Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Death can take many forms. There is the bullet between the eyes, poison secretly administered, or a free fall from a forty-story building, but Dana Cutler was convinced that the most horrible way to die was from boredom. At least a bullet in the brain was quick.

The lives of fictional private eyes are filled with danger and excitement, but Dana’s life was a succession of stakeouts during which she sipped coffee from a thermos and prayed her subjects wouldn’t do something important while she was peeing in a gas-station restroom. The bulk of Dana’s cases came from (a) criminal defense attorneys who hoped she would find a miracle witness who could clear an obviously guilty client, (b) husbands or wives who thought their spouse was cheating, or (c), as in her present assignment, an insurance company that wanted to find out if a claimant was faking an injury. These were not scenarios that inspired the plots of high-octane action movies.

Lars Jorgenson was an athletic, broad-shouldered accountant with a serious addiction to gambling who had just gone through a brutal divorce. Jorgenson’s personal and financial lives had been sliding down a slippery slope until his car was totaled at an intersection. Jorgenson said he’d suffered permanent damage to his back that made it impossible to work, and he had a doctor who swore this was so. If the claim held up, Lars would receive a hefty sum, but the doctor was a well-known quack and the insurance company was certain that Jorgenson was faking. Dana had been following Jorgenson around for the past three days and had nothing to show for her efforts. Tonight, Lars had parked in the lot of a sports bar before hobbling inside in apparent discomfort.

Dana was an athletic five ten with short auburn hair and electric green eyes. Men always noticed her. To keep from being spotted by Jorgenson, Dana had donned several disguises. Tonight she was wearing a brown wig and makeup and clothes that made her look dowdy. Even so, several men at the bar watched her as she walked in.

One of the men watched longer than the others. He had a thick black beard, and his long, greasy hair was pulled back into a ponytail that fell down the back of a leather jacket that advertised Harley-Davidson. When the man made a quarter turn on his bar stool so he could eye Dana, his T-shirt rode up, revealing a gut that lapped over the top of stained jeans.

Dana’s stomach tightened, she grew light-headed, and her breathing increased. She slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and her fingers curled around the handle of a .38 Special, one of several weapons she was carrying. The man turned his attention back to his drink, but Dana couldn’t relax, and it took her several minutes before she let go of her gun.

Dana knew why she’d had the panic attack. Before she became a private detective, she had worked undercover for the D.C. police. On her last assignment, she was tasked to discover the location of a meth lab run by a biker gang. Dana infiltrated the gang but her cover was blown. The bikers had kept her prisoner in the basement of their lab, where they raped and beat her for days before making a fatal mistake.

One of the rapists had gotten drunk and staggered into the basement for some fun. He had tossed his beer bottle away before pulling down his pants. It had not registered in his drink-addled mind that the bottle had shattered until Dana shoved a jagged piece of glass into his eye.

When the police arrived at the farm they found Dana naked, covered with gore and staring glassy-eyed into space. A blood-soaked ax lay next to two .357 Magnums, and the ax and the handguns lay near the dismembered bodies of the other three bikers. The man at the bar bore a faint resemblance to one of her kidnappers.

Dana had spent a year in a mental hospital, recovering from physical and psychic wounds. When she left, she moved into a small apartment near the National Cathedral. For months she had stayed in her sanctuary unless necessity drove her out. When her savings reached rock bottom she was forced to face reality. There was no way she could return to the D.C. police, but police work was the only thing she knew. Working as a private investigator was an adequate solution, and she made certain that her cases were routine and did not involve danger. Then, by chance, Dana had been involved in a case that helped bring down Christopher Farrington, the president of the United States. The danger she’d encountered had made her feel alive and the notoriety she had achieved from this high-profile case had brought her plenty of work, but now it was the rare assignment that induced an adrenaline high.

When Dana entered the bar, she’d seen Lars Jorgenson limping to a table, leaning his cane against its side, and grimacing as he slumped into a chair. Dana found an empty booth that gave her a good view of her quarry. The second half of a basketball game was just starting on one of the large-screen TVs. A long hour later, the Wizards succumbed to the Knicks. Jorgenson, in apparent pain, levered himself out of his chair and limped to his car. Dana followed him home. When the lights in Jorgenson’s apartment went out at midnight Dana slumped down in the front seat of her car, took a sip of coffee from her thermos, and prayed that a direct hit by a flaming meteor would end her misery.

Chapter Three

Charles Benedict disposed of Krueger’s body, the knife, and the old clothes before abandoning the Chevrolet with the key still in the ignition in the area of the capital with the highest crime rate. A smaller crowd was still schmoozing in the ballroom when he returned to the Theodore Roosevelt to mingle at the cocktail party.

After a reasonable amount of time, Benedict took the stairs to the lobby. As he walked by the Bull Moose Bar he spotted Carrie Blair in a booth in a distant corner, nursing a drink. Benedict took a step back. Carrie was alone. She was staring into her glass, and she looked sad. Benedict had always wondered what “The Society Prosecutor” would be like in bed, and he couldn’t pass up a chance to find out. Before he entered the bar, the lawyer took a pillbox out of his pocket and palmed a mild sedative that would make Carrie compliant. Slipping the pill into Carrie’s drink would pose no problem for someone with the lawyer’s skill at sleight of hand.

Carrie was leaning forward and staring into a double shot of bourbon. Benedict was certain that most of the men in the bar had eyed her more than once. He bet that they were wondering what could possibly make someone so perfect look so depressed. Benedict was fairly certain he knew the reason for the prosecutor’s funk.

Almost ten years ago, when Carrie was a young assistant commonwealth attorney, she had tried Horace Blair for driving
under
the influence. Horace had become smitten with the woman who was prosecuting him and he had pursued her relentlessly. Their marriage was the scandal of the decade in the circles in which Horace traveled. Everyone believed that Carrie had married Blair for his money, and the people in Horace’s set made no secret of their disdain. From what Benedict had heard, living the life of a millionaire’s wife had gotten old quickly. Society snubbed Carrie, and her old friends felt uncomfortable around her. Carrie was rumored to live in her office more than in the plush rooms of Horace’s mansion.

Benedict slid into the booth across from Blair. Carrie was not happy to see him. The prosecutor knew Benedict well enough to see past his
GQ
model looks. In her office, Benedict was thought of as a high-priced hired gun who had flunked his ethics course in law school. No one doubted his ability. He won more than his share of tough cases. But it was the way he won some of them that raised eyebrows. When the client was in the top tax bracket, or a member of Nikolai Orlansky’s crew, evidence disappeared from property rooms and witnesses went missing or developed faulty memories. No one ever proved hanky-panky was involved, but a rank smell wafted over many of Benedict’s cases.

“Hey, Carrie,” Benedict said. “I thought I saw you at the Rankin, Lusk bash. You must know a lot of that crowd. Don’t they represent Horace?”

“What do you want, Charlie?” asked Carrie, who was too deep in her cups to worry about being polite.

“You look down in the dumps, so I thought I’d try to cheer you up.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather be alone.”

“Okay, I get that, but I did have a business proposition for you.”

Carrie tilted her head to the side and studied Benedict. “What might that be?”

“One of your puppies, Mary Maguire, is prosecuting Kyle Ross, Devon Ross’s son.”

“No deals, Charlie. That little fucker tried to seduce a thirteen-year-old girl by giving her cocaine. Then he offered a bribe to a cop. And his father made a veiled threat to Mary. That will all come out at sentencing, and I’m going to ask for the maximum.”

“Whoa, slow down. This is just another case. There’s no reason to take it personally.”

“Well, you can tell your client I do.”

“You’re forgetting how green Maguire is. I may eat her lunch. Then there won’t be a sentencing.”

“Mary’s young but she’s sharp. And you have no defense.”

Benedict pulled a pack of playing cards out of his pocket and fanned them out. While Carrie’s attention was on the cards, he passed a hand over her glass and slipped a pill into her drink.

“Tell you what,” Benedict said. “Let’s settle this like civilized people. You pick a card but don’t tell me what it is. If I can’t guess it, I’ll plead my guy guilty. But you dismiss if I do.”

Carrie threw her head back and laughed. “You’re too much.”

Benedict smiled. “I did that to snap you out of your funk. You looked so sad when I spotted you I knew I had to do something to cheer you up. And I wouldn’t have made you drop the case, because I’d always guess your card.”

“Oh, yeah? Let me see the deck.”

Benedict performed a few exotic shuffles, then extended the cards. Carrie selected one and looked at it. Benedict instructed her to put it back in the deck. Carrie slid the card back into the pack, then drank from her glass. Benedict shuffled the cards before making a few passes over the top of the deck. Then he stared into Carrie’s eyes. The prosecutor took another drink before setting down her glass.

“Is your card the three of clubs?” Benedict asked.

Carrie smiled maliciously. “No.”

Benedict’s brow furrowed. He closed his eyes and placed his fingertips on his temples. When he opened his eyes, he looked uncertain.

“Was it the jack of diamonds?”

“You’d better practice a little harder, Charlie,” Carrie said.

“Damn. I thought I had this trick down. What was your card?”

“The seven of hearts.”

Benedict sighed. Then he looked confused. “Hey,” he said. “There’s a card under your glass.”

Carrie looked down. Sure enough, a playing card was facedown on the table underneath the glass that held the remnants of her bourbon. She turned it over. Benedict grinned from ear to ear while Carrie stared dumbfounded at the seven of hearts.

“How did you do that?” she asked. Her speech was suddenly slurred.

“A magician never tells how he did a trick. But I’ll show you another one.”

Carrie closed her eyes and leaned back. She looked pale.

“Are you okay?” Benedict asked.

“I . . .” Carrie started. Then she stopped in midsentence.

Benedict walked around the booth and helped Carrie to stand.

“Whoa, you’ve had the proverbial one too many.”

“I’m okay,” she said, but she swayed unsteadily on her feet.

“You’re in no condition to drive.”

Carrie protested feebly. Benedict found her stub for valet parking. He laid a twenty on the table and helped Carrie out of the bar.

Benedict parked Carrie’s silver Porsche in front of his condominium and helped her walk up the steps to his front door. The three-story condo was faux Federalist in style. An attached two-car garage, accessible through an alley in the back of a row of similar condos, housed Benedict’s Mercedes.

In contrast to the nineteenth-century exterior, the interior of Benedict’s home was starkly modern, with hardwood floors, glass-topped tables, and ivory-colored walls decorated with abstract art. Carrie was unsteady on her feet, and Benedict steered her into his spacious living room before easing her onto a sofa.

There were no interior walls on the main floor. The dining area abutted the living room, and an island topped with black slate separated the kitchen from the dining room.

“Why wasn’t Horace with you?” Benedict asked as he put up a pot of coffee in the kitchen.

“Horace and I don’t see all that much of each other,” Carrie said, her speech still slurred.

“So the bloom is off the rose?”

“The fucking rose died years ago,” Carrie answered bitterly, her tongue loosened by the drug Benedict had slipped into her drink.

“That’s too bad. I remember reading about your romance and thinking how fairy-tale it was.”

“Yeah, a Grimm’s fairy tale. Very grim. Never marry for money, Charlie.”

“You don’t have to worry about me marrying. I learned my lesson a long time ago. One bad experience with wedlock and several stiff alimony payments taught me a lesson.”

Suddenly Benedict was sitting beside her on the sofa and Carrie couldn’t remember seeing him leave the kitchen. She shook her head to try to jump-start her brain, but it was definitely on the fritz.

Benedict slipped his arm around Carrie’s shoulders. “What do you do for companionship?” he asked.

“Nothing with Horace, if I can help it. We haven’t fucked in ages.”

Benedict’s fingers stroked Carrie’s neck and brushed her earlobe. It felt nice. Then they were kissing and alarm bells went off. Carrie pushed him away with muscles that barely worked.

“I can’t,” she said.

“Horace will never know,” Benedict whispered as he nuzzled her neck.

“You don’t understand. I really can’t.”

Benedict was genuinely puzzled. “Do you mean that you can’t make love?”

Carrie laughed but there was no humor in it. “I ain’t menopausal yet, Charlie. I just can’t fuck you.”

“Why not? Horace may not be able to satisfy you, but that won’t be a problem once we’re in bed.”

Carrie laughed again. “I have no doubt you’re a stud, Charlie. I’ve heard the rumors around the courthouse. But getting laid would cost me millions, and I’m sure you’re not that good.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s the prenup. And don’t ask me anything about it because it’s a secret.”

“Don’t worry. A gentleman knows what ‘no’ means,” Benedict said gallantly. “And I think the coffee you so desperately need is ready.”

Benedict walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup for Carrie. Then, with his back shielding his hands from her, he laced the coffee with Rohypnol, familiarly known as “roofie,” or the date-rape drug. The pharmaceutical was colorless, odorless, and tasteless and it induced drowsiness and impaired motor skills. Best of all, from Benedict’s standpoint, amnesia was a side effect, so his victims never remembered what he’d done to them.

Benedict brought Carrie her cup. Then he smiled when she took her first long taste of the strong brew.

Charles Benedict estimated that Carrie Blair would wake from her drugged sleep around 6:30, so he set his alarm for 5:45. He had brewed a fresh pot of coffee for breakfast and was pouring himself a cup when the door to his bedroom slammed open. Benedict looked up in time to see Carrie stumble on the stairs. Her stocking feet had slipped on the smooth hardwood and she grabbed the banister to keep from falling. As soon as she regained her balance, the prosecutor saw her host looking up at her with a bemused smile.

“What did you do to me?” Carrie demanded, her panic barely under control.

“Relax. Your honor is intact. I was a perfect gentleman.”

Benedict extended the cup he was holding. “Here, have some coffee. I just made it, and I think you can use it.”

Carrie ignored the cup. “What time is it?”

“Six thirty.”

“Oh, God. You mean I’ve been here all night?”

“Yes. You passed out and I put you in my bed. All I removed were your shoes and jacket. Then I slept in my guest room. You know, you’re not the first person to lose an evening to booze, but you might want to see someone if it happens again.”

Carrie ignored Benedict and looked around the condo.

“Where are my things? I’ve got to get home,” she said.

“Are you sure you don’t want breakfast or a shower?” Benedict asked as he walked over to a closet and took out Carrie’s shoes and jacket.

“I can’t believe this happened,” Carrie said, ignoring Benedict’s offer. She pulled on her jacket and slipped into her shoes.

Benedict held out her car key. “If you hurry, you can get home, change, and be in your office at your usual time.”

There was a mirror by the front door. Carrie stared at her image and ran her hand through her hair, trying for some semblance of order. Then she walked outside. Benedict followed her. On the street in front of Benedict’s condo a man in a tracksuit was jogging at a steady clip.

“Be careful driving,” Benedict cautioned. Carrie turned toward him and started to say something. Then she stopped and stared down the street. Before Benedict could ask what she was looking at, Carrie started screaming and ran toward a parked car. The driver gunned the engine and made a U-turn that left dust clouds and rubber. Carrie’s screams had attracted the jogger’s attention, and he turned and watched as the car sped off.

Carrie stopped running. Benedict saw her stare at the rear of the car, where the license plate was attached. Then she bent over, rested her hands on her knees, and took deep breaths to regain her composure.

“What was that all about?” Benedict asked when he reached her.

Carrie turned toward him. She looked furious. Then she walked to her car and drove away without answering Benedict’s question.