Sleight of Hand

Sleight of Hand - By Phillip Margolin

Part I

The Ottoman Scepter





Chapter One

The American Bar Association decided to hold its annual convention at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel in downtown Washington, D.C. On Wednesday evening, a who’s who of the most powerful men and women in the country circulated at a cocktail party hosted by Rankin, Lusk, Carstairs and White. Charles Benedict was a minor leaguer in the power and influence department but even in this elite company he stood out because he was strikingly handsome and charismatic, the person toward whom the eyes of not only women but men were drawn when he entered a room.

Benedict was six feet two inches tall, with a cultivated tan. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short and his trim, athletic build, ramrod posture, and chiseled features brought to mind the Special Forces heroes in action movies. When Benedict moved, it was easy to imagine a field of force emanating from him, and there was no question that his physical presence contributed to his success as a trial attorney, although more sinister factors sometimes came into play.

Benedict was charming a partner from a Chicago firm when he was distracted by Carrie and Horace Blair, who were carrying on a whispered argument in a corner of the ballroom. It was rare to see the Blairs together, but Rankin, Lusk handled Horace’s legal work, and that was an obvious explanation for the presence of the businessman, who was not a member of the bar.

Carrie Blair was wearing a charcoal-black Gucci suit, and her natural honey-blond hair flowed over its shoulders. She had translucent gray-green eyes that could paralyze the most misogynist male, her nose was the type all the dissatisfied society women begged their plastic surgeons to copy, and her skin was tan and smooth. If someone were to ask what Carrie Blair did for a living, many people would guess that she was a television news anchor and none would peg her as the prosecutor in charge of the Narcotics Unit in one of Virginia’s most populous counties.

Carrie’s millionaire husband looked every bit the southern gentleman, but he was many years older than his wife, and a stranger would not be faulted for assuming that he was Carrie’s father. Horace was gripping Carrie’s arm. His face, red from anger, contrasted sharply with his snowy white hair. Carrie wrenched her arm from her husband’s grasp and walked out of the ballroom just as Charles Benedict’s cell phone vibrated.

“I’ve got to take this,” Benedict said, abruptly ending the conversation with the Chicago attorney. Her expectant smile changed to a frown. She was attractive, rich, and powerful, and was not used to being dismissed like some hired hand. Had she known more about Benedict, she would have understood why he’d ditched her without so much as an apology. The woman was just another potential notch on Benedict’s gun, whereas the caller was going to pay an excessive fee for a highly specialized service that Benedict provided.

“Yes,” Benedict said when he was alone in a side hall.

“He’s at the tavern,” the caller said.

Benedict left the hotel and jogged to a parking garage a few blocks away. He’d boosted a dull-green Chevrolet earlier in the evening. After switching the plates, Benedict had stashed the car on the third floor of the garage. The attorney got into the backseat and took off his yellow-and-blue-striped Hermès tie, his gray Armani suit, and his silk shirt. Then he pulled sneakers, a hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of faded jeans out of a duffel bag. As soon as he’d changed clothes, Benedict drove out of the lot toward Virginia.



Norman Krueger’s life, which had been on a downward spiral since birth, had recently gotten worse, something that hardly seemed possible. Norman had been born to a drug-addicted prostitute who had no clue as to the identity of Norman’s father. His childhood had ricocheted between physical abuse, sexual abuse, and neglect. The lessons in school, when he attended, were incomprehensible to someone with Norman’s limited IQ and attention span. Gangs were not the answer, because he was too puny and frightened to be of use where violence was involved, and too stupid to be trusted with any task that might require guile.

Norman got by on a combination of public assistance and low-paying jobs, from which he was frequently fired for incompetence or absenteeism. Recently, much of his pay had gone toward supporting a drug habit. The origins of his addiction were confusing to Norman. They had sneaked up on him like some sort of controlled-substance ninja, but drugs were now the focus of his miserable life.

Norman’s girlfriend, Vera Petrov, was as ugly and hapless as Norman, but she was capable of maintaining steady employment. She was also a second cousin of Nikolai Orlansky, a major player in the Russian Mafia, whom she’d prevailed upon to give Norman a job sweeping up in one of his many taverns.

Norman was the type of person no one noticed, the human equivalent of a sagging armchair that has been stored in a dusty corner of a side room. Evil things happened around Norman all the time and no one seemed to care that Norman had witnessed them. But Norman had eyes and ears and a memory, which, weak as it was, still retained the sights and sounds of startling events involving murder and torture, especially when he was the person assigned to clean up the gore.

Never in a million years would Norman have considered informing on his employer. He had seen what happened to those who crossed the Russian. Then he came to the attention of an undercover federal agent who befriended Norman and listened intently to everything Norman said when he was under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol. Many of his tales concerned horrifying exploits in which Nikolai Orlansky was directly involved, the type of activities that could send the Russian to prison for life or even to death row. So Norman’s “friend” set him up, and the next thing he knew he was faced with having to choose between years in prison for possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute or testifying against a man capable of telling off-color jokes while skinning a living, screaming human being.

Norman had been ordered to show up in the morning at an office in a strip mall identified as the corporate headquarters of International Products Limited. There he would be debriefed in preparation for his testimony in front of a federal grand jury. If he did not show up, he was doomed. If he did show up, he was doomed. Confronted with this lose-lose proposition, Norman drove to the nearest tavern.

By the time his wallet was empty, Norman could barely walk. As he staggered to his car, he was so inebriated that he barely noticed the blustery, chill wind that had driven the temperature down into the twenties. Norman planned to drive home from the tavern. The possibility of being arrested for drunken driving or committing vehicular homicide never entered his alcohol-addled brain. However, he did notice that it was awfully dark in the back corner of the lot where he had parked. Wasn’t a light shining down on his space earlier in the evening? Since it took too much effort to answer that question, Norman abandoned the task, even though the broken glass crunching underfoot provided a clue to the fate of the streetlight suspended over his vehicle.

Norman fished his car key out of his pocket and bent over, squinting at the keyhole. It was very dark and his hand wouldn’t stay still, so the task of putting the key into the lock presented a problem. He was concentrating so hard on opening his door that he was unaware that someone was standing beside him until he saw a blue-jeans pant leg out of the corner of his eye.

“What the f*ck!” Norman exclaimed, adrenaline juicing his muscles enough to permit him to jump back into the side of his car.

“Good evening, Mr. Krueger.”

“Who are you?” Norman gasped.

The new arrival showed Norman his hands. They were empty. Then they weren’t. A business card appeared where none had been before. The man held it out to Krueger.

“How did you do that?” Norman asked, amazed.

“Magic,” Charles Benedict answered with a friendly smile.

Norman squinted at the card. Then he looked at the dirty jeans, ratty sweatshirt, and old sneakers.

“You’re a lawyer?”

“I am,” Benedict said, as he made the card vanish. “I represent Mr. Nikolai Orlansky.”

It took all of Norman’s willpower to keep from soiling himself.

“A little bird told Mr. Orlansky that you are planning on singing to the feds,” Benedict said.

“No, no. That ain’t true. You tell Mr. Orlansky he ain’t got nothing to worry about here.”

Benedict smiled. “Nick will be very happy to hear that. Hey, want to see another magic trick?”

Even though Norman was anxious to leave, he didn’t want to be rude, and the first trick had been mystifying.

“Uh, sure,” he said.

“Great.” Benedict pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and rotated his hands again.

“Nothing in my hands or up my sleeves, right?”

“No,” Norman said.

Benedict waved his hands mysteriously and a large hunting knife appeared. Norman’s mouth gaped open. Then he grinned.

“You gotta tell me how you do this stuff.”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.”

Norman looked disappointed.

“My final trick is a doozy,” Benedict said. “For my grand finale, I’m going to make you disappear.”

Then he buried the knife in Norman’s heart.



In the morning, Norman’s car was still parked in the far corner of the lot, but true to Charles Benedict’s word, there was no trace of Mr. Krueger whatsoever.