detectives. Vic’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked about thirty percent drunk. She smelled liquor on Webb’s breath, too, but he didn’t show any outward sign of intoxication.
“O’Reilly,” Webb said. “Glad you’re here. This is Ronald Whitaker, otherwise known as the Great Ronaldo.”
The tall man made a slight bow and smiled thinly. He’d tried to wipe his face clean, but little spots of blood were visible around his eyebrows and his neat little black mustache and goatee.
“What happened?” Erin asked.
“If you wouldn’t mind going over it again,” Webb said to the magician. “From the beginning?”
“Yes, of course,” The Great Ronaldo said. “We were doing our show, everything was going great. The crowd was really engaged. You can feel it, when the house is with you. It’s an electric kind of thing, something special. Kat had a real spark to her tonight.”
“Excuse me,” Erin said. “Kat?”
“My assistant,” he explained. “Katarzyna the Gypsy.”
“That her real name?” Vic asked.
“No, that’s a professional name. She’s Kathy... Kathy Grimes.”
“Go on,” Webb said. He looked tired, too, but Webb always looked tired. Erin had never seen him without bags under his eyes.
“We’d just finished the knife-throwing, where Kat gets tied to a target and I toss knives all around her. Those are real knives, sharp ones.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Erin said.
The magician shrugged. “No trickery there, nothing fancy. Just hours and hours of practice. I can throw a knife blindfolded and I won’t hit something unless I mean to.”
“You were saying?” Webb prompted.
“We were all set for one of the big numbers, the table saw,” Ronaldo went on. “I tied her down, we got it running, and something went wrong.”
“Hold it,” Vic said. “That isn’t a real power saw, is it?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the curtain.
“Yes, it is,” Ronaldo said. “That’s part of the effect. We cut through a few things just beforehand, to prove it’s a real blade. For dramatic effect, building the tension.”
“But you don’t actually cut the girl in half,” Vic observed. “Usually.”
Ronaldo shook his head. “No, that’s never happened before.”
“We’re going to need you to show us how the trick is supposed to work,” Webb said.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not, exactly?”
“A magician can’t demonstrate his tricks to anyone, especially a non-magician.”
Webb took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling for a moment. If he was looking for patience, he didn’t find it there. “Mr. Whitaker,” he said, returning his gaze to the man, “this is a homicide investigation. Either we’re looking at a terrible accident, or premeditated murder. The amount of trouble you’re in will only increase if you don’t cooperate. We’re going to examine the device. Your choice is whether we do it with your permission, or without it.”
Ronaldo sighed. “May I rely on your professional courtesy and discretion, Detective?”
“Absolutely.”
“Let’s have a look at this thing,” Vic said.
Police officers saw a lot of death. It came with the job. As a first responder, Erin had come face to face with dead bodies at car accidents, in apartments, in back alleys. Everywhere people lived, people could die. Every cop learned to put on emotional armor, or else they burned out fast.
