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“I think magic is another name for cheating.” But Sam was still smiling that half smile.
Jason made a face. “Still. Want to go to the opening of Top Hat White Rabbit on Friday?”
Sam’s expression grew regretful. “No. I don’t want to go anywhere there are liable to be cameras or reporters. Not till we have a better idea of who came after you—and why.”
And that pretty much took the fun out of that.
Chapter Eight
“Special Agent West? I’m Special Agent Abigail Dreyfus.”
The woman—agent—standing on the cement stoop outside the guest house’s front door was tall and broad-shouldered. She had big blue eyes in a round baby face and wore her long, wheat-colored hair in a ponytail. She had to be in her mid-twenties, but she looked about seventeen.
“You’re right on the dot.” Jason shook the ice-cold hand Dreyfus offered. He assumed that was the temperature outside and not nerves. “Nice to meet you. Come in.” He stood back, and Dreyfus stepped over the threshold.
From across the yard, Jason could hear Ruby’s dogs barking inside the house.
“Thank you.” She did a double take, her wide eyes trained on Jason’s bruised and battered face. “Is that— Was that— Did that happen on the job?”
If Sam had reported the reason for Jason’s presence to Cheyenne’s Resident Agency’s Special Agent in Charge, word had not trickled down to the rank and file. That was a relief.
“Uh, no,” Jason said. “I have an, er, strenuous social life. We can talk in here.” He led the way to the dining room, sparing a glance for the closed door to Sam’s office.
That door was not closed to give Jason privacy. Or so that Sam could concentrate on writing his book. Maybe Sam was working on a book, but judging by how often Jason had heard Sam’s quiet voice on the other side of that plywood, he was pretty sure writing was not all Sam was working on. Sam being Sam, he would be in close communication with Stafford County Sheriff’s Office. He would downplay his involvement, though—either because he wanted to protect Jason or because he didn’t want to have to waste time considering his feelings or listening to his theories.
Jason deduced the latter. Sam would figure he’d already handled the former by landing Jason in the middle of nowhere and giving him a nice, new art theft to keep him busy.
Dreyfus was saying, “I appreciate your making time to see me when you’re on sick leave. There really isn’t anyone local I can consult on a case like this.”
“I’m glad to help, believe me. Would you like some coffee?”
“Coffee would be great. Cream and sugar if you have it.” Dreyfus opened her briefcase and pulled out a thick file. She glanced around uneasily, seeming relieved to find Jason on his own, by which Jason deduced Sam had gone to the usual lengths to exert charm at the RA that morning—namely nil.
He returned with two mugs of coffee and studied the colorful spread of photos on the polished wood of the table.
Dreyfus watched him, saying, “Altogether, the collection is valued at $3.5 million. Honestly, I had no idea these things could be so valuable. The posters alone are supposedly worth thousands of dollars.”
“How many items are missing?”
“The entire collection. One thousand and three separate line entries on the insurance policy. They didn’t leave him so much as a silk handkerchief.”
He nodded absently. The photos appeared to be taken for insurance purposes. They offered an overview of an impressive collection of magic art and memorabilia. Everything from autographed photos, sheet music, and performance programs to spirit cabinets and a Rudiger Deutsch wooden mind-reading machine. Wands, alarm clocks, prop pistols, coins, turnover bottles, light bulbs, all kinds of fans and small boxes and bells. Straitjackets, Selbit blocks, and Sands of the Nile…there was something for everyone. Best of all were the dozens of gorgeous old vintage posters.
The vivid colors and ornate script, the fantastical images of fanged monsters and lovely assistants, the grave visages of long-dead magicians instantly brought back the old delight of a time when Jason had still believed in magic—even as he tried to master the tricks and fakes of the trade. He recognized the painted faces as long-forgotten friends: Carter the Great…Thurston the Great Magician…Master Mystifier Houdini…Alexander the Man Who Knows…Bernardo…Kellar…Blackstone…oh, and the blandly handsome face of George the Supreme Master of Magic. That last one had always cracked him up. Something about a Supreme Master of Magic named George…
“These were all originals?”
Dreyfus replied, “According to the victim, Michael Khan, everything in his collection was original and of both historical and cultural significance.”
Jason continued to examine the photos. He murmured, “Maybe so.”
“Really?”
At the astonishment in her tone, he looked up. “Sure.”
“It’s mostly junk. Old milk bottles and fake coins. And, they’re magic posters,” she said, as though he might have missed that point.
“Right.”
