James Swain - Dark Magic

The parlor fell silent. Akan shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair.

“Perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement,” the elderly Turk said.

“You mean a bribe to keep your mouths shut? How much do you have in mind?” Wolfe asked.

“How about a thousand dollars?”

“That sounds reasonable enough. Do you take traveler’s checks?”

“Of course.”

“Gentlemen, you have a deal.”

Sedat held his hand out for the money. It was the opening Wolfe had been waiting for. He kicked the big man in the chest, and sent him tumbling onto his father’s wheelchair. Habib came next. Drawing the steak knife, Woolfe slashed son number one across the face.

“Stand against the wall,” Wolfe ordered him.

Habib cowered against the wall, his hand pressed to the gushing wound. Wolfe pointed his knife at Sedat, who was trying to rehook the oxygen tank to the tube hanging around his father’s neck. The crying sound of escaping oxygen filled the air.

“Give me Lester Rowe’s address, and I’ll leave you alone,” Wolfe said.

“I don’t have it,” Sedat replied.

“You bought his bloody business. You must have some idea where he went.”

It was Habib who answered him. “Lester Rowe moved his business to Second Street, between First and Second Avenues. He works out of an apartment house on the bottom floor.”

“What’s the address?”

“He didn’t give it to us. He has a steady stream of clients. You won’t have a problem finding him.”

“That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

Sedat had pulled his father into his lap, and was trying to revive him. It was touching to see the son’s devotion to his father. Had it been his own father, Wolfe would have taken his head and smashed it against the floor, then given it a twist for good measure.

Wolfe backed out of the parlor. Stopping in the doorway, he pulled out his trusty Zippo, and grabbed a promotional flyer off a table. He crushed the flyer into a ball and began to ignite it.

“No!” Sedat said.

“The police offered you a reward for turning me in, didn’t they?” Wolfe said.

Sedat nodded his head fearfully.

“How much for my head?”

“Does it matter?” Sedat asked.

“It does to me.”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money. Why settle for a thousand?”

“We are illegals. If the police found out, they’d throw us out of the country.”

“Makes sense. Have a nice hereafter.”

Wolfe lit the flyer with his Zippo, and tossed the flaming paper directly at the tank. The escaping oxygen made a distinct Pop! as it ignited and caught fire. He went into the hallway and slammed the door, then braced himself. He could hear the Turks yelling in their native tongue. Seconds later the tank exploded, and the whole building shook.

It was still raining as he went outside. Eleventh Street was deserted, although it would not be that way for very long. He fired up a cigarette, and smoke filled his lungs as he started to walk. It was strange: The more times he killed, the harder it was for him to calm down. Madame Marie had called him the Devil, only he didn’t think the Devil had a conscience. He still did, no matter how small it might be.

Soon he reached Second Avenue, and began to hunt for Lester Rowe.

The lobby of the 19th Precinct was filled with people. Located on East 67th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues, the precinct served one of the most densely populated areas of the city, which included many foreign missions and consuls. Peter sifted his way through the mob, and caught the eye of a gruff female desk sergeant. He sidled up to her desk.

“Good morning.”

“You always take a shower with your clothes on?” she asked, working a piece of gum.

Everyone in New York was a comedian. Especially the cops.

“I’d like to see Detective Schoch,” he replied. “Is she here?”

“Depends who’s asking. Hey, I know you. You’re that magic guy. I saw your show last year. Not bad. There’s something I’ve always wanted to know. Is that your real name?”

“Warlock is my stage name.”

“I didn’t think so. Show me a trick.”

Peter made it a rule to never walk out of his brownstone without a trick in his pocket. Only today he’d forgotten, so he had to improvise. He told the desk sergeant to think of a card, and when he attempted to read her mind, hit a wall. It happened sometimes. Borrowing a pen and a piece of paper, he wrote down a prediction and placed it face down on the desk.

“Name your card,” he said.

“Queen of hearts,” she replied.

“Want to change your mind?”

“Nope.”

“Happy with the mind that you have?”

“Very funny.”

“Turn my prediction over.”

She flipped over the paper. Written on it were the words QUEEN OF HEARTS.

“Wow. How’d you do that?”

There were only five playing cards that people ever thought of-the ace of spades, queen of spades, queen of hearts, king of hearts, and seven of spades. Most middle-aged women chose the queen of hearts. He smiled and shook his head.

“Not going to tell me, huh?” The desk sergeant slid a form toward him. “Fill this out so I can sign you in. Is Detective Schoch expecting you?”

“She was at my home earlier, discussing a case,” he said.

“Is that a yes, or a no?”

“No, she’s not expecting me.”

“I’ll give you a pass this time.” She made a quick call, then hung up. “Detective Schoch will be down in a few minutes. Have a seat in one of those chairs. Nice meeting you.”

“You, too.”

He sat on a hard plastic bench bolted to the wall. A copy of today’s New York Post lay on the seat beside him. No one did headlines like the Post. KIDNAPING SUSPECT TO GO FREE-COPS OUT-RAGED! By the time he’d finished the story, Schoch had come downstairs. She was all business, and wore a sidearm strapped to her side.

“Hey, Peter, what’s up?”

He rose from the bench. “I had another vision. Wolfe’s on the Lower East Side, stalking his next victim. He was eating breakfast in a diner that looked familiar.”

She shot him an exasperated look. “That’s it? You can’t give me an address, or a name?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll put out an alert.”

Schoch started walking toward the elevators. He hurried to catch up.

“Please tell me what you know about Wolfe,” he said.

“I already told you, I can’t do that.”

“I have something to trade.”

“What are you talking about?”

He pulled the Post out from under his arm. “I can help you solve this kidnaping case.”

“Exactly how do you plan to do that?”

“The newspaper ran a photo of the ransom note. I saw something in the note that told me who the kidnaper is.”

“Our handwriting expert looked at the ransom note, and didn’t see a thing.”

“He must of missed it.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I see things that other people miss. I can help you crack this.”

“Is that part of your psychic abilities?”

“Actually, it comes from being a magician. We look at things differently.”

Schoch gave him a long, searching look. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say what the hell, and punched the elevator button.

“Follow me,” she said.

Homicide was a sea of cubicles and ringing phones. Dagastino’s cubicle was a pigsty, his desk covered in dead coffee cups and dog-eared reports. Dag was on the phone, and had his feet propped on the desk. He ended the call as they entered, and shot Peter a hostile look.

“We’ve got company,” Schoch said.

“I see that,” Dagastino said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”