“You know he just bribed you,” Dreyfus said as they left Fields’ office.
“I really do want to go to that opening,” Jason said.
“That makes it worse.”
“No, I mean, I want to attend that show in an official capacity. I said before, I don’t think the timing of the convention and the murder of Michael Khan—and theft of his collec
tion—are coincidental.”
They walked around the building to the parking lot in the back and found Doug Devant leaning against Dreyfus’ car. He was still shuffling his cards, but he snapped them together and dropped them into his pocket as Jason and Dreyfus approached.
“Aren’t you going to miss your audition?” Jason asked.
Devant nodded as though awarding Jason a point. “They’ll wait for me. It’s a formality anyway. She’s got the job. I wanted a word with you two.”
The penny dropped. Jason had thought the name Doug Devant sounded familiar. “You own the club where Friday’s magic show is taking place. Top Hat White Rabbit.”
“That’s right.”
“What is it you want to tell us?”
“I have no idea who killed Michael Khan. Khan was no loss to the magic community—or any other community. Most of his collection was built by screwing other people over. He bought posters and props from other collectors and never paid for them. He outright stole my Floating Light Bulb—stole it from my dressing room! I wouldn’t sell, so he stole it. It was one of Blackstone’s original bulbs, and Khan used it in that goddamned show of his where he ruins magic for everyone by showing the audience how the trick is done.”
“That would be pretty upsetting,” Jason said.
“How is it done?” Dreyfus asked.
Devant threw her a distracted look. “Magic.” He said to Jason, “You have no idea. And that trick was licensed, by the way. Competition plays a big role in the magic community. Frankly, thievery is rife, but stealing a guy’s magic light bulb, that’s a whole new level of scumbag. So as far as Khan is concerned, good riddance to bad magic. But.”
Devant seemed to need a moment to compose himself. “But,” he repeated, “Khan may not be the only one.”
“The only one what?” Dreyfus inquired.
“The only dead magician.”
After a moment, Jason said, “Go on.”
“The magic community is so damned secretive, so unless someone was paying close attention… That memorial for Mateo Santos?”
“Yes?”
“I just wonder if anyone has bothered to actually look into Santos’ death.”
“Was there something strange about it?”
“You mean other than the fact that he would never have committed suicide in a million years?”
“Was Santos’ death officially ruled a suicide?”
“Yes. That’s the story. Nobody who knew him believes it. But the cops didn’t know him. The coroner didn’t know him. They’ll believe anything. Up to and including that Santos would decide to poison himself in the middle of rehearsing his act for the opening of a new magic club. I mean, that’s ridiculous. On every level. To start with, if he was going to kill himself, he’d do it in the privacy of his own home.”
Not necessarily. Daryl Easton had hanged himself at the Magic Castle in Los Angeles. Or no—come to think of it, Easton’s death had ultimately been ruled accidental. In the 1940s Theodore Annemann had gassed himself at home. Larry Grey had shot himself in the 1950s outside his house. Maybe the real point was magicians committing suicide was a quite a rarity.
Dreyfus said, “If your friend’s death has been ruled a suicide, there’s not a lot we can do. The only reason we were brought into the Khan case is his body was found on public land—and we were already assisting Cheyenne PD with the missing art collection.”
“You investigate serial killings, don’t you?”
“Whoa,” Jason said. “No.”