“We need to release the sketch to the media,” Wondero said.
“Can’t,” his partner said. “The victim never confirmed it.”
“We can say she did.”
“Who will back us up? Not Jackson, and not the police artist. It’s a bad idea, Harry.”
“But we know what he looks like. If we put the sketch out there, and someone sees it, they might identify him.”
“We’ve got to play by the rules, Harry.”
Wondero sucked down the rest of his coffee. “I’ve got another idea.”
“Oh, boy.”
“Just listen. We know a more about Death than we did before. We have a vague idea what he looks like, and we know that last night he was driving around the strip impersonating a college student. What makes this significant is this. Death doesn’t know that we know. He thinks he killed Tawny Starr.”
“I don’t see how that helps us, Harry.”
“We give the sketch to Hardare.”
“I’m not reading you.”
“We take him to the scene of the crime. Bring reporters. Let him do the psychic number. He draws the sketch, and says this is what the killer looks like. The newspapers won’t have any problem printing it then.”
Rittenbaugh buried his head in his hands. “You’re sounding like something straight out of the nut house.”
“Hardare scared him once,” Wondero insisted. “He can do it again. We have to use the sketch.”
“It’s one thing to bend the rules, it’s another when you break them.”
“Bad deeds, good intentions.”
“I suppose you think one balances the other.”
“I wouldn’t stay on the force if I did. But in this situation, I think it’s warranted.”
Rittenbaugh licked the jelly off his finger. “I think you’re wrong, Harry. But if you want me to play along, I’m game.”
“You will?”
“Sure. You’ve backed me up when I’ve been wrong.”
Wondero stared into space. He could not rid himself of the image of Death running amuck in his house, butchering his family. Only now he saw himself standing in the bathroom doorway, blocking the path to his daughter. In his hands was a long gleaming sword, and although it was no match for Death’s shotgun, he was able to take a full swing just before the gun went off, and felt it sever flesh and bone.
Chapter 12
Ebell
The Wilshire Ebell Theater was known simply as the Ebell to the people of Los Angeles, and had been showcased a wide variety of live performances for nearly a hundred years. Wondero drove straight to the theater with his partner, and parked on Lucerne next to the ornate building. Inside, he found the two detectives assigned to bodyguard Hardare and his family in the lobby.
“What are you doing out here?” Wondero asked them.
“Hardare’s doing a dress rehearsal, and doesn’t want to be disturbed,” one of the detectives replied.
“Did you check the other entrances to make sure they were secure?”
“Sure did. The place is locked down.”
“Good.”
Wondero headed into the theater when his partner stopped him.
“He doesn’t want to be disturbed, Harry,” Rittenbaugh said.
“I didn’t hear that,” Wondero said.
Wondero pushed open a swinging door and entered the darkened theater. He had no idea what he was going to say to Hardare, and decided to just wing it. Walking down a center aisle, he heard music, then saw a spotlight come on, revealing an empty stage. The dress rehearsal had started, and he stopped to watch.
There was a puff of smoke in the center of the stage, and Hardare appeared out of thin air. He wore a European cut tuxedo with pleated pants, a white shirt with a starched collar, and black onyx and gold cufflinks that caught the light and made it sparkle in tiny pools around his hands. He looked at ease, at home within his fishbowl, his smile broadening at the rows of seats stretched out before him. He addressed the empty house.
“During the 1920’s, Houdini became engrossed in the spirit world while attempting to contact his beloved mother,” he began. “What he found in his search was something else entirely, and can be viewed here on this stage.”
The spotlight expanded, illuminating the innocent props that Wondero swore had not been there moments before: a black chair with a curved back, a black curtained cabinet six feet high and no wider than a phone booth, and a leather restraining device called a Kansas vest that hung on the back of the chair.
“I need the assistance of a member of the audience. You sir,” Hardare said, pointing at an empty seat in the front row. “Would you care to step forward?”
“Sure thing,” Wondero said loudly. Walking down the aisle, he climbed up the felt lined stairs to the stage. Frozen to his spot, Hardare’s eyes slowly registered on his face.
“For God’s sake, don’t do that,” Hardare said.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Here,” Hardare said, throwing the Kansas vest into his hands. “I needed someone to help me anyway.”
“Can we talk first?” Wondero asked.
“Lets do both. I’ve got two union guys doing the lights and they get paid whether I work them or not.”
Wondero stretched the vest between his arms, and tested the straps to see if they were authentic. A Kansas vest — when coupled with a regulation pair of handcuffs to keep a prisoner’s hands from wandering — could not be escaped from. He fitted Hardare into the garment and did up the back.
“There is a pair of handcuffs on the table,” Hardare said. “Inspect them if you wish, and clamp them around my wrists.”
Wondero looked the cuffs over. “Look fine to me,” and as he turned, slipped them into his pocket while his other hand unsnapped the pair hanging on his belt. He clamped them on Hardare’s wrists, hoping he could not tell the difference.
“Thank you,” Hardare said enthusiastically, his stage persona on full wattage. “Directly behind me is a cabinet. Please open the curtain, step inside, and have a look around.”
Wondero drew the curtain and inspected the prop. With his car keys, he pried at several boards in the floor until he was sure they were not hinged.
“Everything’s copacetic.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give Detective Wondero a big hand for doing such a thorough job,” Hardare said.
The silence was deafening. Sensing he was making a jerk out of himself, Wondero said, “Sorry.”
Hardare entered the cabinet. Wondero drew the curtain for him, and noticed it was missing a foot of fabric at its top, leaving Hardare’s head plainly visible.
“Please step back. Just a few feet.”
Wondero obliged him. The lights on the stage dimmed while a pin light focused on Hardare’s grinning countenance. From behind the curtain a familiar looking silver pen appeared, and danced up to Hardare’s face, where the magician clasped it between his teeth.
“Hey, that’s my pen,” Wondero said.
Hardare parted his lips, and the pen eerily fell in slow motion from his mouth. Seeing it drop was like watching a film one frame at a time, and as the pin light expanded to include the entire cabinet, Wondero watched helplessly as his pen snaked out from beneath the curtain and made its ascent up the front without any visible means of support. On its way up, the pen paused briefly to do a little dance, taunting him, and Wondero forced himself not to lunge forward and snatch it out of the air.
“Here, catch,” Hardare said.