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  Maxwell’s study was no less interesting than the rest of his home. Every wall was covered with framed certificates and photos and awards. There were so many that the edge of each frame butted closely to its neighbor. Rare open spots revealed dark wood paneling.

  Without asking if they were thirsty, Mrs. Schwartz handed them each a bottle of water and left the room.

  Edmund Meiner rose from behind a cherry wood desk to shake hands. The air conditioning hummed in the background, and Cheri recognized on Meiner the same gray windbreaker he’d had on the night of the murder.

  “Please make yourselves at home,” he said in a tight voice. “I don’t know how I can help you, but I am at your disposal.” He sat back down behind the desk.

  Cheri began to read some of the awards on the wall. “The British Ring Shield for Excellence in Performance. Best Stage Magician Award, Academy of Magical Arts. Star of Magic Award, International Brotherhood of Magicians. Grand Prix, Society of Sorcerers. . . Maxwell had quite a career, from the looks of this.”

  Meiner relaxed, as if the magician’s career was his favorite subject. “Maxwell Beacham-Jones has been most often voted Magician of the Year by the AMA. He’s past president of the British Ring of the IBM. He’s been a consultant for Bette Midler, KISS, the Rolling Stones, and Celine Dion, among others. He’s been a supplier of magic concepts and technical advisor for television and theatrical productions, corporations, trade shows, and for other professional magicians. No one in the world has had a career like his.”

  Pizzarelli peered upward at a large black and white photograph on the wall higher than his eye-level. “What’s this one where he’s holding the big cup?”

  “That’s Maxwell the first time he won the World Championship of Magic, a competition held in Japan. He went on to win it three more times.” Meiner’s voice displayed a tone of pride, as if he were speaking of a beloved father.

  “The night of the roller coaster escape,” Cheri said, “you told us you had no idea why anyone would switch Maxwell’s handcuffs. We’ve since heard that Maxwell was not a popular fellow among his peers. What can you tell us about that?”

  Meiner twisted off the top of a chilled bottle of water with a neat jerk. “Maxwell was the best in the business. In the twenty-two years I’ve been with him I’ve seen him perform the most complicated illusions with such natural ease I’d think he was born knowing them.”

  “We heard he stole a lot of them from other magicians,” Pizzarelli said.

  Meiner’s face relaxed into an enigmatic smile. “It’s natural to feel jealousy and animosity for someone so much more successful and famous than you.”

  “Did you feel ever feel jealous of Maxwell?” Cheri asked.

  “Why would I? We were a very successful partnership. I know there are those who say I gave up my career in magic to manage Maxwell because I had no talent. I stopped listening to all those losers a long time ago. Maxwell and I have made each other rich. I’ve never regretted a minute I spent helping build his career.”

  “So you got on well? No animosity or ill will between you?” Pizzarelli asked.

  “Do you and your partner always get on well? You know how it is...” Meiner gave a feeble wave of one hand.

  “What exactly does your job as personal coordinator entail?” asked Cheri.

  “I manage the details of his performances, liaison with booking agents and clients, keep the accounts—business and household. I liaison with the ad agency⎯ Maxwell personally approves all of his advertising. I handle press requests for interviews. I make appointments, stock the refrigerator, send costumes to the cleaners. In short, I manage his life.”

  “We understand he had a fifty million dollar life insurance policy. You’d know then, who was the beneficiary?”

  “Why, Larissa.” Meiner’s mouth formed a thin smile. “He never changed that after they were divorced, though I advised him otherwise. If you want to know about his will, everything’s in order.”

  “Who gets what?” Pizzarelli asked.

  “There’s a trust fund for his son. A bequest to PETA, and naturally the scholarships he’d set up for the Magic Castle will continue, funded by interest from the estate. The will also states that Maxwell’s body is to be cremated, and no autopsy performed.”

  “That’ll have to wait. A criminal homicide has occurred.”

  Meiner’s eyes widened. “But the will specifically states—”

  “Homicide has first jurisdiction,” Cheri said. “There will be an autopsy.”

  Meiner frowned and set his water bottle on his desk without taking a drink. Pizzarelli leaned closer to his face. “And the house? And Maxwell’s magic effects?”

  “Th-the estate goes to Larissa and Peter, um, equally.”

  Cheri thought the man seemed distracted. “That includes the magic effects?”

  “What?”

  “The magic effects. Who gets those?”

  “His son, of course.”

  “Nothing for Dayan Franklyn, Maxwell’s protégé?”

  Meiner’s eyes registered surprise, then went blank. “I don’t believe so. No, nothing like that...well, maybe a small financial stipend. You’d have to ask the lawyer.”

  Pizzarelli tilted his bottle of water at Meiner. “What will you do now that your employer⎯excuse me, partner⎯is dead?”

  Meiner sat down, his slight body folding into the heavily upholstered desk chair. “This is a huge estate to manage. I’ll stay on here if Larissa and Peter wish it.” He picked up his water bottle, took a delicate sip and gazed at the detectives. “What else would you like to know?”

  “Did you switch the handcuffs on Maxwell?”

  Meiner’s brows furrowed in irritation. “Of course not.” In a voice laced with annoyance he said, “Maxwell’s death has made it very difficult around here. The paperwork is endless, and the media have made my life hell. None of this is to my advantage, believe me.”

  “What can you tell us about Maxwell’s relationship with Regine?” Cheri asked.

  “Regine made him happy. She was always polite and considerate to me. Never got in the way, so to speak. I don’t know what happened. Suddenly last week Maxwell kicked her out—literally—and announced that her name would never be spoken in this house again. I wasn’t in his bedroom—it happened at night—so I don’t know what went down. I don’t think she’d kill him—you’ll have to ask her what happened.”

  “And Dayan Franklyn and Maxwell? What about their relationship?” Cheri asked.

  Meiner lowered his eyes to the bottle he held in his hands. “Nothing untoward, if that’s what you’re thinking...the nicest young man. A talent that reminded me of Maxwell when he was that age.”

  “Have you seen or talked to Franklyn since Maxwell’s death?” Pizzarelli asked.

  Meiner’s body stiffened. “I haven’t heard from him for days. He has a follow-up dental appointment next week, and he’d better make it.”

  “Or else?”

  “Or else he may find himself cut off financially. With Maxwell dead and no longer mentoring him, there’s no reason to continue to foot his bills.” He rolled the water bottle between his hands and continued, “Though Maxwell would have wanted Dayan to finish his dental work. I’m willing to honor that.”

  “Big of you,” muttered Pizza. “Do you have an address for Dayan Franklyn?”

  Meiner stood up abruptly. “My secretary will get it for you. If that’s all, I have work to do.”

  “That’s all for now,” Cheri said. “We appreciate the time you took to speak to us today, Mr. Meiner. Hope things work out for you here.” She laid her business card on his desk. “We may need to talk to you again. We’d appreciate a call if you think of anything else about Maxwell’s murder.”

  “Fine.” He punched an intercom and called Mrs. Schwartz.

  Pizza, his back to the desk, gazed once more at a wall of pictures. “What a weird bunch,” he murmured. The secretary appeared in the doorway.

  “These
detectives would like Dayan’s address,” he told her.

  Pizzarelli turned and asked, “By the way, Mr. Meiner, do you know anything about a DVD of Maxwell performing some kind of magic ritual on Sunrise Mountain?”

  Meiner’s face paled. He turned his glance to the window and stared at a tree outside. “Why, n-no, I don’t think so,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Seems there’s an incriminating piece of video floating around. Lots of people have heard about it, and we’d like to see it,” Cheri said. “Haven’t you heard about it?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did Maxwell do that often?”

  “W-what?”

  “Perform special magic rituals. Did he do that often?”

  Meiner turned his head back to face them, but his gaze remained to the side, his mouth tight. “Maxwell was a very knowledgeable magician. He studied the history of the magic arts in depth—white magic, black magic, but magic is a theatrical profession. We don’t turn stones into gold.”

  At the desk, Mrs. Schwartz scribbled on a note of paper. “Here’s the address you wanted for Dayan.” She handed the paper to Cheri.

  Meiner waved his hand. “You can’t believe everything you hear. You’ll make yourself crazy if you listen to rumors in this business. Mrs. Schwartz will show you out.”

  As they followed the woman to the front door, Pizzarelli asked, “How long have you worked for Maxwell, Mrs. Schwartz?”

  The woman lowered her reading glasses and let them dangle from the chain around her neck. “I don’t work for Maxwell, you know. I work for Mr. Meiner.”

  “Okay. How long?”

  “It’s been about eight years now.” The woman smiled, no warmth in her eyes.

  “What’s it like to work here?” Cheri asked, gesturing at the velvet drapes, the skull collection, and the intricately-carved candelabras that reminded her of Liberace’s Museum.

  “It’s—interesting, you know?”

  Before she opened the front door, the secretary stole a glance back down the hall. “Sometimes I swear he walks through walls,” she murmured.

  “Who?” Cheri asked. “Mr. Meiner?”

  Mrs. Schwartz ignored the question. “It’s been a pleasure. Come back anytime.”

  Cheri thought she held out her hand to shake, and was surprised when Mrs. Schwartz offered another piece of paper, this one folded in small quarters. She took it, looked up at the woman whose face she couldn’t read, and said, “Thanks. We may see you again.”

  Without another word Mrs. Schwartz closed the door.

  As soon as she and Pizza were in the Explorer and driving toward the gates she handed him the unfolded piece of paper.

  “What’s it say?” she asked.

  “Amazing. She says, ‘Millions missing from Maxwell accounts.’”

  She shook her head, raised a hand and swept it through her curls. “Yeah, amazing is right. Meiner told us he and Maxwell had both made millions.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Wednesday, August 10, 1:30 p.m.

  Sitting in his study with the door closed, Edmund Meiner thought about the air that should be circulating about the room. It was an effort to breathe, as if something plugged his sinuses and expanded down his throat to his lungs. What was wrong with the air conditioning? He’d just had all the vents checked and filters changed.

  He thought about getting up to open the door, but couldn’t summon the effort.

  The interview with the detectives had drained him of precious energy. He had known they would come, but the actual event left him edgier and more rattled than he had ever expected.

  Had they believed him when he said he didn’t know anything about the DVD showing the solstice ceremony? You could never tell exactly how much the police knew when they asked questions. They were sneaky—would ask questions with answers they already knew, just to see what you’d say. He thought the interview had gone well, but how could he really tell?

  Five minutes passed and he sighed. He got up and took off his gray windbreaker, folded it carefully and placed it on the cherry credenza. At the bar next to it he poured himself two fingers of Johnny Walker and laced it with water. He carried his drink back to the desk where he cleared a space, found a coaster, placed the glass on it and slid both closer to the telephone.

  He sat, picked up the phone and dialed the number that by now he knew by heart: Equine Technologies’ office in Dallas, Texas.

  When a cheery feminine voice answered, he said, “Carl Williams, please.”

  “One moment.” The voice on the other end didn’t sound familiar. A new secretary?

  He nuzzled his scotch while he waited. Long minutes passed. The girl came back on the phone and explained that Mr. Williams was away at a conference related to the final government approvals needed for the new product—Equi-energy, a legal drug stimulant for race horses. She would have to take a message. He asked her if she was new, and she told him she was filling in for Arline, the regular secretary. She didn’t know how long Arline would be out, or when Mr. Williams would return.

  “Please tell Mr. Williams I really need to talk to him. I’m tired of leaving messages. It’s imperative he call me as soon as he gets this.” Meiner hung up.

  He took a heftier sip of his drink. This was the fourth girl he’d talked to in two weeks. Arline had only been there for two days. What was going on that they couldn’t keep a regular secretary? He’d had the impression that Williams, the CEO, probably could be tough to work for.

  Meiner had been patient. Now he was annoyed. He had a lot of money invested in Equine Technologies. For years he’d siphoned money from Maxwell’s accounts and was almost ready to bail out of this creepy place.

  As Maxwell had become more famous, he’d also become more bizarre, obsessed with elements of magic that were frightening. The past few months he had been extremely secretive. His strange behavior had taken Meiner to the edge. The summer solstice ritual had been the last straw.

  Then that telephone call. Now it was imperative to get out before that DVD surfaced and ruined everyone, including him.

  Four point two million dollars he’d invested in Equine Technologies. The least the man could do was return his telephone calls. In the past three days he had left four messages.

  He thought about calling Honey Gold, the woman of the enticing leather outfits. She’d introduced him to Carl Williams. She’d been high on Equine Technologies, and when she told him she’d invested almost a million of her own money, he figured that was a damn good recommendation. Maybe she could shed some light on what was happening with the company.

  He dialed the second number he knew by heart. After she answered he said, “Honey, it’s Edmund. How’s it going?”

  “Fine. I thought I’d hear from you about the race the other day. What happened?”

  “I, uh, got tied up in something and couldn’t get away, couldn’t even make a phone call.”

  “Too bad. That was a good race.”

  He didn’t want to hear about how much money he might have won had he bet on Pendleton’s Silver Flash. “I kind of need a favor, Honey.”

  Her voice was its usual smooth velvet. “What can I do for my favorite client?”

  “I’ve left several calls for Carl Williams and haven’t heard back from him. Today he’s in some government meeting. I wondered if you’ve heard anything about what’s happening with Equi-energy.”

  “Carl is really busy right now,” Honey said, breathing each word like a sex phone worker. “I spoke to him yesterday, and he was very positive about everything. I think you need to stop pestering him. He’ll call you when he has good news to share.”

  “You’re sure everything’s all right?”

  “Be patient, Edmund. All things in good time.”

  She made a little more small talk and then ended their conversation.

  Four point two mill was more money than he’d ever had before in his life. This conversation with Honey left him uneasy. The cold feel
ing in the pit of his stomach wasn’t from the ice in the scotch.

  CHAPTER 28

  Wednesday, August 10, 1:30 p.m.

  Peter Jones stood poised at the edge of the swimming pool, body erect, arms extended straight above his head. He stared at the ripples on the water’s surface—accidental, disordered, with no direction or purpose. Like him. He imagined the water closing around his body, shutting his ears to sound. He stared into the water, where flashes of refracted sunlight danced on the bottom of the pool.

  “Luv?” Larissa’s voice called from the dark shadow created by the awning over the back door. “Wait—telephone!”

  Peter’s body relaxed, except for the tight knot of muscle at the base of his neck, a reminder that all was not right in his world. He turned in the direction of the house and yelled, “I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

  Larissa stepped into the sunlight. She held one hand over the mouthpiece of the hand-held phone. In a loud whisper she said, “It’s your producer, Aaron. You have to talk to him.”

  “No, I don’t,” He said, grinding his teeth. His mother’s face had hard lines he’d never noticed before.

  “He called twice yesterday, and you never called him back.” Her tone made clear her disapproval of unprofessional behavior.

  Peter walked to the chaise and picked up a towel. Though he hadn’t yet entered the swimming pool, his body glistened with sweat from the midday heat.

  “Yesterday you missed the Tuesday taping of your next two shows,” Larissa accused. “He has a right to know your intentions.”

  “Aaron’s an asshole,” Peter muttered. “Aaron only wants what’s best for the station, He doesn’t give a damn about Peter Parrot. Aaron might care about the children who watch the show, but only in the context of a measured and lucrative target audience.”