Magicide (3 page)

CHAPTER 8

Tuesday, August 9, 12:15 a.m.

The jangle of her cell phone didn’t surprise Cheri Raymer. She took the call and said to Tom, “It’s dispatch. I have to report down there.” She tilted her head in the direction of the scene of the roller coaster carnage and swept a hand through her long brown hair.

“Well, when you get the call, you gotta go.”

The distress she saw on her son’s narrow face slammed at her soul. The last thing she wanted to do was leave Tom after he’d witnessed a bloody disaster.

“Will you be all right?” As soon as they came out of her mouth, the words sounded stupid.

He nodded, fidgeting with his shirttails.

“I can wait a minute to go.” Priority one, damage control. “Why don’t I take you to the coffee shop? Have a Coke or some soup. I’ll call you as soon as I know how long I’ll be.” Her eyes fell from his face to his empty shirt pocket. “Where’s your cell phone?”

His voice reflected annoyance. “Right here, Mom. I’ll be fine. I don’t need to wait for you. I got my driver’s license. I can drive myself home.”

Her heart leaped in alarm. Her only child in Vegas traffic behind the wheel of a vehicle—she shuddered. She was still recovering from her discovery that for the past year—while she’d been working—he’d been driving her car illegally, with only a learner’s permit. You should be relieved that he hasn’t caused an accident, she said to herself. Yet.

She swallowed—paused to think. Tom’s hazel eyes darted everywhere, a sure sign he was shaken. Nobody should drive when they were emotionally challenged. It was almost as bad as driving drunk.

Her voice softened. “Tom, you know I have to work.” It was the lame phrase she always used to justify leaving him, being away from him. She worked long, erratic hours that kept her from spending the time with him a normal single mom would. “Please wait for me.”

He shrugged and the corners of his mouth edged upward. “Guess you can’t get me an introduction to Maxwell now, but can I come to the morgue later and see the body?”

I’ve raised a true son of a police detective, Cheri thought. She summoned a stern tone. “Tom, that’s gross. People died tonight, and I have a job to do. Now, go to the coffee shop and wait for me there.”

Loud voices behind them caught their attention. He whispered, “Isn’t that Larissa Beacham-Jones?”

She turned to follow her son’s stare. There was the woman she hadn’t seen or talked to in fourteen—no, fifteen—years. Larissa dazzled in a dark purple, expensively-cut designer pantsuit, the jacket lapels edged in rhinestones. Long, blond hair circled the top of her head in an elegant swirl. One long loose strand curved down the side of her face, the end resting in a little coil on her shoulder. Still a stunner, Cheri thought. All the conditioners in the world would never make my hair swirl like that.

“And that’s Peter, her son,” she said. The man who held Larissa’s arm protectively resembled a younger version of Maxwell himself. Cheri thought, in a few years Tom might look a lot like Larissa’s son, startling herself.

Larissa and Peter were with a handsome young couple Cheri didn’t recognize. The man’s tall, lean body contrasted with that of the voluptuous young woman, all big chestnut hair and white linen, a bewildered expression on her face.

“He doesn’t care about anybody but himself and his career
,
” she heard Peter hiss. The young man muttered something she couldn’t hear, his arm tightened around the woman’s shoulder, and he turned her away.

Larissa’s voice urging, “Peter, luv, take me home.”

Then their backs were to them, and a pang of disappointment ran through Cheri’s mind. She didn’t think Larissa had seen her, or if she had, she hadn’t recognized her. Should she have stepped in and said something? A few words of acknowledgement and condolence? But after so long what could she say, especially in these circumstances? Larissa was understandably upset by Maxwell’s sudden death. Not the right time for a loving reunion.

“What d’ you suppose that was all about?” Tom asked.

“Haven’t a clue.”

“High drama, for sure.” He stared at Larissa as she disappeared into the crowd.

“None of our business,” Cheri said. “You know where the coffee shop is.”

He shrugged, making his shirt tighten across his shoulders. “It’s a school night.” He was smart. He knew she’d cave at that logic. “I can drive home.”

She sighed from the tightness in her chest. Let him grow up, she heard her sister say. “All right. Take the car—straight home, no detours.” She handed him the keys and his face relaxed into a grin.

“Thanks, mom. See ya.”

As he walked away, she had another disturbing thought. Athenia Soldana, the only other female detective in the department, was working the case of a boy’s body that had been found in the desert—every hiker’s nightmare. His chest had been torn open and his naked body, which had been in the open for at least three weeks, showed signs of post-mortem animal disarticulation. The boy had yet to be identified.

Somewhere parents are frantic with worry for their missing son, she thought. What if that had been her case, instead of Athenia’s? Outwardly she could appear professional, but secretly she wasn’t sure she could have done diligence to a case like that. Could she be objective and not become obsessive investigating a murder that could feel so close to home?

The dead boy, with the cuts on his white skin, appeared to be the same age as her own son.

CHAPTER 9

Tuesday, August 9, 12:20 a.m.

Cheri made her way through a chaos of police cars, technical trucks, press vans, and lingering, useless bystanders. Metro Patrol was doing their best to get the rubberneckers rounded up and away from the crime scene. They had their hands full—crowd control was always unpredictable—and it was not happening in a speedy manner.

On the other side of the yellow crime scene tape she spotted her long-time partner, homicide detective Carme Pizzarelli, and made her way to him.

“Whadda mess,” he said when he saw her. Though he’d transplanted to Las Vegas from Atlantic City twenty-three years ago, he’d lost a little hair, but not his Jersey accent.

“You sound annoyed. Interrupt your frozen vegetable stir-fry dinner?”

Pizzarelli stood five inches shorter than Cheri, and his clothes hung loosely on his stocky frame. His black hair had balded on top and tufts of grey sprouted above his ears. He peered up at her and squinted, unsmiling. “Better than Italian food,” he said. Shortly after they’d partnered up he told her his mother had been a rotten cook. He hated Italian food and prided himself on having become a vegetarian.

He turned so that they stood side by side, not looking at each other as they scanned the area. They were a team now, well-trained to kick into automatic drive. Still, no amount of training in the world would ever prevent Cheri’s stomach from flip-flopping at a savage crime scene. The sour smell of fresh blood laced the hot night air.

“There’s Otto with one of his assistants,” she said. George Ottomeyer, a tall, rangy man in a crisp khaki shirt, carrying a clipboard, was the Clark County Coroner. Heavy black circles under nervous eyes testified to the twenty-three years he’d held the position. He’d seen it all, she thought. When she walked toward him, Pizzarelli followed.

“Otto, what’ve you got?”

The coroner looked harried. “Bodies all over the place. Six people were in the ca
r⎯
all dead. Parts of Maxwell scattered. His left arm and leg were severed. They’re over there.” He pointed to two mounds on the cement covered with black plastic. “The rest is pretty mangled. It appears he was sitting up facing the car when it hit. He was free of the tracks except for his left foot.” He pointed upward with the clipboard. “Left foot’s still up there, shackled to the track.”

“Bad timing,” Pizzarelli said, staring at the roller coaster curve where the collision had occurred.

“Rotten,” she agreed.

The coroner gave them a quizzical look. What was it about bad police humor that helped them keep their minds straight when faced with the evils of the world? Or is humanity just sick in general? she wondered. She raised her eyes to the curve of the track her partner had been scrutinizing. A movement caught her attention. “Who’s that up there?”

The coroner’s eyes followed where she pointed. “Might be Maxwell’s technical coordinator,” Ottomeyer said.

“Let’s get him down from there.” Pizzarelli strode over to where a ladder led up to a catwalk and platform two feet below the steel tracks where the magician had been chained. “You!” he yelled, “Can you climb down?”

The man above them nodded and didn’t move.

“How long’s he been up there?” Cheri asked the coroner.

“I’d guess since the collision. A stunt assistant told me Maxwell’s technical director, Robert Digbee, would have been up there on the platform right under the tracks to assist Maxwell in the roll-off after he freed himself.”

The man who stared down at the scene on the pavement of the staging area rolled his shoulders, as if he wanted to shrink until he disappeared from the scene. Cheri looked at her partner, who she knew wasn’t crazy about heights.

Pizzarelli sighed. “Guess I gotta go get him.”

Ottomeyer and Cheri watched Pizzarelli climb the ladder. At the top her partner paused and leaned down, no doubt gauging the distance to the ground. Then he said something and reached out a hand to the man who curled in a seated fetal position, clutching a metal support beam. The man didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the presence of the detective. When Pizzarelli touched him on the shoulder, the man nodded but still didn’t move.

Cheri noted with annoyance three bystanders pressed against the yellow tape, gawking up at the track, straining their necks as if they were dying to hear the urgent conversation taking place overhead. Minutes passed.

Pizzarelli was good at his job, but inside he must be sweating bullets. He really did hate heights. He continued to speak to the man, who finally twisted his body, extended one leg and placed a foot back on the catwalk. For the first time he faced the detective who was trying to help him. Then he let himself be helped to the ladder, and the two men climbed down carefully from the catwalk. On the other side of the tape the three bystanders clapped.

His hand firmly on the other man’s upper arm, Pizzarelli led him to where Cheri stood. Robert Digbee looked considerably older than she remembered. He’d be in his late-sixties now, she thought. He hadn’t lost his handsome
joie
. He was dressed completely in black, which made his thick white hair stand out like luminescent silver, though it was dotted with blood. His shirt, slacks, and the ruddy complexion of his face were also covered with splatters of blood.

Though she recognized him, she had to be procedural. “Are you Robert Digbee, the technical coordinator for the escape?”

The man straightened his shoulders, as if his feet touching the ground again had returned him to reality. “Yes.”

“I’m detective Raymer and this is detective Pizzarelli. We need to know what happened up there.”

Digbee stared at her face. She stared back into his mesmerizing, steel blue eyes. She gave him her best gentle, yet professional look. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“Everything was planned so well.” Digbee’s tone was intense and authoritative. “I designed this escape. I know what I’m doing. Wind resistance, friction of the wheels against the steel track, all affect speed. Friction is affected by surface pressure—the lighter the object, the less friction. The only thing that remains the same is the force of the earth’s gravity, measured as one G.”

He spoke as if he were giving a college lecture, in a voice edged with controlled hysteria.

“I spent two entire days with a stop watch timing how long the run takes, from the time the car leaves the station, climbs the first hill, passes each section. The acceleration of the roller coaster is determined by its mass and the strength of the force pulling it down the curve of the track. I had the same people in the same seats. I timed again two hours this morning. The laser light worked fin
e⎯
“

“What laser light?” Pizzarelli asked.

Digbee pointed to a white unmarked van near the track. Above its Nevada license plate the rear doors were open, revealing what looked to Cheri like a maze of shiny high-tech equipment dotted with red and blue lights and l.e.d. screens. The kind of thing that would fascinate Tom for hours. The van was positioned so that its back end was out of view of TV cameras and spectators in the VIP stands.

“The signal to let Maxwell know where the coaster was on the track, measured in seconds,” Digbee said. “It pulsed amber. He wasn’t to jump until he saw it pulse red. That was exactly seven seconds before the coaster hit, so when he jumped the effect would be more impressive. He’d still be in the air as the car passed where he’d been.”

Pizzarelli rolled his eyes. “Entertainers. What happened to just doin’ this stuff on a regular stage?”

“What went wrong?” Cheri asked.

Robert Digbee held his body rigid. His blue eyes darted in every direction without any movement of his head. He’s thinking carefully about his answer, she thought. Was he thinking about how much magic information he could depart to the two detectives without violating that code all magicians followed about sharing their knowledge with outsiders?

“We don’t divulge every detail to the press,” she said. “I remember you from
Jubilee!
when you were ‘Robert the Great.’ I know you all like to protect your professional magician secrets about how you do this stuff, but we’ve got dead people her
e⎯
” in a broad gesture she wavedher hand to indicate the staging area
“⎯
and we need to know as much as possible about what happened in order to do our jobs. We could really use your help.”

“I don’t know what went wrong,” the man began, “but I noticed...”

He paused and they waited. As anxious as Cheri was to get concrete information, she knew this was not the moment to press. She tried to give him a respectful, encouraging expression. They stood eye-to-eye and she had the thought that height intimidated him.

Digbee, breath ragged, finally said, “Maxwell had escaped from the handcuffs, but the manacle on his left ankle ... God, his foot, it’s there, still attached to the track...the leg manacle wasn’t the usual one he uses.”

“Meaning?”

“Maxwell always preferred to use traditional jump cuffs and manacles. The one on his left foot was... different.”

“How—different?”

“The jump cuff has a release pin that looks like a hinge pin.” He turned his head toward the coroner’s assistants, who crawled over the platform and tracks, examining what was left of Maxwell’s foot and the manacle that had held it to the track. “That one doesn’t have a release pin.”

Pizzarelli asked, “How do you know?”

“I watched him try to release it,” Digbee said, his voice a shocked monotone. “It should have been easy, but he couldn’t pull it out. Afterwards I... reached up myself to try it. It had a normal hinge. There was no release pin.”

The bystanders had been removed from the immediate scene, yet Cheri was aware of the crowd lingering beyond the police tape. Because of the noise she had to speak louder than she would have liked. “Wouldn’t Maxwell have recognized the difference beforehand?”

Digbee’s shoulders moved forward in a nervous half-shrug. “Not unless he tried it himself. He’
s⎯
he wa
s⎯
a great magician. He knows how to get out of anything. He tested each piece of the apparatus not two hours ago.” Digbee leaned directly into her face and spoke fiercely. “I’m telling you, I think the manacle was switched, at the last minute. This was no accident.”

“What do you mean by that?” The loud voice came from behind her. She turned and faced a man she didn’t know. At five foot ten, she always noticed height first, and this man was short. Even though the desert night temperature remained high, he wore a gray windbreaker the same color as his eyes, which were framed by a heavy fringe of hair. His face featured skin that had seen too much sun and stretched from cheekbone to cheekbone like bad plastic surgery. She would have liked to be able to raise a camera to each person she met, capture the hidden secrets behind their facial expressions.

Digbee regarded the shorter man with cold, knowing eyes. “Edmund. Detectives, this is Maxwell’s personal coordinator—Edmund Meiner.” When he spoke the man’s name, his voice dripped with contempt.

Pizzarelli and Cheri shook hands with the man in the gray windbreaker. She wasn’t prepared for such a vise-like grip from such a small hand and was startled not only by its crushing strength but the damp impression it left. Discretely she tried to wipe her hand on the side of her slacks and wiggle the circulation back into her fingers.

“Someone switched one of Maxwell’s leg manacles,” Digbee said to the other man.

“Who would do that?” Meiner’s shoulders shifted inside his windbreaker. His hands were back in his pockets.

Digbee’s words came out as a verbal sneer. “Don’t you know?”

“Of course not. What makes you think I would know?”

“I thought you knew everything.”

Cheri tapped a note into her palm pilot that these two men did not even attempt to hide their animosity for each other. There was a history here, she was sure, and she wanted to know what it was, and what it might have to do with Maxwell beyond their working relationships with the magician.

Edmund Meiner stepped closer to Digbee, who glared but did not step back.

“Whoa, guys,” Pizzarelli said, holding up a hand, palm outward, to the two men. His tone alone was enough to distract their attention from each other. “Tell us, Mr. Meiner, if you have any idea why someone would switch the manacle on Maxwell.”

Digbee focused hard eyes at Edmund Meiner as if to will from him the correct answer, whatever it was. Meiner would not be intimidated. Cheri wondered how he had gotten past the yellow crime scene tape, or if he’d already been here when the accident occurred. Maybe near enough to do the deed himself.

He shrugged again. “
Cherchez les femmes,”
he said.

She remembered her college French. “Look for the women? What women?”

“Why, the ex and the girl friend, of course.” His mouth spread a little in a half-smile.

Digbee gave Meiner an intense if-looks-could-kill stare. “You’d know how to make the switch. Was this some kind of sick joke? Or maybe payback?”

Meiner scoffed. “Of course not. Any amateur magician would know how to make the switch, and so would the ladies.”