The Magician Murders (The Art of Murder 3)

“No. Not at all. The idea was that magicians could control the elements—as well as the spirit world. Plus, fire is symbolic. It represents all kinds of things: purification, knowledge, rebirth, divinity, inspiration, hell… It’s subliminal advertising.”

Dreyfus made a sound of disapproval. “Okay. Never mind. I get it. In that case, I won’t ask about the turbans, harem girls, snakes, buzzards, lizards, and sinister Asian men. Do you recognize anything from the Khan collection?”

He shook his head. “No. But I don’t remember every piece of the collection off the top of my head.”

“If these are the real thing, how would someone like Ian Boz get his hands on them?”

Jason turned as Terry called from the doorway to the office, “He’s not here.”

“You said he was here,” Dreyfus said.

“I know, but he’s not in his office. I thought he was in the bathroom, but he must have stepped out for a coffee or something. He uses the back door sometimes.”

“Then he’s coming back?”

Terry shrugged. “I guess.”

“How long have you been working for Boz?” Jason asked.

“About two years.” Terry looked defensive, as though he feared he was about to be arrested for working for Boz.

Jason smiled. “Do you like it?”

“Sure. Yeah.” Still wary.

“Are you a magician too?”

The kid—okay, not really a kid, because he was probably in his late twenties, now that Jason had a

closer look at him—relaxed a little. “Yes. Well, I’m training to be.”

“Are you Boz’s apprentice?”

Terry wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Not him, no. I was training with Mateo Santos.” A shadow crossed his face.

“Do you know Michael Khan?” Dreyfus asked. “Was he a regular visitor to the store?”

Terry’s expression grew wary once more. “I know he’s dead. Everyone knows. They found his body at Vedauwoo.”

“Vedauwoo?” Jason repeated.

Both Dreyfus and Terry looked at him in surprise. After all, it was a National Park and a popular destination by all accounts. It was just he’d only ever heard of it in connection with Ethan’s death.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Terry said. “What it means that he would be found there.”

“What does it mean?” Jason asked.

“It’s a sacred place. Sacred to the Arapaho anyway. It’s where the young men went for their vision quests. Where the medicine men went to make their medicine pouches.”

Dreyfus said in the tone of one who does not want to encourage superstitious nonsense, “It’s a campground as well as being very popular with climbers and photographers.”

The sound of pixie dust sprinkled over them, and the glass door to the store swung open. The man who entered was about forty, medium height, and built like a classic cartoon henchman. He held a bag of fast food. The tips of what appeared to be some pretty impressive ink tickled his jawline and covered his massive hands. The impressiveness of the tats and his array of piercings was sort of undercut by a skimpy hairdo that more than anything called to mind Tintin.

“Ian Boz?” Jason inquired.

Boz’s beady eyes moved from Jason to Dreyfus, who was reaching for her badge like it was a magic amulet. “Who wants to know?”

Terry wavered. “It’s the FBI!”