“I’m good, especially now that I’ve got a mystery to solve that’s right out of a TV show.”
“It is that. So tell me, how did David Turner kill Robert Chesterfield in front of three thousand witnesses?”
“His plan was quite ingenious, but I’d expect nothing less from a master magician.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Didn’t your client tell you how he killed Chesterfield?”
“Mr. Turner says that he didn’t kill Chesterfield.”
Ragland smiled. “Of course he does, but we’ve got him dead to rights.” There was a large stack of police reports piled in front of Ragland. He pushed them across the table to Robin. “I’m not required to give you discovery until I get my indictment, but you can take a copy of everything we have back to your office.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the gesture.”
Once again, Ragland smiled. “I’m not doing it out of the goodness of my heart. I want you to see how hopeless your case is. When you’ve read the reports and see that I can prove how Turner murdered Robert Chesterfield in full view of the audience, I’m certain you’ll tell him to plead guilty. If he does the smart thing, I’m prepared to take the death penalty off the table in exchange for a plea to aggravated murder.”
“This is bad,” Robin said.
“Very bad,” Jeff agreed.
They were seated across from each other in the conference room of Barrister, Berman & Lockwood. Piled high on the polished oak table that separated them were the police reports Peter Ragland had turned over.
“Tell me if you think I’ve got this right,” Robin said. “Ragland is going to argue that Turner hated Chesterfield enough to kill him, and murdering him during his greatest illusion would be a big fuck-you to his nemesis. So Ragland will tell the jury that David used his skill as a magician to sneak into the Imperial during rehearsals so he could learn the routines of the magician’s assistants and how the trick worked. Then he slipped out of his seat during the show, went to the assistants’ dressing room, and hid Porter’s inhaler. When she was looking for it, he knocked her out, put on her robe, went on the stage, and used his skill at silent killing to murder Chesterfield. Then he discarded the robe near the loading dock exit to make it look like the killer left the theater, and went back to his seat. How am I doing?”
“Unfortunately, too well.”
“Any ideas?”
“Not about how to disprove Ragland’s theory, but there are witnesses I want to interview. Oscar Mars organized the magicians who picketed the theater. They were outside, so they mayhave seen someone leave by the alley. I’d also like to talk to Chesterfield’s assistants to see if they can help figure out who used Porter’s robe. Then there’s Miriam Ross. She was in the theater during the performance, but I didn’t see a statement from Ross in the discovery, so I want to talk to her. What are you going to do?”
“You saw how excited Regina was. I’m going to call Stanley and see what he thinks about giving her a copy of the discovery. She might spot something we missed, and at minimum, it would give her something to do that would make her feel like she’s back in the game.”
Jeff didn’t look enthusiastic. “What if she’s so far gone that she can’t help us, and she gets frustrated? That could crush her.”
“That’s why I want to find out what Stanley thinks.”
“Okay, but hold off if he doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Don’t worry. The last thing I want to do is upset Regina.”
Jeff left and Robin decided to go through the large pile of interviews the police had conducted with the audience at the Imperial. She had skimmed them already, taking out the interviews with people like David Turner or Rafael Otero who had a connection to Chesterfield, but there were several hundred other interviews they had not read carefully. Robin knew that she was probably wasting her time, but it would be worth the trouble if she could find a hidden gem.
An hour later, Robin was ready to take a break when she saw a name that sounded familiar. She frowned. Where had she heard Samuel Moser’s name before. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Finding Oscar Mars was easy. The leader of the protesting magicians owned a small magic shop two blocks down from the Bagdad Theater on Hawthorne Boulevard. The store was wedged between a boutique that specialized in recycled clothing and a gelato shop. When Jeff walked in, he found the magician standing behind a glass display case filled with packs of cards, magic kits, and other gadgets for neophyte magicians.
Mars, a short, unimposing man, was dressed in a cheap tuxedo. His toupee wouldn’t fool anyone, and he had a black beard and mustache that circled thin, dry lips. The only thing about him that was impressive were his fingers, which were long and graceful and, Jeff assumed, would be a great help when he was manipulating cards.
Mars beamed at Jeff, whom he took for a potential customer. Then he looked disappointed when Jeff introduced himself as an investigator and gave him a business card. But he perked up when Jeff told him that he worked for Robin Lockwood, David Turner’s lawyer.
“David exposed that bastard, so I’ll help you anyway I can.”
“You don’t seem broken up about Chesterfield’s death.”
“I’m not. There’s a special place in hell for magicians who reveal the secrets of their art, and I hope Lord Robert is roasting there on a slow-turning spit. Ask your questions.”