“Of course we’re not thieves,” Liza said with a little laugh.
“Well, I’m deeply sorry, then. Truly, I am.”
The shopkeeper took a deliberate step away from the counter. As he did, a black sedan pulled up in front of the store, and double-parked in the street. Four plainclothes detectives wearing silver NYPD detective shields pinned to their jackets piled out, and rushed through the front door. Each had a gun drawn. At the same time, a door behind the front counter parted, and two more gun-toting detectives appeared.
“Don’t tell them anything,” Peter said under his breath.
46
Peter had lived on TV cop shows as a kid, and knew what was about to happen. The detectives would separate him and Liza, and grill them. They would ask each of them a series of questions, and write down their answers in spiral pads. Then the detectives would reconvene, and compare notes. If the detectives caught either of them lying, the drilling process would continue until they got to the truth.
Liza was sent to the back room of the store while Peter remained in front. As she was led away, she winked at him. She didn’t appear the least bit nervous or afraid. She’d been through a lot lately, certainly a lot more than any of his other girlfriends had ever put up with. He winked back.
“Cut the crap,” the detective in charge barked.
The detective’s name was Velasco. Short and balding, his most prominent feature was his beach ball stomach. Who needs a six-pack when you can have a keg? Peter thought.
Velasco pulled a stool out from behind the counter, and made Peter sit on it. The detective towered over him while another detective covered Peter’s back. A third detective stood by the locked front door. The shades had been pulled over the window for privacy.
“What’s your name?” Velasco asked.
“Peter Warlock.”
“Very funny. Your real name.”
“Peter Warren. Warlock’s my stage name.”
“You some kind of performer?”
“I’m a magician. I have a show in town, Anything’s Possible.”
Velasco nodded like he’d heard of him. Early in his career, Peter had performed a number of stunts around the city to gather much-needed publicity for his show. As a result, there were a lot of people who had heard his name but who’d never seen him perform.
“All right, Mr. Magic, tell me where you got the antique watch,” Velasco said.
“I found it,” Peter replied.
“Be a little more specific.”
“Do you know who the owner is? I’ve been trying to locate her.”
“I’m the one asking the questions, pal. Now tell me about the watch.”
“It fell out of the sky,” Peter replied truthfully.
“Oh, boy, a regular comedian. How do you think it’s going to look if I run you and your girlfriend in? Think that kind of publicity is going to help ticket sales?”
“Are you going to arrest us?”
“I will if you don’t come clean with me. That watch doesn’t belong to you.”
“That doesn’t mean we stole it. You don’t have a case, Detective. Let us go, and I’ll be happy to explain to you how the watch came into our possession.”
Velasco didn’t like being told how to run his investigation, and wagged a finger in his suspect’s face. “Keep up the banter, and I’ll throw your skinny ass in jail.”
“Which jail?” Peter wanted to know.
“MCC. Ever been there?”
MCC was the Metropolitan Correctional Center on Park Row behind the U.S. Federal Courthouse. Peter knew the facility like the back of his hand, and said, “Matter of fact, I have. I was locked up in a cellblock in the basement that the warden claimed was inescapable. I managed to escape in four minutes flat, and beat Houdini’s record by thirty seconds. There’s a video on my Web site if you don’t believe me.”
“I remember that stunt,” the detective guarding the door said. “You moved all the other inmates in the block into different cells. That took a lot of nerve.”
“Thanks,” Peter said.
“Shut up,” Velasco told both of them. Looking his suspect in the eye, he said, “I think you’re hiding something. I’m hauling you in.”
“On what charges?”
“I’ll think of something. Get up.”
Peter gazed into Velasco’s eyes and read his mind. The detective was having a bad day. He’d started his morning by having a knock-down, drag-out argument with his teenage daughter. Then the battery on his car had been dead when he’d tried to start it. Now this wiseass magician was giving him a hard time. Peter and his girlfriend were going to spend the rest of the day in jail if Peter didn’t think of something quick.
Velasco pulled open his sports jacket and removed a pair of nickel-plated handcuffs from his belt. Peter wanted to tell Velasco that he could escape from those, too, but didn’t think the detective would appreciate the humor.
“I’ll tell you about the watch, but first you need to call a friend of mine,” Peter said.
Velasco eyed him suspiciously. “Who’s that?”
“His card’s in my wallet. You’ll understand when I show it to you.”
“All right, show it to me.”
Peter pulled Special Agent Garrison’s business card from his billfold and handed it to the detective. Velasco stared at the embossed lettering on the white card.
“The FBI? What do they have to do with this?”
“Just call him,” Peter said.
Garrison barged into the watch shop with his badge pinned to the lapel of his sports jacket and a disgruntled look on his face. Peter wondered what pressing matter he’d pulled the FBI agent away from. New York was the greatest city on earth, but there were plenty of bad people here as well, and the life of a law enforcement agent was nothing but a challenge.
“Thanks for getting here so fast,” Peter told him.
“Who are these guys?” Garrison asked.
“This is Detective Velasco. He wants to arrest me.”
“What for? You tell him one of your jokes?”
“Possession of stolen property,” Velasco said. “You know this smart-ass?”
“He does consulting work for me. Now, tell me what he did,” Garrison said.
“He was caught with a stolen wristwatch whose owner has been missing for over a year,” Velasco replied. “When I tried to question him, he started talking in riddles.”
“Peter’s a psychic, he does that sometimes,” Garrison said.
Velasco’s jaw dropped open. “Cut it out.”
“I’m dead serious. Don’t tell me you’ve never worked with psychics before.”
“Tried to. They were worthless.”
“They were probably fakes. Peter’s the real deal.”
“I’m having a hard time believing this.” Velasco spoke to Peter, “So read my mind.”
Peter was boxed into a corner. He tried to avoid public displays of mind reading whenever possible. When mind reading was performed onstage, all sorts of explanations were possible; when done in person, there was only one explanation-the person doing the mind reading was a psychic. He lowered his voice so the other detectives would not hear. “At breakfast this morning, you had words with your daughter over her choice of boyfriends. Then your car’s battery died, and you had to carpool with a cop you can’t stand. When you got to work, the coffeepot was empty. That good enough for you?”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Velasco said.
“I told you he was real,” Garrison said smugly.
The antique Cartier that had brought them together lay on the counter. The watch was a mystery, along with most of the events of the past several days. If Peter could plumb the watch’s secrets, then perhaps the rest of the puzzles would solve themselves.
“What can you tell me about the watch’s owner?” Peter asked.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Her name is Barbara Metcalf,” Velasco replied. “Single woman, early fifties, lived alone, got a couple of PhDs, is one of the top brass at the CDC. Went missing about a year ago and hasn’t been heard from. We suspect foul play, but don’t have a suspect or a motive. Metcalf had a nice collection of antique jewelry. This watch was one of her favorite pieces, which she often wore. When she went missing, so did several pieces of her jewelry, including this watch. We asked every jewelry store in town to be on the lookout for it.