Magicide (16 page)

CHAPTER 40

Thursday, August 11, 1 p.m.

The subpoena issued by Judge Hayes included everything: business and personal checking accounts, accounts receivables and payables, appointment books, telephone records, letters and miscellaneous notes.

“Pretty much everything on paper,” Pizzarelli said when he read it. His smile told Cheri he couldn’t wait to get started. “This oughta do it.”

Washington had gathered a team ready to assist them in the search of Maxwell’s Twin Lakes mansion. As they drove across town, Cheri didn’t speak. Her thoughts were divided between the job at hand and her son at home.

Except that he wasn’t at home. She’d called the house four times beginning an hour after they’d left The Rabbit & The Hat. No answer. Was he still with Robert the Great? She told herself her imagination was working overtime, when what should be working overtime was her concentration on solving this case.

At the gates to the mansion, they were delayed and questioned by a new guard who had probably never seen so many badges and uniforms and cars. By the time they parked in front of the mansion, an indignant Edmund Meiner was already waiting at the front door. They flashed badges and paperwork.

“We’re coming in,” Pizzarelli said.

“You have no right to do this!” Meiner screeched. “It’s outrageous. Maxwell’s personal papers should go to a museum of magic, not some bourgeois police station!”

“Bourgeois?” Pizzarelli asked. “How do you spell that?”

This is making his day, Cheri thought. “Mr. Meiner, please show us the safe and open it for us.”

“The safe? You want to look in the safe?” His voice rose to shrill desperation. “What’s
with
you people? Is nothing sacred?” His superior demeanor gave way to a pinched expression.

“Safes are not sacred,” declared Pizzarelli.

“Mr. Meiner,” Cheri said, “This will all be a lot easier, and we’ll be out of here sooner if you cooperate. You don’t want the mess we’ll leave behind if we have to open it ourselves.”

Sputtering, the personal coordinator led them to one end of the dining room where a four-by-six-foot oil painting of Maxwell dominated the wall. Represented in full-length, the magician wore a long purple cape and an insolent stare. Piercing dark eyes seemed to follow every movement Cheri made in the room. She shook her head in a quick movement. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead, she thought.

“Help me with this,” Meiner said, his mouth a tight line. She turned her eyes away from the painting and nodded to two attending officers. The burly young men took down the painting with ease and leaned it none-too-gently against the desk.

“That’s a very valuable painting,” Meiner protested.

Pizzarelli pointed to the wall where the painting had hung. “The safe?”

For a home wall safe, Cheri thought, it’s awfully large.

Meiner stood in front of the safe, using his body to shield the lock from the eyes of the officers as he worked the combination. He threw the door open in defiance.

“Have at it, detectives. But you should know every single thing in there is inventoried, and if even one little piece of paper or loose diamond goes missing, you’ll have a major lawsuit on your hands.”

“Right,” said Pizzarelli, moving forward to peer inside the safe.

“We’re only interested in the paper, Mr. Meiner,” Cheri said. Pizzarelli began to hand her stock certificates and envelopes with papers inside that they’d examine and inventory later at the station. She put everything in a black canvas bag she’d brought for the purpose.

“You can close the safe now,” he said. “Let’s hit the study.”

Meiner eased the door closed, twirled the lock and followed them, fuming a little less now that the ordeal was nearly over. In the study, they collected bill statements, check registers, letters, shopping and to-do lists, Maxwell’s appointment calendar, and the accounting records.

Pizzarelli opened the accounts payable book he held in his hand. His salt-and-pepper eyebrows came together. “Well, well, well.”

“What?” she asked. “An interesting entry?”

“Here.” He held the open book flat in one hand and with the other pointed to the left side of two pages. Dark spots obliterated much of what had been written on the page.

“Splatters,” she murmured. “Blood, you think?”

He shrugged, causing his suit jacket to shuffle loosely. “Definitely not coffee. Could be ink, I suppose, but looks like blood to me.”

“We’ll know when the lab does their thing.”

He closed the book and set it reverently inside the black canvas bag. She gestured to one of the attending officers and he hefted the heavy bag onto his shoulder.

On their way out, she noted that throughout the search, Trudy Schwartz had remained quietly in the background, her face flushed with embarrassment.

CHAPTER 41

Thursday, August 11, 1:30 p.m.

Peter sat at the dining room table and stared at his third cup of coffee until this cup, too, became cold.

“Why the hell did I tell those detectives that Dayan held the video camera?” he mumbled to himself. Perhaps, if he were clever enough, he could take back what he’d said. Deny he’d ever said it. Their word against his.

He didn’t want Dayan exposed. God forbid that the public find out about his involvement in this sordid business. This thing would ruin Dayan’s career. No, he never wanted that. Dayan’s image floated in front of him. The mouth smiled at him. The body beckoned to him, promising erotic sensual delights. The eyes accused him of betrayal.

Peter got up from the table, took the cold coffee to the kitchen and dumped it into the sink. Being alone isn’t what makes you lonely, he thought. It’s being shut out of the other person’s life. He’d become obsessed with the thought that for some reason, Dayan had shut him out of his life.

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 DV
D⎯
news, especially
bizarre
news, traveled fast among magician
s⎯
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 dishevele
d⎯
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 cours
e⎯
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, “Pete
r⎯
?”

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, guidanc
e⎯
“

“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 rolodex.”

“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.”