he discarded the robe near the loading dock exit to make it look like the killer left the theater, and went back to his seat. How am I doing?”
“Unfortunately, too well.”
“Any ideas?”
“Not about how to disprove Ragland’s theory, but there are witnesses I want to interview. Oscar Mars organized the magicians who picketed the theater. They were outside, so they may have seen someone leave by the alley. I’d also like to talk to Chesterfield’s assistants to see if they can help figure out who used Porter’s robe. Then there’s Miriam Ross. She was in the theater during the performance, but I didn’t see a statement from Ross in the discovery, so I want to talk to her. What are you going to do?”
“You saw how excited Regina was. I’m going to call Stanley and see what he thinks about giving her a copy of the discovery. She might spot something we missed, and at minimum, it would give her something to do that would make her feel like she’s back in the game.”
Jeff didn’t look enthusiastic. “What if she’s so far gone that she can’t help us, and she gets frustrated? That could crush her.”
“That’s why I want to find out what Stanley thinks.”
“Okay, but hold off if he doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Don’t worry. The last thing I want to do is upset Regina.”
Jeff left and Robin decided to go through the large pile of interviews the police had conducted with the audience at the Imperial. She had skimmed them already, taking out the interviews with people like David Turner or Rafael Otero who had a connection to Chesterfield, but there were several hundred other interviews they had not read carefully. Robin knew that she was probably wasting her time, but it would be worth the trouble if she could find a hidden gem.
An hour later, Robin was ready to take a break when she saw a name that sounded familiar. She frowned. Where had she heard Samuel Moser’s name before. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Finding Oscar Mars was easy. The leader of the protesting magicians owned a small magic shop two blocks down from the Bagdad Theater on Hawthorne Boulevard. The store was wedged between a boutique that specialized in recycled clothing and a gelato shop. When Jeff walked in, he found the magician standing behind a glass display case filled with packs of cards, magic kits, and other gadgets for neophyte magicians.
Mars, a short, unimposing man, was dressed in a cheap tuxedo. His toupee wouldn’t fool anyone, and he had a black beard and mustache that circled thin, dry lips. The only thing about him that was impressive were his fingers, which were long and graceful and, Jeff assumed, would be a great help when he was manipulating cards.
Mars beamed at Jeff, whom he took for a potential customer. Then he looked disappointed when Jeff introduced himself as an investigator and gave him a business card. But he perked up when Jeff told him that he worked for Robin Lockwood, David Turner’s lawyer.
“David exposed that bastard, so I’ll help you anyway I can.”
“You don’t seem broken up about Chesterfield’s death.”
“I’m not. There’s a special place in hell for magicians who reveal the secrets of their art, and I hope Lord Robert is roasting there on a slow-turning spit. Ask your questions.”
“Okay. First off, did you or any of the other protesters go inside during the show?”
“No. We thought about doing that so we could disrupt the show, but we decided that would only make Chesterfield sympathetic.”
“There’s some evidence that the killer may have left the Imperial through the exit to the loading dock at the back of the theater. There’s a narrow alley that runs along the side of the theater. Did you notice anyone in that alley?”
“I don’t remember seeing anyone in the alley, but I was focused on the front of the theater most of the time. Someone else may have seen someone in the alley. I can give you a list of my fellow magicians, and you can ask them.”
“Thanks. My email address is on my card. Send me the list and I’ll talk to them. Can you think of anything you saw that might help Mr. Turner?”
“Not offhand. Will Miss Lockwood be able to help David?”
“It’s early days, but she’s pretty good.”
“Then I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
* * *
According to the police reports, Maria Rodriguez was living in a garden apartment in Southeast Portland. The apartments formed