Murder by Magic (8 page)

She fought a blush. “Now, darling . . .”

“‘Ah, to be young and in love . . .’” I let it trail off.

A perfect morning. The sun rising, the woman I loved with me, in our home, safe, warm, and secure. It was all perfect.

Well . . .

Except for the body in the living room.

Just a week ago, we’d been working a case.

We’d met the client at a small restaurant, a favorite of ours called Café Elégant.

“Mr. and Mrs. Steele, it is a pleasure to meet you,” he said as he stood to greet us.

“And you, sir,” I replied as we shook hands. It was obvious that he was instantly and forever dazzled by Emma, but she has that effect on most men. We sat down after he asked us to do so.

Arthur “Call Me Art” Harrison was unremarkable in every physical way—average height, average weight, average hair loss, average glasses—but for some odd reason he reminded me of a weasel. He had the air of someone who had deciphered the meaning of life and the secrets of the cosmos. After spending ten minutes with him, I could almost believe that he had indeed.

“You come highly recommended,” Art Harrison said. “Your reputation is remarkable.”

“We’ve had some luck,” Emma said as the wine steward approached. Harrison ordered the single most expensive wine on the list, without even wondering if it would go with our meals. Since Emma and I had been regulars here over the years, the sommelier brought only two glasses, setting one before Emma, the other before Harrison.

“You don’t drink, Mr. Steele?” Harrison asked.

“Not wine,” I said with a small smile.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Emma fighting the giggles. We’d been through this before, and it always amused her. Why it did was beyond me, but any man who claims to understand a woman, any woman, is either a liar or living in fantasyland. Ever since she bought me that silly movie with the actor and his sillier Hungarian accent . . .

Harrison explained his situation. Nothing major, but someone had come up with a new twist on an old twist in the computer software arena, and competitors were out to steal it before it could reach the production phase.

“That is impressive,” Emma said. She had the marvelous ability to focus on someone so totally and completely as to give the person the feeling that her day would not be complete without their having met. She was sincere about it. People fascinated her, and always would. I was a more private type of individual, preferring to stay at home with her, my books, a bit more distrustful of people. The clichés are true: opposites do indeed attract, and it’s a wonderful thing when it works.

“How long will you need us?” I asked as the dinner was served. Harrison had ordered lobster flambé, Emma and myself steak Diane.

“A week,” he replied. “One week of your time is all we need.”

I nodded. “It will be expensive.”

“As they say, cost is no object.”

Emma nodded to him, acknowledging the compliment. “As I mentioned, we’ve had some luck.”

“Luck has little to do with brilliance,” Harrison said. “I had the two of you researched.”

I kept my face impassive, but felt Emma stiffen just a touch. She always got a little nervous when people started asking too many questions. “What do you mean?”

Harrison smiled, pleased with the chance to show off for us. “Jonathan and Emma Steele, private investigators. Low-key, quiet, but a one hundred percent success rate. Rumor has it that the FBI uses you as consultants occasionally, and it’s a known fact that Mrs. Steele worked for the CIA at one point.”

Emma relaxed. Unless you knew her very, very well, it would have been impossible to detect either the sudden tension or its release.

“I was in Hungary for a time, true. But I was nothing more than a student, out to see the world,” she said with one of her most dazzling smiles.

Harrison gave her a look that, verbalized, would have been, “Okay, we can play the game if you wish. But I know better.” “Then there was the business with that killer, the serial killer who ate his victims. He escaped from the state hospital he was being held in. Is it true that you left him bound and gagged on the steps of the police station?”

I shrugged. “You know how rumors are, Mr. Harrison.” I shut my mind to the memories that came rushing back. For the first time in a long time, I had been actually frightened when all that happened.

“Call me Art, please,” he said with a smile as he forked some more lobster from his plate. “According to the story, whatever happened with that man has left him quite quiet, subdued, with a serious sudden interest in religion. Did you really shave his head and paint it bright orange?”

I shrugged again, pretending I didn’t see the look in Emma’s eyes. “Who knows what made him do what he did? And who knows what made him change his ways?” I ignored the question about head shaving and orange paint; Emma does have her moments of whimsy.

“You two are the best there is,” Harrison said after he swallowed his food, “and that’s what we want. The best.”

“Well, we’ll see what we can do for you,” I told him.

He reached into his pocket and handed me a check. The zeros on the end made my eyes blink several times. “That’s what it’s worth to us,” he said with a satisfied smile.

Emma leaned over just enough to see the amount, then turned back to Harrison. “I believe we can accommodate your needs, Mr. Harrison.”

“Call me Art,” he said again, and looked around for the waiter.

Alistair came out, discreetly removing the dinner plates. Emma’s was almost spotless. If there’s one thing in this world she adores, it’s steak Diane.

Dessert was, as always, an event. Bananas Foster, prepared table side. I pushed it around on my plate, not actually eating any.

Emma patted her lips with her napkin, then smoothly stood. “If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment.” She left us at the table, and I gave Harrison credit for trying not to watch her as she walked away, long legs flashing. As I mentioned, she does have that effect on men.

He and I sat quietly for a few moments, then began discussing the nuts and bolts of the matter at hand. While I could appreciate the importance to him, it was a simple case of industrial security. We’d done this sort of work many times before, and I felt confident it would be easily handled.

Emma returned to the table, joining the conversation. We came to the agreement that we would start the next evening.

It was a pleasant night, and we walked Harrison to his car. After reassuring him that things were under control, Emma and I decided to walk to our home rather than ride. Harrison started his gleaming Porsche and took off with tires squealing. As the taillights rounded the corner, I looked at Emma. “He was showing off, of course.”

“Of course, darling. Do you find that annoying?”

“Amusing, to be honest. If he only knew . . .”

She laughed with me, her perfect teeth flashing. “Yes. If he only knew. Are you hungry? You didn’t eat much tonight. You never do, but tonight seemed different.”

“Just not in the mood, I guess.”

And we walked home, arm in arm in the moonlight. “It’s still beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked me, glancing upward.

“Most of the time,” I replied.

She giggled. “Three-quarter time?” she asked, pointing at the three-fourths moon.

“That, too.”

She hit me with the full force of her eyes, and I was mesmerized. Come to think of it, that’s how she got me to fall in love with her. In all my years, I’ve always marveled how men plan, plot, scheme, romance, and seduce. When a woman makes up her mind that a man is hers, a wise male simply accepts it, as there’s no use fighting. A mutual friend once asked me when I had fallen in love with Emma, and my immediate response was, “As soon as she told me to.”

We were silent for a time, enjoying the night, then she tightened her grip on my arm. “Mr. Steele, I do believe there’s something in the air.”

“Indeed there is, Mrs. Steele,” doing my best Sean Connery imitation. “Something’s come up.”

Her hand slid up and down my arm, and she looked at me with the eyes that a woman saves for the man she loves. “Well, we’ll see what we can do about that.”

And when we got home, we did.

The next night we were ready.

Four days passed with nothing happening. Nothing at all. On the fifth night . . .

Shortly after midnight, there was a delicate sound of breaking glass from the foyer. Emma had been lightly dozing, and her eyes snapped open. She was alert and on her feet in the space of a heartbeat. Knowing each other well enough, we had no need for words as we moved to our respective hiding places. One of the things Harrison insisted upon was that we identify the thieves.

A scratching sound told us someone was trying to pick the lock to the front office door. I’d been tempted to leave it unlocked, but decided against being too obvious about the setup. I had an infrared camera ready, and as the door opened, I hit the button to start the film rolling. Specially modified to be completely silent, it did its job perfectly, recording everything from that moment on.

As the intruder came into the room, I could see night-vision goggles over the eyes. The would-be thief went directly to the safe where the software was stored, and began manipulating the dial. I fought a small smile of admiration: in this day and age of smash and grab, take the money and run, it was refreshing to see someone who was a craftsman.

The camera was still working quite nicely, the tiny light on my side of it blinking steadily. I waited until the thief had the safe open and the package in his hands. I couldn’t resist any longer, snapped off the camera to protect the sensitive film, and hit the light switch. With a hoarse cry, the thief straightened and tore the goggles from his face. Since they were designed to take any ambient light, however faint, and amplify it to the nth degree, a sudden blast of real light had to be agonizing. Of course I’m always sympathetic to those who have problems with light.

I flicked a small switch on the side of the camera as I turned it on again, switching to regular film to get a good shot of the intruder’s face. Emma came up behind him. While he was still rubbing his eyes, she took the package from his hands and gently guided him to the floor.

I came out from the filing cabinet where I had squeezed myself, and didn’t waste time. The thief was still trying to focus his blasted eyes, so it was simple to pat him down until I found his wallet. Emma stood a little closer to him, in case he made any sudden moves. Flipping the wallet open, I read his name aloud from his driver’s license. “Mark . . . Harrison? Any relation to Arthur Harrison?”

Mark managed to get his eyes open and look at me. “So what? Who the hell are you?”

Emma tapped him on the back of his head, gently for her but with sufficient force to get his attention. “Manners, my friend.”

He tried to turn his head toward her, but she held his neck in her hand easily, forcing him to look at me.

“Since you asked so nicely,” I said to him, “my name is Steele, Jonathan Steele. The lovely lady holding you is my wife, Emma. Your brother hired us to prevent this very thing from happening.”

Mark looked up at me, his eyes still streaming. “He would.”

I glanced at Emma. She was still holding his neck securely, but her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“He stole it from me,” Mark said. “I spent years on it, and he took it. Now he claims it’s his, all his.”

“Can you prove that?”

He looked everywhere but at me. “I could explain it, but never prove it.”

“Try me.”

He took a deep breath. “My brother used black magic to get my share of the company.”

As the actress said to the bishop,
I thought,
it’s cute, but a bit hard to swallow.

Over the years, both Emma and myself had developed contacts and connections, some of which were literally out of this world. It didn’t take much to learn that Mark was telling the truth. His brother, whom I now thought of as Art the Weasel, had hired a
bofour,
a voodoo priest, to perform a spell of change. Translated into English, the brothers briefly traded bodies. Art/Mark kept Mark/Art drunk and drugged, posed as him, and met with an attorney to sign over complete control of the company. After the spell wore off, the real Mark had only hazy memories, but one night the entire episode came back to him.

I glanced at Emma. She nodded slightly. “It happens like that sometimes,” she said. She knows far more about that than I do, and I, as usual, deferred to her on such subjects.

“Let’s have a little fun,” was my suggestion.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Something massive, I think.”

Simply put, we stole the code.

Doesn’t sound like much, does it? We found out that the code to the safe had been changed, but, I, um, got around that fairly easily.

Once the safe was opened, the written software code was there, along with more than a dozen diskettes. Mark clutched them fiercely, almost sobbing in relief. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.

“We’ll cash the check your brother gave us,” Emma told him. “I assume that won’t affect you at all?”

“Not a bit. When this gets out, and if it does as well as I think it will, I’ll double it.”

“That’s not necessary,” I told him. “We’ve already been paid.”

Later, Emma asked, “Any guesses?” as she came into the living room, offering me a glass.

“None,” I said as I took a sip, feeling the warmth trickle down my throat. “For all I care, he can rot.”

She sat next to me for a while, then stood, stretching. “I think I’ll take a bath,” she said, leaning down to kiss me. “And then . . . well, we’ll see . . .”

“Tonight’s the night,” I reminded her.

I stayed where I was for a moment, savoring both the drink and the night.

The picture window exploded inward in a shower of glass.

I went over the back of the couch, crouching low. A figure came through the window, a pistol in hand.

When I saw who it was, I stood.

“Hello, Art,” I said as I brushed glass fragments from my clothing.

“Shut up,” Art Harrison said. “Where’s your wife?”