Stuart Kaminsky - Now You See It

“I don’t know his name,” the kid said. “My head hurts. I was working down the street at Hudson’s Restaurant yesterday. He came over to me and told me what he wanted. There was going to be an envelope with fifteen dollars for me at the hotel desk. It was there, so I did it.”

Around us, magicians were shoving, talking, shouting. Phil pulled the kid up by the arm, ripped his own collar off his neck, and started dragging Nordman back to the hotel.

Cars slowed down to watch us parade back through the lobby and into the ballroom. It was empty, except for Ott at the table facedown with a knife in his neck.

“That’s him,” said Nordman, pointing at Ott.

“The one who paid you to run away?” I asked.

“That’s him. What happened to him?”

No one answered.

“Get them out of here,” Phil said to Jeremy, nodding at the magicians. “Put them somewhere, but don’t let any of them go.”

Jeremy was next to me now. He heard what Phil had said and turned to wrestle the magicians back into the lobby.

“Can you handle it?” I asked.

Jeremy nodded calmly and began to herd the crowd away from the door. Phil moved quickly past the tables and stepped up on the platform.

The knife was deep in Ott’s neck, with blood-a lot of it-seeping from the wound. We didn’t have to check, but we did. No pulse. I wanted to lift Ott’s face out of the plate, but I knew better.

We looked at each other thinking the same thing. One of us had to say it.

“Lights were out no more than a second.”

“Only one person was close enough to do this,” said Phil, looking at the dead magician.

“Unless he was a contortionist and killed himself,” I said.

“Knife is straight down and deep,” said Phil.

“Blackstone,” I said.

“Blackstone,” Phil agreed.

“Phil,” I said. “The satchel’s gone.”

“Sixty witnesses,” said Cawelti, leaning back against the table, arms folded, smile on his pink face.

“Sixty-six,” Gunther corrected. “Plus at least one waiter.”

Cawelti glared at Gunther for a second, shook his head and looked at Blackstone who sat in front of him. The set-up was makeshift: two rows of chairs, four chairs in the first row, three in the second. It was a small meeting room in the hotel, rearranged quickly for Cawelti’s show.

A huge cop named Brian Alexander stood at the door to the room. He was a good guy, considered the toughest man in the Wilshire station, and we all knew he was there for one reason, which was to protect Cawelti from my brother. Alexander didn’t look comfortable.

It was Cawelti’s show, and he was going to play it out, trying to make us all squirm. It was his moment of triumph. It would be a very short moment.

In the ballroom, police lab guys were looking at Ott’s body. In another room, the magicians were being interviewed by four detectives. All of them were coming up with the same story that pointed to our client as a murderer.

Blackstone sat in the first row of chairs with me on one side of him and Phil on the other. Gunther sat next to me. In the second row sat Shelly, Pancho, and Jeremy.

“Ott threatened you,” Cawelti said, pointing at Blackstone.

Blackstone nodded his agreement.

“You all heard the threat,” Cawelti said, looking at each of us. “Right?”

We all nodded, except for Shelly who said, “right.”

“So you killed him before he could nail you,” said Cawelti, looking at Blackstone.

“Incorrect,” said Blackstone.

“Come on,” said Cawelti, folding his arms again. “No one was within twenty feet of the victim but you. Lights go off. Lights come back on. How long were they out? A second? Two?”

No one answered.

“Not enough time for anyone to stand, let alone get up on that stage and stab Ott,” said Cawelti. “Not enough time for anyone to do it but you. Right?”

He pointed again at Blackstone, who was lost in thought.

“Pardon me,” said Blackstone, looking up. “What did you say?”

“I said you killed Ott,” Cawelti shouted.

“No,” said Blackstone. “It was an illusion.”

“It didn’t happen,” said Cawelti. “That what you’re telling me? We walk back in that ballroom and Ott is alive? That what you’re telling me?”

“No,” said Blackstone. “He is dead. The ultimate trick designed to create the illusion that I was the only one who could have killed Ott.”

Cawelti looked at the ceiling and then at the carpeted floor.

“If you’ll give me a little time, I’ll figure out how it was done,” said the magician.

“Like Sherlock Holmes?” asked Cawelti.

“Something like that,” said Blackstone, straightening the lapels on his jacket.

“And Cunningham, you didn’t kill him in that dressing room?” Cawelti hammered.

“I was onstage before more than a thousand witnesses,” Blackstone said. “I didn’t know the man and there are witnesses who saw the real killer.”

“You could have …” Cawelti began.

“Show’s over,” said Phil, standing.

Cawelti’s eyes turned toward my brother and then to Alexander at the door.

“Charge him, book him, and tell the reporters you arrested him,” said Phil. “And when we prove he didn’t do it, we tell the reporters that you are a pisshead which they already know.”

“I need to use the bathroom,” Shelly said behind me.

“Suffer,” said Cawelti, trying to stare Phil down.

“I am,” whined Shelly.

“Something was different,” said Gunther.

We all looked at him.

“Something was different?” Cawelti repeated, looking at Gunther. “What the hell does that mean?”

“The dead man,” said Gunther. “He did not look the same when we came back after chasing that young man. Something had changed.”

“What?” asked Cawelti.

“I’m not certain,” said Gunther. “But I am certain that something was different.”

“Very helpful,” said Cawelti.

I looked at Blackstone. He was looking at Gunther and I could see that the magician was beginning to get an idea.

“I’ve got to pee, really, “ said Shelly. “Now.”

“Oh for Chrissake,” said Cawelti with a sigh. “Go pee and get your ass back here in one minute flat.”

Shelly got up. So did Pancho.

“Where the hell are you going?” Cawelti asked.

“With him,” said Pancho.

“Sit down.”

Pancho sat as Shelly waddled toward the door. Alexander took a step to one side to let him pass.

“John,” I said.

“Detective Cawelti,” he corrected.

“I thought we were friends,” I said.

“Cut the shit Peters. Your client is burnt toast.”

“Why would he turn out the lights-and kill Ott, knowing that when they came back on he’d be the only possible suspect?” I asked.

“He didn’t know the lights would come back on so fast,” said Cawelti. “He pulled the lights-off trick earlier to be sure it would work. This time it didn’t work. Somebody turned the lights back on too fast.”