Violets Are Blue (Alex Cross 7)

New Orleans, Louisiana.

A nightclub called Howl.

A pair of magicians named Daniel and Charles.

I still couldn’t travel, so I remained in Washington. I hated not being in New Orleans. I was missing an important time, but Kyle was there. I think he wanted to make this bust himself, and I couldn’t blame him. This could help make his career, no doubt about it. The case was huge.

That night in New Orleans a half dozen FBI agents circulated through the crowd that had turned out for Daniel and Charles’s early performance. Howl was located in the warehouse district, off Julia Street. Usually it featured musical acts, and even tonight zydeco and blues reverberated from the mortar-and-redbrick walls. A few tourists tried to bring “geaux” cups from Bourbon Street into Howl. They were denied admission “for life.”

The used Cressidas and Colts and a few sport-utility vehicles in the parking lot were a tip-off to the presence of Tulane and Loyola college students packed inside. Smoke lay thick over the noisy and restless crowd. Several in the audience looked underage, and the club had been cited for serving minors. The owners found it easier to buy off the New Orleans police than to effectively regulate the club.

Suddenly, everything went quiet. A single voice punctuated the silence. “Holy shit! Look at this.”

A white tiger had walked out onto the stage, which was covered in layers of black velvet.

There was no leash on the cat. No trainer or handler was anywhere in sight. The formerly raucous audience remained silent.

The big cat lazily raised its head and roared. A girl in a hot-pink tank top screamed in the pit seating area. The cat roared again.

A second white tiger walked out and stood beside the first. It glared down at the crowd and roared. The pit audience was situated directly in front of the stage. Men and women seated there scrambled away, grabbing their beer bottles.

An unmistakable tiger roar now came from the back, behind the audience. Everyone froze. How many cats were loose in the club? Where were they? What the hell was going on?

The lights onstage made the peripheral space a dark void. Any retreat to either side of the room was a gamble. There was a shift of the stage lights—left to right, then right to left. The lights were powerful, almost blinding. The lights created the visual illusion that the entire stage had moved.

The crowd’s gasp was audible. Panic was in the air.

The tigers were gone!

Two magicians in shimmering black-and-gold-lamé suits now stood at the center of the stage where the tigers had been just a heartbeat ago. They were both smiling; they almost seemed to be laughing at the jittery audience.

The taller of the two, Daniel, finally spoke. “You have nothing to fear. We’re Daniel and Charles, and we’re the best you will ever see! That is a promise I plan to keep. Let the magic begin!”

The crowd inside Howl began to clap and cheer, and then to howl. There were two shows that night. Each was scheduled to last an hour and a half. FBI agents had infiltrated the cr

owd. Kyle Craig was inside. More agents were posted outside on the street. Daniel and Charles concentrated on several tricks, which they called “Homage to Houdini.” They also performed Carl Hertz’s “Merry Widow.”

The audience response to the shows was highly favorable. Nearly everybody left the club in awe, vowing to come again, to tell friends to come. Apparently, it happened everywhere that Daniel and Charles played, coast to coast.

Now came the real work for the FBI. After the second show, Daniel and Charles were whisked away to a silver limousine idling in a sealed-off alley at the stage door. There was a lot of noise and confusion backstage. Daniel and Charles were screaming at each other.

Once the silver limousine finally exited the alley, a team of FBI cars followed through the usual crowds in downtown New Orleans, then out toward Lake Pontchartrain. Kyle Craig was in radio contact for the entire trip.

The limo pulled up in front of an antebellum mansion where a private party was in full rage. Loud rock and roll music, Dr. John, blared across spacious lawns marked by two- and three-hundred-year-old oaks. Partygoers had spilled onto the lawns that sloped down to the dark, glimmering water of the lake.

The limo driver got out and opened one of the back doors with a theatrical flourish. As several FBI agents watched in disbelief, two white tigers jumped out.

Daniel and Charles were not in the limousine. The magicians had disappeared.

Chapter 58

DANIEL AND Charles had arrived at a small, private club inside a house in Abita Springs, Louisiana, about fifty miles outside New Orleans. This particular club had never been written up in the entertainment section of the Times-Picayune, or in any of the glossy-covered guide magazines available in the lobbies of just about every large and small New Orleans hotel.

A man named George Hellenga greeted his guests with great excitement and enthusiasm. Hellenga had badly pitted cheeks, the thickest black eyebrows, dark, sunken eyes. He wore contacts that made his eyes appear black. Hellenga weighed more than three hundred pounds, all of it bunched tightly into a black leather jacket and pants purchased at a Big & Tall shop in Houston. He bowed to the magicians as they arrived and whispered that he was honored by their visit.

“You should be,” Charles snapped. “We’re tired after a long day. You know why we’re here. Let’s get on with it.” Offstage, Charles often did the talking, especially if it meant addressing someone like this pathetic underling, this cipher, George Hellenga, who immediately showed Daniel and Charles the way downstairs. They were the masters; he was the slave. There were legions of others like him, waiting in so many cities, praying for a chance to serve the Sire.

As he descended the steps, Daniel broke into a smile. He saw the captive, the slave, and he was well pleased.