More Deadly Than The Male Chapter 9

KING O' CLUBS,

BEVERLY HILLS, CAL.

The two detectives flashed their badges at the same time. The man they showed them to was a Newcomer named Jason Yurtail. Normally, he was employed as the head waiter, which meant that he usually did not come on duty until, at least, half past four in the afternoon. But, with Esteban Reyes having been murdered, he was compelled to fill in as acting manager, as well.

"How may I help you, detectives?" he asked.

"We'd like to ask Duncan Shane a few questions," replied Kate: "Is he here, yet?"

"Yes, but he's already started rehearsing for tonight's show! Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"Oh, no!" George exclaimed, reassuringly: "We just wish to pick his head. . ."

"His brain," Kate corrected him (with George nodding his head in gratitude without missing a beat).

". . .in the hopes he can help alleviate some confusion about the murder."

{"TA-DA!"} someone suddenly yelled, in Tenctonese, from the main showroom.

"It sounds like Mr. Shane has just finished rehearsing the opening illusion. If you hurry, you can alleviate that confusion of yours before he segues into the next!"

Kate and George thanked him for both his cooperation and his advice, and went beyond the purple velvet rope separating the main show room from the lobby. The latter calling out to the Newcomer magician in Tenctonese, and identifying himself and Kate.

"Forgive us for this interruption! But, we need to ask you a hypothetical question. If you were hired to murder someone in a locked room, with the doors locked from the inside by remote control dead bolts, how would you go about doing that?"

While Duncan Shane was pondering how best to answer that, Kate Lockley went over to question the magician's lovely assistant. A twenty-something brunette who was dressed in a purple-sequined leotard with a matching fringed skirt; black tights with matching high heels; and with her bunned-up hair, topped off by a green feather. An ensemble that, taken all together, made her look more like a Broadway chorus girl of the 1890's than anything else!

"Hi, I'm Detective Lockley; BHPD. Could I ask you a few questions, Miss. . .?"

"Chase. Cordelia Chase. Questions about what?"

"How long have you worked for Duncan Shane?"

"I just started today, actually! My agent called up, this morning, and said that Mr. Shane's regular assistant was unavailable for tonight's show. Something about having to fill in for another part-time model on a pin-up calendar photo shoot."

"I see. So, you wouldn't know every second of his whereabouts the night Mr. Reyes was killed."

"Mr. Who?"

"Never mind. Thank you for your time."

Meanwhile, George was finally getting an answer to his question. . .in Tenctonese.

{ "Tell me, Sergeant. Have you ever heard of Jean Eugene' Robert-Houdin?" }

George shook his head. So, the Newcomer magician told him the true story of a nineteenth-century French magician who defused a potential tribal uprising in North Africa through the use of an electromagnet.

{ "The story goes that he invited several of the Muslim rabble-rousers on to a wooden platform with a steel plate. There, he had a local child pick up the electromagnet with perfect ease. But, when the rabble-rousers tried to do so, as well, Robert-Houdin pressed a hidden switch to activate the magnet. And, of course, it remained on the steel plate despite their most strenuous efforts to lift it off!"}

George was a little confused.

{ "Are you suggesting that Mr. Reyes was killed by a nineteenth-century human?!" }

Duncan Shane laughed.

{ "No! I'm suggesting that Mr. Reyes' killer may have used a powerful magnet to override the remote control deadbolts." }

{ "Ah! I see. Yes, that would be very clever. By the way, where is your regular assistant? The blonde Earthwoman." }

{ "A Newcomer named Warren Peace called her about a photo shoot. She's a part-time fashion model, you see." }

George nodded, then thanked the magician (in English) for all his help.

Meanwhile, at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, Matt Sykes was on his cellphone talking to Beatrice Zapeda (who had called him with more information on the first murder victim).

"He couldn't get a license to own the nightclub, in his name, because of his rap sheet. Which, by the way, includes a long list of juvenile offenses, starting with crack house look-out for Los Verdugos!"

" 'The Hangmen?' " Sykes instinctively translated: "Why does that name sound so familiar?"

"Maybe it's because they recently made a big name for themselves," Bea replied: "As the newest local affiliate of the Trimerez Cartel."

"Oh, yeah! That DEA bulletin."

One month earlier, the Drug Enforcement Agency had issued a bulletin, to the narcotics divisions of all local police departments, concerning a new player on the scene. A drug cartel, based in Miami, Florida, that appeared to be more pan-Hispanic than usual. A cartel headed by a mysterious individual who called himself. . .Juan Trimerez.

And one of the things that made Senor Trimerez so mysterious was the lack of any photographs of him, anywhere in cyberspace. Well, that; plus whatever he did with the undercover agents who disappeared trying to infiltrate his organization. Because, to date, only one such agent had turned up to be classified as more than presumed dead.

That agent had been drained entirely dry of blood.

"Hey, Sykes!" Sergeant Dobbs now called out: "We're all set."

The Beverly Wilshire's house detective (who preferred to be called "chief of security") had brought up all the raw footage from the digital video cameras scattered throughout the lobby. And, they were now ready to fast-forward to where and when Warren Peace had registered.

"Call you back in a bit, Bea. And, thanks for the update."

"De nada!"

As soon as his cellphone was back in his pocket, Sykes was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Dobbs.

"OK! Roll 'em."

The technical assistance officer grinned at the archaic Hollywood film reference before complying with the order. Five minutes later (after almost a dozen freeze-frames, back-ups, and slightly slower resumptions), they saw her. The beautiful, statuesque, blue-eyed blonde that had been clinging to Warren Peace's right arm tighter than Velcro.

"Hey!" exclaimed Dobbs: "Is that who I think it is?"

Sykes nodded: "Duncan Shane's assistant, Syl."

tbc