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Reynolds was as tall as Sam, but rail-thin. What Jason’s grandfather had called “a tall drink of water.” Reynolds had to be Sam’s age, but he looked older. Iron-gray hair and mustache. Pale gray eyes that appraised Jason with a shrewd but not unfriendly directness.
Reynolds led the way to his office. “Take a chair, son. Either of you want coffee?”
Jason and Sam declined coffee.
Reynolds gave Jason another of those keen-eyed looks. “Sam tells me you think we’ve got a serial killer running around Cheyenne, knocking off magicians?”
Jason winced because yeah, that just sounded really…ridiculous.
Sam closed the door to Reynolds’ office and took the chair next to Jason’s. “I’ve only heard half the story, but I think it’s worth listening to. West has an eye for details.”
“Well, the devil’s in the details,” Reynolds said. He nodded at Jason. “So far I haven’t heard from Cheyenne PD, but okay. Let’s hear it. What have you got?”
Not a lot. Jason would have been the first to admit. He told them about Mateo Santos—a man nobody could possibly wish harm to—and Michael Khan—a man everyone wished harm to. He told them about the tarot cards, which were not items used in either man’s magic act, but historically had been used for divination purposes—and were still regarded by some to hold mystical and spiritual significance.
Reynolds heard him out, only once stopping Jason in order to buzz his assistant over the intercom. He requested background checks on Ian Boz and Terry Van der Beck. “Okay, go on,” Reynolds told Jason.
When Jason was finished, Reynolds was silent for a moment. “That’s pretty thin, Sam.” He glanced at Jason. “No offense, West.”
“It’s thin,” Sam agreed. “And the MOs don’t line up. If the kid at the magic store hadn’t come after West, I’d be inclined to wait and see what turns up during the course of the Khan homicide investigation.”
“The Van der Beck kid’s behavior is concerning,” Reynolds agreed. “It’s not like he didn’t know West was FBI. That wasn’t just bold, it was downright defiant. We don’t know what action he would have taken had he gained access to the house, but that’s probably just as well.”
Jason said, “Van der Beck is a member of the magic community. He was acquainted with both victims. He has access to picture-hanging wire like that used to strangle Khan, and I’m assuming he has access to Carfentanil. He works at the animal preserve where the drug used to kill Santos was taken from.”
Reynolds said, “Noted. But the same could be said of the magic-shop owner, Ian Boz. He doesn’t work at the animal preserve, but in all likelihood, he would know how to gain access to those drugs.”
“True,” Jason admitted.
“Also, we don’t know for a fact Santos was murdered. His death was ruled a suicide.”
“I’d like to see the coroner’s report,” Sam said.
“Of course you would,” Reynolds said drily. “Well, I’ll make sure you get to see whatever you want. And I’ll have Cheyenne PD put a BOLO out on Boz. Meanwhile, I think paying Terry Van der Beck a visit might be a good idea.” He gave Sam a droll look. “That is, I’m assuming you’d like to have a word with him?”
Sam smiled. His eyes were like ice chips.
“Oh, I’d like a word,” he said.
* * * * *
Detective Ward of Cheyenne PD met Jason and Sam outside Boz’s Brew with a search warrant, but the warrant turned out to be unnecessary.
Although the lights were off and the CLOSED sign hung on the front entrance, when Ward tried the door, it opened, and the sound of pixie dust sprinkled down.
Ward called, “Ian Boz? Terry Van der Beck? Cheyenne PD. Show yourself.”
No answer. Nothing moved within the aisles of books and CDs, DVDs, silk bouquets, velvet doves, stuffed rabbits, colored handkerchiefs, cards, posters, stacks of top hats… The rows of magic miscellany seemed to stretch on and on into the gloom. On either side of the door, two automatons in satin tunics and goofy, jeweled turbans silently tried to stare each other down.
Ward looked back at Jason and Sam. She raised her brows in inquiry.
Cars whizzed past on the street behind them. The silence from within the shop was absolute and unsettling.
Sam nodded. Ward drew her pistol. Jason had resisted the urge to pull his weapon until Sam had pulled his, but his nerves were jangling like a seven-bell fire alarm.
Not good. Definitely not good. Something is not right.
Ward pushed the door the rest of the way open, and they followed her inside.
