"The FBI thinks they're definitely the killers?" she asked. "No doubt about it? Lock 'em up, throw away the key?"
"Some doubt, I suppose, but not much. You never know exactly what Kyle is thinking," I told her. "But yes, I think he does. The techies at Quantico do. So do I."
She studied me over the lip of her bottle of beer. "Sounds like the two of you are pretty tight, huh?"
I nodded. "We've worked a lot of cases together in the past few years. Our success rate is good. I can't say that I really know him."
"I've never had much luck working with the FBI," she said. "That's just me, though."
"Part of my job is to make sure police relations with the Bureau run smoothly in D.C. Kyle is definitely smart. He's just hard to read at times."
She sipped her beer slowly. "Unlike somebody else at this table."
"Unlike two somebodies at this table," I corrected her, and we both laughed.
Jamilla glanced at the stage. "What's the holdup? Where are they? Should we start stamping our feet for them to come out and show us some magic? Show us what they've got?"
We didn't have to. A moment later one of the magicians walked out onto the stage.
It was Charles, and he lookedlike a killer.
Chapter 61
Charles was wearing a skintight black bodysuit and thigh-high patent-leather boots. He had a simple diamond earring and a gold nose stud. He stared contemptuously at the audience. He did this for several uncomfortable moments, his eyes full of hatred and disdain for every case he encountered.
At least twice, I thought that he looked directly at Jamilla and me. So did she.
"Yeah, we're watching you too, asshole," she said, raising her beer in mock salute. "You think those two pitiful creeps know we're here?"
"Who knows? They're good at this. They haven't been caught yet."
"I hear you. Hopefully, they both have stomach cancer and will die slowly and painfully over the next several months. Cheers." She raised her bottle again.
Charles leaned down and spoke to a college-age couple at a table near the stage. He was miked.
"What are you two airheads staring at? Watch out, or I'll turn you into a couple of toads. Upgrade you on the food chain." He laughed, and it was deep and throaty. To my ear, it was also unnecessarily unpleasant, way over the top. The kids in the audience laughed and cheered him on. Civility seems to be dead at the moment. Nasty is chic; nasty is so cool and real.
I looked over at Jamilla. "He sees them as food. Interesting how his twisted mind works."
The second magician sauntered out onto the stage a couple of minutes later. No magic gimmicks to announce the entrance, which surprised me. I had heard this was a real light-and-sound show, but not tonight. Why the style change? Was this for us? Did they know who we were?
"For the uninitiated, I'm Daniel. Charles and I have been doing magic shows since we were twelve years old and living in San Diego, California. We're very good at magic. We can do the 'Vanishing Performer' — Houdini's personal favorite; the 'Sword Cabinet'; Carl Hertz's 'Merry Widow'; DeKolta's 'Cocoon.' I can catch a bullet fired from a Colt Magnum in my teeth. So can Charles. Aren't we special? Don't you wish you were us?"
The crowd howled and cheered. The rock music from the speakers had been lowered. Only the beat droned on.
"The illusion you are about to witness is the same one Harry Houdini used to close his show in Paris and New York. We're using it to openour show. Need I say more?"
The lights suddenly flashed off. The stage was in total darkness. A few women in the audience screeched loudly.
Mock fear. Mostly there was laughter, some of it nervous. What were these two really up to?
Jamilla nudged me with an elbow. "Don't be scared. I'm right here. I'll protect you."
"I'll remember that."
Then tiny pinpricks of light appeared everywhere on the stage. The main spots came on again. Nothing happened for the next minute or so.
Then Daniel, riding a spirited, prancing white stallion, came out onto the stage. He was dressed in royal blue glitter from head to toe. He wore a matching top hat, and he tipped it to the cheering audience.
"I must admit this is pretty cool," Jamilla said. "Quite the stunt. So visual. Now what?"
Daniel was followed onstage by eight men and women in crisp white palace uniforms. And two white tigers. It was a pretty amazing spectacle. Two female performers held up a huge oriental fan in front of Daniel and his high-stepping horse. My eyes were glued to the stage.
"Jesus," Jamilla muttered. "What the hell is this?"
"They're ripping off Harry Houdini, like the man said. And they're doing it well."
When the two women slowly pulled the fan away, Daniel was gone. Now Charles was seated on the white horse.
"Once again — Jesus," said Jam. "How do they do that?"
Somehow, Charles had changed into black trash and glitter. The smirk on his face was totally, incredibly arrogant. It showed utter disdain for the audience, but they seemed to love it, to love him. A puff of smoke, and the audience gasped as one.
Somehow, Daniel was back onstage, standing alongside
Charles and the beautiful horse. The illusion was masterful. Everyone in the audience jumped up and clapped wildly. The screams and piercing whistles hurt my ears.
"And that," Daniel announced, "is only the beginning! You ain't seen nothing yet!"
Jamilla looked at me and her mouth sagged. "Alex, these guys are very good, and I've seen Siegfried and Roy. Why are they playing at these little clubs? Why are they wasting their time here?"
"Because they want to," I told her. "This is where they look for prey."
Chapter 62
Jamilla and I watched both magic shows that night. We were amazed by the calmness and the confidence exuded by Daniel and Charles. Following the second show, the magicians went home. The agents on surveillance there said it appeared the two were home for the night. I didn't get it, and neither did Jamilla.
Eventually, around three in the morning, she and I returned to the Dauphine. Two FBI teams would stay near Daniel and Charles's place until morning. We were becoming frustrated and confused. We had a lot of manpower working their butts off.
I wanted to ask Jamilla up for a beer, but I didn't. Too complicated for right now. Or maybe I was just getting chicken-shit as I got older. Maybe I was even a little wiser. Nah.
I was up again at six, making notes in my hotel room. I was learning some things I didn't want to know, and not just about magic tricks. I now knew that in the vampire underworld, the area surrounding the main home of a sire, regent, or elder was known as the domain. The FBI and the New Orleans police had staked out the neighborhood in the Garden District where Daniel Erickson and Charles Defoe lived.
The house was located on LaSalle near Sixth. It was grey-stone and probably had as many as twenty rooms. The house sat on a hill, with a high, reinforced stone outer wall similar to the outer curtain of a castle. It also had a large, deep cellar, which wouldn't have been possible in the swampy, sea-level terrain without the elevation of the hill. No one on the task force would admit that they believed in vampires, but everyone knew that a series of brutal murders had been committed and that Daniel and Charles were the likely killers.
Jamilla and I spent the next two days surveilling the house, the domain. We worked double shifts, and nothing could relieve the tedium. A scene that sometimes comes to mind when I'm on stakeouts is the one in The French Connection, Gene Hackman standing out in the cold while the French drug dealers eat an elaborate dinner in a New York restaurant. It's like that, just like that, sometimes for sixteen or eighteen hours at a stretch.