Magicide Page 14

  “I don’t think Larissa did it.” Cheri picked up a second garlic knot from the basket on the table. “But Peter might have. Remember they were separated while he allegedly answered a page. She could be protecting him.”

  “Or she got him to do it,” Pizzarelli said. He licked his lips and wiped them with a paper napkin.

  “Hmmmm. Maybe. I think it had to be a man who actually did the deed. The person who delivered the hamburger to the Green Room was a man, and Digbee would have mentioned if he’d seen a woman around the track just before the performance.”

  “Ah yes, Robert Digbee. Good old Robert the Great. What would his motive be to kill Maxwell? Professional jealousy?”

  Between chews Cheri said, “I can’t see him killing Maxwell just so he can headline MAGIQUE DU MONDE. Maybe something in their past links them in a way we haven’t discovered yet.”

  “Let’s dig into Maxwell’s finances, too. The note from Mrs. Schwartz isn’t enough to subpoena his records, but maybe she has something else.”

  Their lunch arrived, and they decided that they’d pay Mrs. Schwartz a visit when she got home from work.

  “She’s worked for Meiner a long time,” Cheri said. “I bet she knows a lot of secrets.”

  Pizzarelli paused between mouthfuls of stromboli. “Like where all the bodies are buried. If she’ll talk, I bet she can tell us plenty.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Wednesday, August 10, 4:30 p.m.

  On their way back to the station, Cheri tried to call Tom. No answer at the house—Bonni could be out, or had already gone to bed—and no answer on his cell phone.

  Too early in the evening to worry, yet a nagging shiver crawled up the back of her neck. This phone contact agreement was definitely not working the way she’d planned. She’d have to think of something else, but at the moment, nothing came to mind.

  They pulled into the parking lot, locked the Explorer and entered the building.

  When they walked into the briefing room Detective Lieutenant Satch Washington put down the newspaper he’d been reading. Since Tuesday morning every edition of the Las Vegas Post —and every other newspaper in town—had carried stories about Maxwell, ranging from profiles of fellow magicians to wild speculations about who might have killed him.

  “According to page two, Maxwell’s memorial service is to be held at the Desert Rose Mortuary and Funeral Home at ten Friday morning,” he announced. “The governor plans to attend.”

  Pizzarelli grinned. “All the little suspects lined up in a row—except Governor Simms, of course.”

  “Surely Dayan Franklyn will be there,” Cheri said. “Nobody’s seen him since Monday night, but I can’t believe he’d miss Maxwell’s funeral. Every celebrity in town will take advantage of the opportunity to be seen, and hopefully comment to the press so their names will be in print.”

  Washington added, “Let’s try to find his parents, and talk to Peter again. If they’re lovers, they may have been in contact.”

  Pizzarelli narrowed his eyes. “Peter’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Maybe it’s Franklyn.”

  Cheri scanned her notes in her electronic notebook. “Neither the Dunes Park catering department or the food and beverage department know anything about a hamburger delivery to the room where the committee was waiting to go on the roller coaster car. They reiterated what Artie Lundgren said. The committee wasn’t supposed to eat anything four hours before the stunt. They also said their waiters never wear white hats like the one Lundgren described.”

  “A white jacket and hat turned up during a search of the trash dumpsters on the same floor,” Washington said. “Lab has them now.”

  “What about fingerprints on the manacles?”

  “Print report’s back on that. The manacle from Maxwell’s left leg has only two set of prints, and they’re all over the cuffs, so nothing could have been wiped later.”

  “Any matches?”

  “Maxwell’s for sure.” Washington paused and pursed his lips. “And someone else’s, unknown.”

  “The killer’s,” Pizzarelli suggested.

  Cheri twirled a lock of her hair in thought. “Too easy. Probably Edmund Meiner’s. As technical coordinator, I’m sure he’d have touched them.”

  Washington frowned, causing his eyebrows to meet in the middle like one long, furry black caterpillar. “I don’t need to tell you there’s a lot of pressure to get this murder solved. Maxwell’s a big name, but you’d think Vegas killed Elvis. The press is all over this. And the governor is all over me.”

  “High profile, all right.” Cheri considered the suspects, any one of whom would welcome the opportunity to praise Maxwell to the press or in front of a TV camera. Especially in front of a TV camera.

  “We need a subpoena to get Maxwell’s records,” Cheri said. “Would help if it was fast-tracked.”

  “Say no more.” Washington’s caterpillar eyebrow constricted. “I’ll take care of it. Then bring me something, people.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Wednesday, August 10, 6 p.m.

  Unlike Edmund Meiner, Trudy Schwartz didn’t live in the Twin Oaks mansion with Maxwell. She had her own little cottage in the old Huntridge neighborhood near downtown Las Vegas.

  Cheri was waiting with Pizza outside in the Explorer when the woman came home from work. As soon as she’d parked her car in the driveway and turned off the engine, they got out and crossed the street. On the cement sidewalk, they caught her attention.

  “Mrs. Schwartz, we’d like to talk to you,” Cheri said.

  The woman peered up and down the street, as if afraid she was being watched, and nodded, “You’ll have to come in. I have to let out Teddy.” As soon as she put her key in the door, unruly barks began inside. “Come in quickly, I don’t want him in the street, y’know. Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite. You’re not allergic to dogs or anything, are you?”

  Cheri and Pizzarelli shook their heads and followed her into the house. A little Scottie dog ran back and forth between the front door and French doors that led to the back yard and garden. Mrs. Schwartz let him out. Beyond the open French door Cheri saw manicured rose bushes covered with blossoms fading in the August heat.

  In the living room, comfortable furniture crowded together on polished parquet floors. Pizzarelli fingered a knitted wool afghan folded neatly atop a wingback chair. “My mother had one just like this. Hated to cook, loved to knit. Did you make it yourself?”

  “Years ago, when Mr. Schwartz was alive and I had time for things like that. Since I went to work for Edmund I only have Saturday afternoons and Sundays off.”

  “I think you told us you’d worked for Edmund Meiner for eight years, right?” Cheri asked.

  The woman stared out into the yard as if she hadn’t heard the question. “I raised all my children here, y’know? My husband’s been dead for years, but I never thought of moving.” She set her purse down on a side table next to the French doors, took out her reading glasses and a packet of tissues and set them beside it. “Do you have children?”

  “A son. Sixteen. Mrs. Schwartz, I’m sure you know why we’re here. The note you passed us—”

  She fingered the collar of her blouse. “That note⎯it doesn’t mean anything. I mean, anyone could have taken the money… I’m sure it’s some trick Maxwell set up, y’know? He’s a sneaky devil, that one.”

  “How did you discover the money was missing?”

  Mrs. Schwartz’ face tightened, reminding Cheri of a cornered desert fox she’d seen once. “I don’t have any proof, only a few checks. You need proof, don’t you?”

  “Just tell us what you know, Mrs. Schwartz,” Pizzarelli said. “We can always subpoena the accounts.”

  “Well...it’s really none of my business... there’s not much to tell.”

  “Just tell us what you know,” Cheri repeated.

  The lines around the woman’s mouth barely moved. “In the beginning Edmund only took kickbacks from the suppliers. Making money the old-fashioned Ve
gas way, y’ know? The purchasing agents in all the hotels do it. Do you know I was eighteen and off at college in San Francisco when I discovered kickbacks weren’t a normal way of doing business?”

  “We should get the records,” Pizzarelli bluffed. “They’ll tell a story.”

  Mrs. Schwartz’ flustered expressions said she was disappointed that she hadn’t been able to sidetrack them. She walked to the French doors and peered out at her Scotty nosing the ground under the rose bushes.

  “He didn’t think I knew, but I did. Maxwell didn’t, though, and I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Then I noticed we had a lot of new suppliers I’d never heard of. I wondered why none of them ever called on us, y’know? One day I was organizing these cancelled checks and I noticed the blue ink on the endorsements appeared to be the same on several of the checks. Then I thought the handwriting looked the same, too.”

  She hesitated and rolled her shoulders, as if to give herself courage. Her voice became so soft Cheri had to move closer to hear. “Edmund has a gambling Jones. I hear him on the telephone with his bookie, a woman I think she is. I can put two and two together, y’know?”

  “I’m sure you can,” Pizzarelli said. “When did you first notice the signatures on the checks?”

  “Right after Maxwell did the coffin escape...five years ago.”

  Cheri frowned. “So for five years, you knew Edmund Meiner was embezzling money from Maxwell and you never said anything?”

  Mrs. Schwartz turned back from the French doors and walked to the side table. From her purse she withdrew an envelope. “It was none of my business. Maxwell had plenty of money. But after Monday night, I thought Edmund could be in trouble, y’know? I’ve been carrying these around…not sure I was doing the right thing.” She opened the envelope, withdrew several cancelled checks, and held them out.

  Pizzarelli took them.

  Her voice faltered. “You’re going to find out everything anyway. It isn’t fair. . .”

  When she paused to open the French doors and let Teddy in, Cheri prompted, “What isn’t fair?”

  “He began doing magic when he started out as a silhouette cutter on the boardwalk in Atlantic City—”

  “Maxwell?”

  Mrs. Schwartz frowned and made a shussing sound with her teeth. “Of course not Maxwell. Edmund. He was a great manipulator. His sleight-of-hand and close-up magic was flawless. He gave up what could’ve been a great magic career to manage Maxwell. He even gave up an opportunity to be a consultant to Disney World. It just wasn’t fair the way Maxwell ridiculed and verbally abused him.”

  Edmund? Cheri wondered. “Mrs. Schwartz, are you in love with Edmund Meiner?”

  A blush, the color of the roses on the other side of the French doors, came over the woman’s face. She leaned down to where Teddy now lay at her feet, picked him up, and snuggled him to her ample breasts. Having thus composed herself, she said, “Edmund is a wonderful man. He can’t help himself, y’know? His only vice is betting on the ponies. I could never understand why he took such abuse from Maxwell.” Her voice turned bitter. “But Edmund was blindly loyal. Maxwell was the center of his life. This money—Maxwell’s behind it somehow. It’s not Edmund’s fault.”

  “Mrs. Schwartz, when did you last see Dayan Franklyn?” Pizzarelli asked.

  A startled expression replaced the faraway gaze in the woman’s eyes. “Dayan? Why, the morning of the Dunes Park event. He came to the office to give Edmund some bills. After that, I think he was going home to rest before the performance.”

  “He hasn’t been in the office since then?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Unless he came after hours, y’ know, after I’d gone home.”

  “Did he do that often?”

  “Dayan sort of came and went like Maxwell did. They don’t keep normal hours like the rest of us.” Teddy was squirming in Trudy Schwartz’ arms and she set him down on the parquet floor.

  “Do you know anything about a DVD of Maxwell performing a magic ritual?” Cheri asked.

  The woman’s expression was thoughtful. “I…don’t think we sell anything like that.”

  “This wouldn’t be a DVD for sale to the public. We’ve been told someone made a film of Maxwell performing magic during the summer solstice, up on Sunrise Mountain. A hand-made video with unusual content,” Cheri said.

  “Good heavens. I haven’t heard anything about something like that. Would it hurt Edmund?”

  “We don’t know. We’ll need to take these cancelled checks back to our office. We’ll return them later. Is that okay?”

  Mrs. Schwartz smiled, leaned down and picked up Teddy again. “Anything to help Edmund,” she said. “I just know he couldn’t have killed Maxwell.”

  * * *

  “What d’you think, Pizza?” Cheri asked as she turned the Explorer north towards the office.

  “About what?”

  “About Mrs. Schwartz’ involvement in all this. About Edmund Meiner’s supposed embezzlement. About what’s going on at Maxwell’s house. About everything.”

  “I think you hit the nail on the head with Trudy Schwartz. She’s been in love with Meiner for a long time and was jealous of his loyalty to Maxwell, angered by the way Maxwell treated him. I think she really thinks she’s helping him by exposing his embezzlement.”

  “Let’s get those records,” Cheri said.

  CHAPTER 34

  Wednesday, August 10, 7:30 p.m.

  While the District Court judge reviewed their request for a subpoena of Maxwell’s records, Cheri and Pizzarelli decided early evening was a good time to interview Dayan Franklyn’s parents. She had noticed a framed photo of the couple in Dayan’s apartment and recognized the background as an old trailer park on Boulder Highway, just outside of town.

  She was flipping through the Yellow Pages searching for a heading like “trailer parks” when she heard Pizza exclaim, “Got it!” He grinned and wrote on a piece of paper. “Abel and Mollie Franklyn. 19032 Boulder Highway, Henderson. From the book.”

  “The telephone book?”

  “Yup.”

  “I didn’t think anyone listed their address in there anymore,” she said, closing the Yellow Pages.

  * * *

  Boulder Highway had long been the route between downtown Las Vegas and the outlying towns of Henderson and the home of Hoover Dam, Boulder City.

  From there travelers crossed the Colorado River to get to Phoenix. The highway, now cutting through a major section of modern Las Vegas, was populated with shabby motels that rented by the hour, funky bars featuring slots or topless dancers or both, three old west-themed casino/hotels, the occasional pawnshop, and run-down trailer parks such as the Lone Pine.

  Its original sign had been painted white on green, with the green long since faded. The only light at the main entrance came from a frame of bulbs outlining the sign, as if the only people who came there already lived there, so no need to advertise the place. Behind the graffitied front pony wall grew Chinese Elms that might have known Bugsy Siegel, and now hid a few dozen aged trailers in various stages of decay.

  At one time the owner had stuccoed the office in a half-hearted attempt to create an adobe look. They knocked on the door and the Pakistani-looking man who answered pointed them to a trailer. “They live there forty-two years,” he said.

  “Dayan must have grown up here,” Pizzarelli said, eyeing next to the office a faded tricycle mangled under a stand-jacked car with no wheels.

  Cheri took out her flashlight. Several of the lights atop the poles were either burned out or broken. The assortment of trailers with their lean-tos, added-on storage sheds, parked vehicles, and trash left pockets of black shadows.

  “Naturally the Franklyn trailer’s in the back of the place,” he mumbled.

  A screech pierced the air. Cheri jerked her flashlight beam toward the sound.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed.

  An enormous black cat rolled in front of her, leaped to its feet, hissed at the light, a
nd disappeared.

  She laughed. “You stepped on him, Pizza.”

  “Jeez. The thing otta watch where it’s goin’.” He ran a hand over his bald spot.

  Her smile was gone by the time they reached the Franklyn trailer. No outside lights. Through the window in the front door she could see the blue light of a television screen. She knocked, heard shuffling sounds, and a man’s voice called, “Who’s there?”

  “Police detectives. We want to ask you a few questions.”

  “Abel, you be careful,” called a woman inside. “Make them show you identification.”

  The porch light came on. When he saw their badges, Abel Franklyn opened the door just wide enough to talk. Reading glasses perched on a nose too small for the width of his face. His skin had a pallor that had nothing to do with age. Through the interior haze of cigarette smoke, Cheri noted soda cans and chips on a TV table next to a woman in a recliner chair wearing purples fuzzy slippers. No invitation to come inside.

  “We think your son, Dayan Franklyn, might have some information about a case we’re working on—” she began.

  The old man snorted. “Dayan. He doesn’t live here. We haven’t heard from him since he moved in with that magician. Is he in trouble? What do you want with him?”

  “We just need to talk to him.”

  The woman had risen from the recliner and now appeared behind Abel Franklyn. Of indeterminate age, she squinted watery eyes at the two detectives and one bony hand fingered a pin of pink rhinestone flowers at her chest. Abel Franklyn introduced her as Dayan’s mother.

  “Molly’s heartsick,” he said. “She’d like to see her son. Maybe now that that magician’s dead, Dayan will remember he has parents. It’s not our fault we couldn’t do more for him. You go over to that magician’s mansion and you tell Dayan—“

  “That we love him,” Mrs. Franklyn interrupted in a subdued voice. “Abel, tell them to tell him we’re not mad at him.” She began to cough, and Cheri took a step back from this new wave of cigarette air.