“Do you think so?” Jason was surprised.
“She tap-danced around every question. You’ll notice she blamed the theft on the one person who has a rock-solid alibi.”
“I did notice that.”
Terry stood beside his truck, watching them as they approached. When Jason’s eyes met his, Terry scowled.
“What’s his problem?” Dreyfus muttered when they were in the car and buckling up.
“Not sure.” He almost added, he seemed okay skulking around my house last night, but it wasn’t actually funny—plus he hadn’t mentioned his moonlight encounter with Terry to Dreyfus, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
Terry was still unmoving, still scowling as they got in their car and drove slowly past.
Chapter Sixteen
Ted Fields was with a client, but his secretary—a leggy nineteen-year-old who looked like her night job was Magician’s Assistant—insisted on ushering them into Fields’ office anyway.
“Ted, it’s the FBI!” she announced.
There were two men in the office. A blandly handsome, middle-aged blond sat in front of the desk, shuffling a deck of cards like some people unconsciously caressed rosaries. At the receptionist’s announcement the cards went flying up in a paper fountain—but then landed neatly back in his right hand. The man behind the desk—Ted Fields—was older, darker, and more dangerous-looking. He reminded Jason of Vegas crooners circa 1960s—the mob connected ones.
Fields sat back in his chair. “How can I help you, gentle— Oh.” His dark eyes popped. “Baby, what happened to you?”
Dreyfus did not like being called baby. She made like Wonder Woman with her badge. “Special Agent Dreyfus. This is Special Agent West. May we have a word, sir?”
Fields put up his hands, grinning. “Say no more, Officer. I have an alibi. You can talk freely in front of this gentleman.”
“An alibi for what?” Jason asked with interest.
“For anything you want to hang on me.” He put his hands down. “No, seriously. For Michael’s murder. Minerva and I were dining out Sunday night. We had reservations for eight o’clock at L’Osteria Mondello. We arrived early. After dinner we ran into friends and ended up staying until ten; then we went back to my place where we spent the rest of the night.”
That was nice and pat—as well as peculiarly light-hearted. He’d obviously been practicing.
Which didn’t change the fact that Khan had died around six o’clock on Sunday evening, so dinner at eight was not an alibi.
“Routt Sheriff’s Office is handling the investigation into Mr. Khan’s murder,” Dreyfus said. “At the behest of Cheyenne PD, Agent West and I are looking into the theft of Mr. Khan’s art collection on Friday evening.”
“I have an alibi for Friday too,” Fields said promptly. “I was watching Minerva perform at a corporate event held at Miller Insulation. Over five hundred people watched her show that night.”
Dreyfus opened her mouth, but Fields wasn’t done. “Anyway, that collection was—is—half Minerva’s.”
“We understand that ownership of the collection was a point of contention in the divorce.”
Fields made a sound of disgust. “Everything was a point of contention in that divorce. That was all due to Michael. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing his meal ticket. If Minerva had been killed, there would be no question of who was behind it. But Minerva had no reason to want Michael dead.”
Again, practice made perfect.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Michael Khan?” Jason asked.
“Who didn’t?” the blond man with the deck of cards suddenly spoke up. “Anybody who knew him.”
“Sorry,” Jason said. “You are—”
“Douglas Devant. You may know me as Dyfan Disgleirio: Master Illusionist.” Devant did another of those quick waterfall cascades with the cards.
“Uh-huh,” Jason said. “Do you include yourself among people who wanted Khan dead?”
“I didn’t mean literally everyone wanted Khan dead. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t have anything to gain by his death—or to lose by his continuing to breathe.”