Dark Magic

9

The lobby of the 19th Precinct was filled with people. Located on East 67th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues, the precinct served one of the most densely populated areas of the city, which included many foreign missions and consuls. Peter sifted his way through the mob, and caught the eye of a gruff female desk sergeant. He sidled up to her desk.

“Good morning.”

“You always take a shower with your clothes on?” she asked, working a piece of gum.

Everyone in New York was a comedian. Especially the cops.

“I’d like to see Detective Schoch,” he replied. “Is she here?”

“Depends who’s asking. Hey, I know you. You’re that magic guy. I saw your show last year. Not bad. There’s something I’ve always wanted to know. Is that your real name?”

“Warlock is my stage name.”

“I didn’t think so. Show me a trick.”

Peter made it a rule to never walk out of his brownstone without a trick in his pocket. Only today he’d forgotten, so he had to improvise. He told the desk sergeant to think of a card, and when he attempted to read her mind, hit a wall. It happened sometimes. Borrowing a pen and a piece of paper, he wrote down a prediction and placed it face down on the desk.

“Name your card,” he said.

“Queen of hearts,” she replied.

“Want to change your mind?”

“Nope.”

“Happy with the mind that you have?”

“Very funny.”

“Turn my prediction over.”

She flipped over the paper. Written on it were the words QUEEN OF HEARTS.

“Wow. How’d you do that?”

There were only five playing cards that people ever thought of-the ace of spades, queen of spades, queen of hearts, king of hearts, and seven of spades. Most middle-aged women chose the queen of hearts. He smiled and shook his head.

“Not going to tell me, huh?” The desk sergeant slid a form toward him. “Fill this out so I can sign you in. Is Detective Schoch expecting you?”

“She was at my home earlier, discussing a case,” he said.

“Is that a yes, or a no?”

“No, she’s not expecting me.”

“I’ll give you a pass this time.” She made a quick call, then hung up. “Detective Schoch will be down in a few minutes. Have a seat in one of those chairs. Nice meeting you.”

“You, too.”

He sat on a hard plastic bench bolted to the wall. A copy of today’s New York Post lay on the seat beside him. No one did headlines like the Post.KIDNAPING SUSPECT TO GO FREE-COPS OUT-RAGED! By the time he’d finished the story, Schoch had come downstairs. She was all business, and wore a sidearm strapped to her side.

“Hey, Peter, what’s up?”

He rose from the bench. “I had another vision. Wolfe’s on the Lower East Side, stalking his next victim. He was eating breakfast in a diner that looked familiar.”

She shot him an exasperated look. “That’s it? You can’t give me an address, or a name?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll put out an alert.”

Schoch started walking toward the elevators. He hurried to catch up.

“Please tell me what you know about Wolfe,” he said.

“I already told you, I can’t do that.”

“I have something to trade.”

“What are you talking about?”

He pulled the Post out from under his arm. “I can help you solve this kidnaping case.”

“Exactly how do you plan to do that?”

“The newspaper ran a photo of the ransom note. I saw something in the note that told me who the kidnaper is.”

“Our handwriting expert looked at the ransom note, and didn’t see a thing.”

“He must of missed it.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I see things that other people miss. I can help you crack this.”

“Is that part of your psychic abilities?”

“Actually, it comes from being a magician. We look at things differently.”

Schoch gave him a long, searching look. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say what the hell, and punched the elevator button.

“Follow me,” she said.

Homicide was a sea of cubicles and ringing phones. Dagastino’s cubicle was a pigsty, his desk covered in dead coffee cups and dog-eared reports. Dag was on the phone, and had his feet propped on the desk. He ended the call as they entered, and shot Peter a hostile look.

“We’ve got company,” Schoch said.

“I see that,” Dagastino said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Peter thinks he can help us solve the Bunny Ruttenberg kidnaping.”

“Be my guest.”

“He wants something in return,” she said.

“A horse trade?”

“That’s right.”

“I want to know about the guy who tried to stab me last night,” Peter jumped in.

Dagastino scratched his chin, and gave it some thought.

“You go first,” the detective said.

“Do we have a deal, or not?” Peter asked.

“We have a deal. Now, start talking.”

“The ransom note spray-painted on the wall of Bunny Ruttenberg’s apartment was put there by her husband, who the Post said was going to be let out of jail,” Peter said.

“You figured that out just by reading the Post?” Dagastino snorted. “Give me a break, for Christ’s sakes.”

“It’s right there in the ransom note,” Peter said defensively.

“The note was spray-painted on the wall of the apartment. Our handwriting expert studied it. There was nothing to see,” Dagastino shot back.

“Your expert missed it. The clue was right there.”

“What clue?”

“Magicians call it the familiar-name principle. I’ll show you.” Peter turned his back to the desk. “In random order, write the name of someone important to you on a piece of paper, then write the names of four people you don’t care about on the same piece of paper.”

Dagastino’s pen scratched across a legal pad. “Done.”

Peter turned back around. Dagastino handed him the pad, which he studied. Five names were written across it. A quick glance told him everything he needed to now.

“The second name on the pad, Maryann Magliaro, is someone you care deeply about,” Peter said. “Am I right?”

Dagastino’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Is she your wife?”

“Jesus H. Christ. How’d you know that?” the detective asked.

“You wrote her name differently,” Peter explained.

“I did?”

“Yes. You’ve probably written your wife’s name hundreds of times, maybe more. You wrote her name without having to think about it, and used the subconscious part of your brain. The other names you had to think about, and therefore used the conscious part of your brain. The difference shows up in the handwriting. It’s an old magic trick.”

Peter had the copy of the Post under his arm. He laid the paper on the desk and pointed to the ransom note in the story. “Look at the words in the note. They all have paint dripping down them, except Bunny Ruttenberg’s name. Her kidnaper spray-painted her name without having to think about it. It’s her husband.”

Dagastino studied the ransom note printed in the newspaper. “That’s brilliant. Now how do we get him to admit it?”

Peter had thought about that while sitting in the lobby. The Post article said the Ruttenbergs had been married forty years. He guessed this was a crime of passion, and that there were other clues in the apartment that the police had missed.

“Let me see the file,” he said.

Dagastino went and got the file. “Find something to incriminate the husband, and I’ll tell you everything we know about the guy who tried to cut your heart out.”

“Deal,” Peter said.