Free Magicide by Carolyn V. Hamilton Page A

Franklyn and Peter Jones could be boyfriend-boyfriend—when he rested both hands on the table, leaned into Peter’s face, and said bluntly, “How about you hit on Carter sexually and he turned you down?”
    An angry flash darkened Peter’s eyes. Cheri had the absurd thought that if Peter Parrot had a beak, their fingers would be in real danger. Then the anger disappeared, to be replaced with a professional vacancy. He flashed his brilliant smile at them in a defiant manner. “It was not like that. I’m loyal to Dayan.”
    Bingo, she thought.
    As if he could no longer look them in the face, his gaze moved to the magic wand and newspaper. “You’re the police. You get the DVD from Carter. You’ll see you’re right about one thing—Maxwell wasn’t alone.”

 
     
     
    CHAPTER 15
    Tuesday, August 9, 2:45 p.m.
     
    The address they found for Carter Cunningham turned out to be the entire thirty-sixth floor of Worthington Place. Flashed badges and they were past the 24-hour gate guard and rolling into the circular drive and porte cochere of the main entrance. No parking lot for the peons, Cheri noted. You had to valet.
    Pizzarelli whistled as he rolled the Explorer to a stop. “The rich sure know how to spend money.”
    Two pseudo-Mediterranean-style towers loomed above them, a third still under construction. Circular decorative pots twice the size of trash cans held exotic plants, and the three young valet guys had black uniforms overly-trimmed in gold braid.
    Too hot for the desert, Cheri thought. Their designers probably lived in New York and the only desert they’d seen had been on television.
    Wide marble steps led to brass and beveled glass doors that opened into a lobby that reminded her of the Four Seasons. They found the concierge, whose manner was polite, but whose expression radiated boredom.
    More flashing of badges. The names the concierge provided for the occupants of the thirty-sixth floor penthouse were Samuel A. and Dawn Cunningham.
    “Parents, you think?” Pizzarelli speculated. “Or mucho dinero in magic.”
    “I know Dawn Cunningham,” Cheri said. “She danced with Larissa in the show at the MGM. I wondered when Peter said he was best friends with Carter Cunningham, if that was her son.”
    “And you didn’t ask?”
    “Didn’t seem relevant to the case.”
    The concierge rang the condominium and reached Mrs. Cunningham, who gave him permission to send up the detectives up. They entered the elevator and Cheri’s thoughts centered on the woman they were about to interview. A woman she hadn’t seen in over a decade. A woman who she suspected knew much more about her past than she would wish.
    Like Larissa, Dawn had faded out of Cheri’s life after she’d graduated from college and gone into police work. During the time she’d lived with Larissa, she’d felt Dawn didn’t like her. Cheri had envied the glamorous, carefree life of the showgirls, but Dawn had envied Cheri’s student status, her determination to get into a long-term career, something you didn’t have to give up when the knees went. Never mind that she’d worked two jobs to pay for tuition. They had never warmed to each other, and their mutual friendship with Larissa hadn’t made any difference. Now Dawn Cunningham’s face was instantly recognizable; it was all over bus stop real estate posters.
    The elevator ride to the top of Worthington Place was a quick, silent whisper. At the thirty-sixth floor the elevator doors opened directly into the marble-tiled entry foyer of the penthouse condominium. A library table on the opposite wall held a crystal vase of orange mums. Above the mums, a huge Leroy Neiman with a simple black frame dominated the entry. The oil depicted Las Vegas showgirls in the artist’s usual style of startling, all-over-the-place colors.
    Cheri immediately recognized the well-coifed woman who met them. The real estate broker wore an aqua linen sheath that showcased a slim frame, and explained that