Sleight of Hand - By Phillip Margolin Page 0,24

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.

Chapter Eleven

Horace Blair had a full head of snowy-white hair, weighed only seven pounds more than he’d weighed in college, and looked ten years younger than seventy-four, thanks to upgrades to his facial features by the finest plastic surgeons.

Blair’s massive home, modeled after the mansion of a British earl, was the centerpiece of a magnificent estate whose rolling lawns and well-tended woods were enclosed behind a high stone wall. The mansion’s wide terraces overlooked an Olympic-size swimming pool, tennis courts, and a man-made lake.

When he was home, Horace woke up at five every morning except Sunday and swam a mile in the indoor lap pool. After finishing his swim, he would shower, slip on a terry-cloth robe, then seat himself in a glassed-in kitchen nook. The nook looked out on a splendid garden that was pleasing to the eye even in foul weather, thanks to the efforts of an army of gardeners.

Each morning, Blair’s personal chef would set the table in the nook with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, half a grapefruit, a freshly baked croissant, and a cup of coffee brewed from a blend that was specially prepared for the master of the house. Stacked beside the food would be several newspapers including the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Post, and the New York Times. After breakfast, Horace would drive his Bentley to the Blair Building, where he would oversee his international business empire. Blair employed a chauffeur but enjoyed driving too much to use his services unless he needed to work on the way to the office.

Horace’s morning routine usually soothed him, but Wednesday morning it had done nothing to alleviate the tension that had robbed him of a good night’s sleep. On Thursday his prenuptial agreement with his wife would terminate and he would have to pay her twenty million dollars. Blair could afford the money. He made that much in interest every week. What galled him was not getting his money’s worth from his loveless marriage.

In business, Horace Blair never acted rashly, but his personal life had been one series of blunders after another, and his marriage to Carrie Trask may have been his most foolish and impulsive mistake.

Ten years ago, Horace entertained a group of Japanese businessmen at his country club. Despite being tipsy, he had driven home in one of his prized possessions, a bright-yellow Diablo 6.0 Lamborghini with a top speed of 200 miles an hour. The alcohol he had imbibed had affected his judgment and he was cruising along at 120 miles an hour when a policeman pulled him over and cited him for driving under the influence and reckless driving.

Horace Blair never caved without a fight, and he’d hired Bobby Schatz, Washington, D.C.’s top criminal defense attorney, to represent him. When Horace Blair walked into Judge Hugo Diaz’s courtroom in Lee County, Virginia, he had been prepared to do anything, including lie, to win his case. When he left the courtroom he was floating on air, and it wasn’t because Judge Diaz had been so impressed by his honesty that he had imposed the least serious sentence possible after Horace changed his plea to guilty in the middle of the prosecutor’s cross-examination.

Horace had shed his third wife eight months before in a bloodless coup. He’d grown tired of her and he wasn’t sorry to see her go, but even though he was sixty-three, he was still vigorous and in need of female companionship. Carrie Trask, the prosecuting attorney, was a goddess. She had sleek blond hair, translucent gray-green eyes, high, sculpted cheekbones, and a smile that could light up a city. Once he saw her, Horace Blair knew he had to possess her, and what better way to make an impression than to help her win her case?

Blair