Blackstone shrugged, stood up, raised a hand and as he flicked his wrist, the lights went out. I started to get up, but the lights came back on almost instantly.
Blackstone was gone.
There was a snap of fingers at the ballroom door and there stood Blackstone, thirty feet from where he had been only a second earlier. All eyes were on him as he grinned and the lights went out again. Again it was an instant before the lights were back on again. Blackstone was no longer at the door. He was back on the platform standing behind the podium.
The applause was more than polite. A few people rose. Blackstone swept back his tuxedo tails and took his seat next to Ott, who forced himself to smile. He whispered something to Blackstone, but I was too far away to hear what it was.
Salad came and went. Tomato soup came and went. I kept my eyes on Ott who smiled, eyes darting around, looking very satisfied. The main course was served.
I was spearing a potato, my eyes on Ott who was leaning forward slightly, when the lights went out again. Again they came back almost instantly. We all looked for Blackstone on the platform, expecting a repeat of the trick he’d already done, or some variation on it. But there Blackstone sat exactly where he had been. Next to him Calvin Ott was slumped forward, his face pressed against his plate, eyes closed, a knife buried deeply in his neck.
“There!” someone shouted.
The ballroom door was open. Someone in a brown jacket stood in the doorway for a beat, turned and ran.
“Don’t let him get away!” Sixty magicians, a dentist, a landlord, a tiny translator, a phony screenwriter, and two private detectives ran for the open door. I glanced back. The satchel was still next to the dead Ott’s chair. Blackstone was hurrying toward us.
I pushed past four or five people and went through the door. I could see a man in a brown jacket running across the lobby. I ran ahead of the crowd and through the door to the street. The runner was going down the sidewalk, pushing people out of the way. I closed the distance between us, but he was younger than me and in better shape. A blur of black and white passed me, caught up with the runner, and jumped on his back.
I was panting when I caught up. Passersby stopped to watch. Magicians caught up with us. The young magician who had caught the man stood up. He had a thin mustache and wasn’t breathing hard.
Phil caught up just as I was kneeling to double check the man in the brown jacket, who was lying on his back.
“Who the hell are you?” Phil asked, grabbing his neck.
The man wasn’t even a man. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and he was frightened.
“Nordman, Michael Nordman,” he said. “It was a joke. My head hurts.”
“A joke?” I asked.
“Or something. I don’t know. A guy gave me fifteen dollars and told me to stand outside the door. I was supposed to watch under it, and, when the lights went out, open the door, stand there for a second or two, then run away as fast as I could.”
“What guy?” asked Phil.
“I don’t know his name,” the kid said. “My head hurts. I was working down the street at Hudson’s Restaurant yesterday. He came over to me and told me what he wanted. There was going to be an envelope with fifteen dollars for me at the hotel desk. It was there, so I did it.”
Around us, magicians were shoving, talking, shouting. Phil pulled the kid up by the arm, ripped his own collar off his neck, and started dragging Nordman back to the hotel.
Cars slowed down to watch us parade back through the lobby and into the ballroom. It was empty, except for Ott at the table facedown with a knife in his neck.
“That’s him,” said Nordman, pointing at Ott.
“The one who paid you to run away?” I asked.
“That’s him. What happened to him?”
No one answered.
“Get them out of here,” Phil said to Jeremy, nodding at the magicians. “Put them somewhere, but don’t let any of them go.”
Jeremy was next to me now. He heard what Phil had said and turned to wrestle the magicians back into the lobby.
“Can you handle it?” I asked.
Jeremy nodded calmly and began to herd the crowd away from the door. Phil moved quickly past the tables and stepped up on the platform.
The knife was deep in Ott’s neck, with blood-a lot of it-seeping from the wound. We didn’t have to check, but we did. No pulse. I wanted to lift Ott’s face out of the plate, but I knew better.
We looked at each other thinking the same thing. One of us had to say it.
“Lights were out no more than a second.”
“Only one person was close enough to do this,” said Phil, looking at the dead magician.
“Unless he was a contortionist and killed himself,” I said.
“Knife is straight down and deep,” said Phil.
“Blackstone,” I said.
“Blackstone,” Phil agreed.
“Phil,” I said. “The satchel’s gone.”
Chapter 12
Ask for a coin. In your hand is a handkerchief spread over the fingers of one hand. Ask someone to place the coin in the center of the handkerchief. Poke it down showing that the coin is still there. Reach over with the other hand, snap the handkerchief. The coin is gone. Show that both your hands are empty, wipe your brow with the handkerchief and put it in your pocket. Solution: Before you place the handkerchief over your fingers, put a rubber band around your thumb and first two fingers of the hand, which will hold the handkerchief. As you touch the end of the handkerchief, let the rubber band slip over the coin. Snap the handkerchief. Show your hands are empty.
“Sixty witnesses,” said Cawelti, leaning back against the table, arms folded, smile on his pink face.
“Sixty-six,” Gunther corrected. “Plus at least one waiter.”
Cawelti glared at Gunther for a second, shook his head and looked at Blackstone who sat in front of him. The set-up was makeshift: two rows of chairs, four chairs in the first row, three in the second. It was a small meeting room in the hotel, rearranged quickly for Cawelti’s show.
A huge cop named Brian Alexander stood at the door to the room. He was a good guy, considered the toughest man in the Wilshire station, and we all knew he was there for one reason, which was to protect Cawelti from my brother. Alexander didn’t look comfortable.
It was Cawelti’s show, and he was going to play it out, trying to make us all squirm. It was his moment of triumph. It would be a very short moment.
In the ballroom, police lab guys were looking at Ott’s body. In another room, the magicians were being interviewed by four detectives. All of them were coming up with the same story that pointed to our client as a murderer.
Blackstone sat in the first row of chairs with me on one side of him and Phil on the other. Gunther sat next to me. In the second row sat Shelly, Pancho, and Jeremy.
“Ott threatened you,” Cawelti said, pointing at Blackstone.
Blackstone nodded his agreement.
“You all heard the threat,” Cawelti said, looking at each of us. “Right?”
We all nodded, except for Shelly who said, “right.”
“So you killed him before he could nail you,” said Cawelti, looking at Blackstone.
“Incorrect,” said Blackstone.
“Come on,” said Cawelti, folding his arms again. “No one was within twenty feet of the victim but you. Lights go off. Lights come back on. How long were they out? A second? Two?”
No one answered.
“Not enough time for anyone to stand, let alone get up on that stage and stab Ott,” said Cawelti. “Not enough time for anyone to do it but you. Right?”
He pointed again at Blackstone, who was lost in thought.
“Pardon me,” said Blackstone, looking up. “What did you say?”