Magician (6 page)

“Why not?”

“I wanted to wish Georgia a happy birthday.”

“Why didn’t you just wait, and wish her a happy birthday with everybody else, in the dining room?”

“Um, I guess I wanted to cheer her up.”

“Cheer her up? It was her birthday. She was getting all kinds of nice presents. All of her friends were there. Why did she need cheering up?”

Kenny Joiner squirmed a little in his chair. Well, it’s really no big deal. I mean, I don’t want to make it
sound
like a big deal, either.”

“You aren’t making anything sound one way or the other, Kenny. You’re just telling me the truth. Okay?”

Kenny sighed, and looked at me with his bright blue eyes. “Well, okay. I mean, it’s not like a
secret.
Georgia and her mom were mad at each other.”

“And how do you know this?”

“My parents dropped me off early. Our parents all go to the same club,” he volunteered in the way of explanation, “Anyway, when we got to the Champion’s house, Georgia and her mom were still upstairs. I was just hanging out, and I heard them shouting at each other.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“Oh, I don’t know that, Roland. You couldn’t really make out what they were saying. But they were yelling pretty loud. Mrs. Champion came down first, and when she saw me, she acted cheerful—you know how moms are.”

“Sure.”

“Well, some time during the party I would see Georgia glaring at her mother, and I could tell she was still mad.”

“For example, when did you see her glaring at her mother?”

“Twice I remember. Once when all of the kids were outside, and another time when we were watching the video.”

“And that’s right before Georgia went upstairs?”

“That’s right.”

“Kenny, exactly what did Georgia say to you when she came downstairs? The last time you saw her?”

“She said, ‘You kids go in the kitchen’ and I just kind of stood there, because that was a weird thing for her to say. I mean, she was a kid, too. Then she said, ‘It’s time to cut the cake and open presents.’ So I went in there. Like I told the police.”

“Do you think they believed you?”

The boy appeared reticent again. “I told them what I remembered. But it seemed like they got the idea from Mrs. Champion that I was either making it all up, or was just confused. But that’s the way it happened.”

“Kenny, do you remember if Georgia was acting strange before she disappeared?”

“Strange? What do you mean?”

“I mean different in any way. For example, was she moody or quiet? Think. Was she acting normally?”

“I don’t think so. Besides the argument with her mom, I mean. I’m sorry.”

I decided to try a long shot. “Kenny, does the word
cauchemar
mean anything to you?”

Kenny Joiner broke into a wide smile. “Nah, the police asked me that one, too. It’s French, right? But it doesn’t really mean anything to me.”

“That’s fine, Kenny, just fine.” I stood and extended my hand. “Well, that’s about all. I want to thank you for going over this with me. I know it’s a bore and I thank you being such a good sport about it.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m helping out, right?”

“That’s right. If people like you didn’t help, guys like me would never get anything done.”

I started toward the door. “Hey, Roland,” the boy called after me.

“Yes, Kenny?”

“Are you. I promise you, I am certainly going to try.”

Kenny looked strangely distant for a second. “You know, I believe you will.”

“Thanks, Kenny. That makes all the difference, sometimes.”

Chapter 6

It had taken me an hour to find what I was looking for. I needed both videos, and I had located the first one immediately. I believed it to be an exceedingly valuable piece of evidence, since it might contain clues to the identity of Georgia’s abductor. The second video, the one from the year before that the guests and adults had been watching when Georgia went upstairs, was equally important, because the length of that video could tell me just how long Georgia had been upstairs.

One little problem with the second video: I couldn’t find it. It was on the list of items, recorded among the effects taken from the Champion home, but it was seemingly nowhere to be found. After considerable searching, I located it, buried beneath a stack of old paperwork, in a box with a pair of black girl’s shoes, size fours.
 

I set the shoes aside, and carried the videos into the small room adjacent to the evidence room, where a television and VCR were set up on a metal gurney. Several racks of videotapes stood beside it. Crime scene videos, I figured.
 

I slid the first tape—the last tape to show Georgia alive—into the slot and turned on the power. The screen crackled to life. After a few moments of static, the cold little room was filled with the lively chatter of children from years past.

I recognized Kenny Joiner among the young faces that grinned and hammed for the camera. He looked quite a bit younger in the video, and he had grown a lot in two and a half years. There were about twenty children in all in the Champion’s dining room. The camera panned to the right and my blood caught a little chill as Georgia’s face came into view. She really was a pretty little girl, with a hint of her mother’s olive complexion, and thick black hair. Her eyes were like her father’s, deep and soulful.

She was also clearly pouting. She repeatedly turned away from the camera. Mrs. Champion was obviously the cinematographer, and her voice was clearly audible as she pleaded with her daughter to let herself be photographed. But Georgia turned and walked pointedly away from her mother. With a start, I realized she was wearing a dark blue dress, and the black shoes I had just found in the box with the video tape.

Guess the detectives got that right.

I hit the play button. The tape lingered on Georgia only for a minute more after she turned her back to the camera. Then her mother had obviously given up and turned her attention back to the happier, visiting children. The clowns were entertaining them. One, two, three. There was one in white, one in yellow, and one in light blue, just like Kenny had remembered. The one in white was pulling a long stream of brightly colored handkerchiefs out of the ear of the clown in blue. The one in the yellow was mugging. The children howled.
 

After about five more minutes, then the tape cut off. I rewound and ejected the tape. Then I wiped the dust off the second tape and slid it into the player. There was a crackle, and again some static. The tape began with people singing “happy birthday” and Georgia, a year younger in this tape, blowing out candles, eight in all.

Her mother was giving her a lot of help. They both looked very happy. But suddenly a shadow came over their happy faces. A large figure had come between them and the window. It was Georgia’s father, and
he
was playing photographer this time. His method was meticulous, and he was careful to methodically take in the entire party. He circled from his daughter and wife, around the room, lingering on each child’s face for a moment, recording the decorations, the weather outside, even getting a wave from each of the caterers.

The children swarmed around the entertainers, who were gathered in front of the dining room door. The clowns were there again, but this time there were four. I noted each of them absently. White clown, yellow clown, blue clown, red clown.

I leaned a little closer to the screen. There he was, a clown in red, performing tricks at a small table. He was a big man, that much was obvious. He was pulling a rabbit out of a hat, while the other three clowns squirted each other with seltzer. It was obvious the red clown was the feature attraction.

I left the video running and went into the next room to fetch the statement folder. I wanted to know that fourth clown’s name. I sneaked a peak back at the video. The kids were outside, in bathing suits, frolicking around the pool. Someone else was manning the camera now. Mr. And Mrs. Champion were relaxing in pool chairs, having a drink. The camera cut abruptly to Georgia, in a red one-piece bathing suit. She regarded the camera with a shy grin.

I froze. Something about the scene made my blood run cold. The clown in red was standing next to the clown in blue. They were
both
big men. The same size, in fact. But there was something else. It seemed the clowns were doing the shooting now, and the tape was filled with them mugging and making faces. It went on for quite awhile. There was an undercurrent that was quite disturbing, as if the party had gone wrong. All the adults had left, and things had taken a curious twist.

There was footage of Mr. Champion dozing in his pool chair, obviously after one too many drinks. He still held a half-full highball glass in his sleeping hand. The cameraman had made sure to note this. There was quite a lot of footage of the other children swimming. And there was footage of Georgia, sitting in the Red Clown’s lap. Like the rest of the latter part of the tape, there was an undertone, a nagging suggestion that made my stomach turn, slowly and noisily within me.

My heart thudded dully in my chest. Was I on to something? Or was I imagining things? Would another person see the same things in that tape I had seen? Suspect the things I suspected? Or would it all look innocent? The police had watched this same tape, surely, and for the same reasons I had watched it. Cynical professional detectives would not fail to note the same things that filled me with unease.

Little children don’t help engineer their own abductions.

No, maybe they didn’t. But children were often misled, very often by predators who gravitated toward jobs that brought them into contact with their victims of choice.

Like a pedophile might apply for work as a daycare worker. That’s why there were guidelines, I mused, things like background checks. And maybe a person like that might just consider another line of work. Like being a clown. There was only one way to know for sure. The red clown would have to tell me.

Chapter 7

“Clown Around” was listed in the yellow pages as “Birmingham’s Funniest Clown Service,” along with a host of others. The address was in Irondale, an outlying district of shopping malls and car lots. I decided to drop in unannounced. Driving north on I-20, I turned on the radio and a man with a deep, mournful voice was singing,

It was the dirty end of winter

Along the loom of the land

When I walked with sweet Sally

Hand upon hand

And the wind it bit bitter

For a boy of no means

With no shoes on his feet

And a knife in his jeans

The song went on, becoming more foreboding. I was reminded uneasily of Georgia, in her bathing suit, sitting in the Red Clown’s lap, the parents asleep or safely drunk. I shook my head and put the image from my mind. I took the Irondale exit and stayed to the right. Clown Around was located next to a restaurant made famous for its scantily clad, buxom waitresses.

The two businesses were at the top of a hill, the only ones up there. They seemed to share a parking lot. I pulled up to Clown Around’s door. There was a
Be right back!
sign on the door, with a picture of a clown and a clock with clown hands. According to the clock, the clowns were due to return in twenty-five minutes.

“Busy clowns,” I mused. My gaze drifted over to the restaurant.

It
was
almost time for lunch.

After about half an hour, I was finishing my third glass of iced tea and talking with a couple of the waitresses when a pink polka-dotted van drove through the parking lot.

“Those are my clowns,” I told the young women, and winked, sliding from my seat and heading out the door.

There were three clowns, all right. They were unloading the van, taking out stereo equipment, folding tables, and various other clown equipment.

“You got an elephant in there?” I asked brightly. The clown nearest to me almost dropped the seltzer bottles he was carrying. His head snapped around, his blue Afro wig bobbing.

“Mister, you scared the bejeezus outa me.”

“Sorry. My name’s Roland Longville.”

“I’m Slappy. Call me Sal. The guy in blue over there is Jokey—grown ups call him Joe.”

“I’m Ed,” the clown in the yellow volunteered. All three laughed at the in-joke.

“So, sir, what is the occasion, a birthday? Need a magic show? We also do singing deliveries.”

“No, really, I just wanted to ask you some questions. I’m a private investigator.”

The smile disappeared, and behind the grease paint, the man’s eyes narrowed. “Let me guess, the Champion thing.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Why don’t they let that kid rest in peace.”

“You saying she’s dead?”

“Cut the crap, bud. We had those cops grill us for a week about that business. They got everything we know written by us, taped, and typed up forty ways from Sunday. They’ll tell you, we all had alibis. We were all downstairs, and the kid went upstairs and disappeared. You ask me, it’s like the Lindbergh baby. A damn tragedy, but these things happen.”