Sleight of Hand

CHAPTER Ten

Less than an hour after the case of Commonwealth v. Ross disappeared, Devon Ross deposited a hefty bonus in an offshore account Charles Benedict kept for income resulting from special illusions such as the magic tricks that had led to the mystifying disappearance of things like Kyle’s cocaine and the late Norman Krueger. Benedict celebrated at his favorite restaurant with a fine wine, a foie gras appetizer, and a steak that melted like butter the moment it touched his tongue.

The attorney arrived home a little after ten and parked in his garage, leaving space for Carrie Blair’s Porsche. Then he got a DVD from the safe in his bedroom and slipped a snubnose .38 revolver into his pocket. Carrie was rumored to have a bad temper and he wanted to be prepared.

Promptly at eleven, Benedict heard a car drive into his garage. He opened the door that led from the garage to the first floor and pressed a button to close the garage door. Carrie Blair stomped up the stairs and pointed an accusing finger at him.

“You used Kyle Ross’s outburst to distract everyone’s attention. Then you switched the cocaine for baking soda.”

“Whoa,” Benedict replied calmly as he held up his hands in a mock defensive gesture. “That’s too many negative vibes for such a mellow hour of the evening.”

“You think you’re so clever. You just had to show off with those sleight-of-hand tricks at the Theodore Roosevelt, knowing I’d remember what you’d done when the coke disappeared. Tomorrow I’m going to find a magician who will show me how you pulled the switch, but right now I’m having the plumbing in the fifth-floor men’s room examined, and you know what we’re going to find?”

“I would assume feces and urine.”

“We’ll see how funny you are when I have you perp-walked out of your office with as many TV crews as I can get to film every moment.”

“I’m sorry you have such a low opinion of me.”

“It was always low, but this stunt . . .”

“There wasn’t any stunt, and I don’t appreciate being accused of dishonesty. Besides, you and I have more important things to discuss than Kyle Ross. Would you like a drink?”

“No. Now get to the point.”

“You have a prenuptial agreement that is supposed to be a secret between you and your hubby. You stand to lose a fortune if you tell anyone about the agreement or if you have an affair before it terminates.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Carrie, you told me all about the agreement the evening you stayed here.”

“What?”

“You were pretty drunk, so you probably don’t remember what you said.”

“If such an agreement existed I would have nothing to worry about because I haven’t cheated on Horace since we were married.”

“Actually, you have. Remember when I told you that nothing happened between us the evening you were here?” Benedict cast down his eyes shyly. “I lied.”

“You what!”

“I have a—what do they call them on those celebrity news shows?—a sex tape. It shows a naked Carrie Blair in several intimate positions on my bed. It’s pretty risqué.”

“You drugged me!”

“Of course not. You were horny, we felt a connection.” Benedict shrugged. “These things happen between soul mates.”

“You bastard,” Carrie said as she fought to keep from panicking. “You gave me a date-rape drug.”

“That would be illegal.”

“That’s why I don’t remember what happened. They cause amnesia.”

Carrie was filled with rage but she forced herself to stay calm.

“Assuming you actually have this DVD,” she said, “what do you want for it?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars should do it.”

“Are you crazy?”

Benedict’s features hardened. “Don’t f*ck with me, Carrie. You told me exactly how much money you’ve salted away during your marriage. And you’re going to be a very rich woman when the prenup terminates. A quarter of a million dollars will be chump change then. Get cheap with me and I’ll sell Horace the DVD. Then you’ll be out in the cold without a penny. Just be thankful that I’m not greedy.”

Carrie felt sick. “Let me see it,” she said.

“Have a seat,” Benedict said, pointing to a couch that faced a forty-six-inch TV. He turned on the set, inserted the DVD, and pressed PLAY. There was no sound track. On the screen, Carrie Blair was being embraced by a man. The man’s face was hidden but Carrie’s face was easy to make out, as was the fact that she was naked. Carrie’s fists knotted. The son of a bitch had set her up; he’d drugged her and raped her and now he wanted her to pay for the privilege.

On the screen, the man kissed Blair and lowered her to the bed. She fell back and the man mounted her.

“It goes on like this for a while,” Benedict said. “Then we do it doggie style, and there’s a little oral sex thrown in. Shall I pause the entertainment?”

Carrie showed no emotion. Benedict stood up and crossed to the TV. When he turned his back and bent over to eject the DVD, Carrie grabbed a vase and rushed at him. Benedict stood and threw up a hand. The vase crashed against his forearm. Benedict jumped back and fell against the TV. Carrie flew at him and stabbed at his face with a shard. As he spun away, Benedict pulled the .38 out of his pocket. Carrie was so intent on stabbing Benedict that she didn’t see the gun. They crashed together and there was an explosion. Carrie’s eyes went wide and she stopped her assault. Benedict jumped away from her. Carrie stared at her stomach. Blood was spreading across the inside of her blouse, dying the white fabric red. She stumbled backward and slipped to the floor.

“I’m shot,” she gasped. “You shot me in the stomach.”

Benedict had killed people but not in his apartment. He stared at the blood and was suddenly afraid. Blood had DNA in it, and DNA would tell the crime lab that Carrie Blair had been bleeding on his floor.

Benedict rushed into the bathroom and grabbed a thick towel. He gave it to Carrie and told her to hold it against the wound. He wanted her to think that he was helping her stop the bleeding, and he was, but not to save her life. He just didn’t want any of her blood in his apartment.

“Get me to a hospital,” she wheezed as she struggled for air.

Benedict’s mind was swirling. If he took Carrie to the hospital there would be an investigation. What would she say? The sex tape would come out. She would accuse him of blackmail, and he’d shot her with his gun.

Did Carrie tell anyone she was coming here? Fear flooded him. By now, everyone at the courthouse would have heard about the disappearing coke and how angry Carrie was at him. He’d told her to tell no one she was visiting him, but did she tell anyone? Twenty million dollars was at stake, so she had probably kept her mouth shut, but Carrie was unpredictable. Her attack was proof of that.

And there was the Porsche in his garage. What if a neighbor saw her drive in? He had to get rid of the Porsche.

Benedict forced himself to calm down. Carrie moaned pitifully. It took all of his willpower to tune her out and focus on his problem. Suddenly an idea occurred to Benedict and a bizarre plan formed in his mind. It might not work. He didn’t have time to think it through now. He would figure out if it made sense after he’d given the idea an objective, unemotional analysis, but there were some things he would have to do now if it was going to work.

“Please, Charlie, I’m dying,” Carrie managed. “Take me to the hospital. I won’t tell what happened.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m going to help you.”

“Thank you.”

Benedict looked around until he spotted Carrie’s purse. It was lying on the couch. He opened it and found the key to her Porsche and a ring that held many more keys. Benedict dangled the key ring in front of Carrie’s eyes.

“Which key opens your front door?”

“What?” Carrie asked dully. She was having trouble focusing.

“We’re going to the hospital, but you have to tell me what key opens your front door so I can help you.”

Carrie stared at Benedict. He wasn’t making sense, but she was also finding it hard to think clearly. She pointed to her house key.

“Are any of these other keys for a car Horace drives?”

“Jesus, it hurts.”

“Focus, Carrie. Are any of these keys for a car Horace drives?”

Carrie started to gag but she forced herself to point to a key.

“What car is this key for?” Benedict asked.

“Bentley,” she gasped.

“Good girl. Now let’s take care of you.”

Benedict picked up the wounded prosecutor. She was heavy, and it was a struggle to get her down the steps to the garage. He opened the Porsche’s trunk and dropped her in it.

“Oh, God!” Carrie shouted.

Benedict grabbed the towel, rolled it in a ball so that Carrie’s blood was on the inside, slammed the lid of the trunk, and raced upstairs. As he climbed the stairs he could hear Carrie pounding on the inside of the trunk. It was unnerving, but Benedict forced himself to ignore the sound. The farther he got from the garage, the more distant the thump-thump-thump became until the sound disappeared completely by the time he entered his kitchen.

Benedict found a Tupperware container and put the rolled-up towel in it. He sealed the lid, opened the freezer, and stashed the container in the back of the compartment. Then he grabbed some ice cubes and closed the freezer. His heart was racing. He dropped the ice cubes into a glass and fixed a stiff drink. He pressed the cold glass to his forehead and took deep breaths until he was calm. As he relaxed, Benedict remembered how Carrie’s naked body had looked when he maneuvered her so the sex would look real in the DVD.

“What a waste,” he thought as he surveyed his living room. He’d have to clean up the pieces of the broken vase. He didn’t see any blood, but there might be hair or fibers on the couch where Blair had sat when she viewed the DVD. He’d have to do something about that. His Dustbuster came to mind.

The alcohol he was drinking started to have the desired effect. When Benedict was calmer he began to fine-tune his plan. It was no secret that the Blairs’ marriage was on the rocks. He wondered how many people at the Rankin, Lusk cocktail party had seen them argue. But many married couples argue without resorting to murder to settle their differences. What made the Blairs’ situation different was their prenup. Had Carrie lasted until the end of this week, it would have cost Horace Blair twenty million dollars, and twenty million dollars was an excellent motive for murder. While Carrie was bleeding out in his living room it had occurred to Benedict that no one would suspect him of killing Carrie if Horace Blair was sent to prison for murdering his wife.

Charlie was very good at developing his own magic tricks. Plotting Horace Blair’s downfall was a lot like storyboarding a large illusion, like the one David Copperfield had created when he made the Statue of Liberty disappear. Benedict got a legal pad from his home office and started writing an outline. He’d have to get rid of the body, and he’d have to leave clues in the grave that would point to Blair. One clue would be the bullet that killed Blair’s wife. It would be found during an autopsy.

Of course the police would need the murder weapon to make the match, and they would have to find it where it would implicate Blair. That’s why he’d asked Carrie about the key to Horace’s Bentley.

Working on his illusion relaxed Benedict, and he was totally calm by the time it was complete. He had a good idea of where to bury Carrie. He’d had a brainstorm about a clue he could leave in the grave shortly after he’d given her the towel to stop the bleeding. Making this part of the plan work would be tricky, but tricks were a magician’s stock-in-trade. He checked his watch. It was only one a.m.—hard to believe that so little time had passed since he’d shot Blair.

Benedict reviewed his notes. He would have to wait until the stores in the mall opened in the morning before he could start to create his illusion. Benedict took a deep breath. He felt in control of the situation. He would sweep up the shards from the vase, use the Dustbuster to vacuum the hairs from the couch, and then get a good night’s sleep.

An hour later, when his head touched his pillow, Charles Benedict slept like a baby.