The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) (22 page)

Riga pulled her scarf up over her nose and mouth, her heart slamming in her ribs.  Maybe waiting for rescue wasn’t the best idea.  

She unhooked the ropes that hung from the bells but they barely reached the floorboards – too short for salvation.  Riga thrust them aside and strode to the opposite side of the bell tower, praying for a ladder or some sort of fire escape.  She peered over the railing, saw the roof was steep and deadly.  No escape.

A gust of wind blew the smoke away from the tower, bending the tree tops and scattering a flurry of snow.  She closed her eyes.  Someone would come, she told herself. 

You need to get off the roof.
 Riga flinched; the words sounded like another voice in her mind, and had come to her, unbidden.

A vision came to her of a woman, struggling in bonds, surrounded by swords, bound to a stake, flames licking close.  Riga opened her eyes, tried to shake the image from her mind, but it had left the taste of fear behind.  She had to get off the roof.

Below her, a small wooden house stood in a clearing of pines, smoke curling from its chimney.  The rectory?  A black line of cable stretched from the house to the turret-like roof above her. 

She dropped her bag and clambered onto the wooden railing, holding tight to one of the beams that braced the roof above her and craned her body for a better look.  One foot slipped and she grabbed the post, steadying herself.  Beads of sweat popped out upon her forehead.  She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.  In, out.  She was breathing.  She was alive. 

Riga opened her eyes, and leaned out more carefully.  The cable was attached to the topside of the roof, but from her angle she couldn’t see how.  She slithered off the railing and returned to the bell tower, then tugged her leather belt off.   Riga tossed her bag over the ledge.  It bumped and slid down the snow-covered roof, dropped out of sight.

First a knee, then a foot, she climbed upon the railing and wrapped one arm firmly around the post. 

She tossed one end of her belt over the cable.  

It slipped off before she could get the nerve up to reach for it.  She’d have to let go of her grip on the post to grab the other end of the belt and the thought left her cold. 

Riga tossed the belt over again and this time she forced herself to grab the end, wrapped it around her wrist. 

Her foot abruptly shot out from under her.  With a terrified yelp, Riga pitched forward and zipped downward.  The friction of the belt against the cable hummed; she could feel the vibration from it through her gloves.  The cold air bit at her through her clothing but she was flying!  She was a genius! 

She was moving too fast.  Riga sped towards the house below, her legs bicycling in the air.  Her right hand slipped on the leather belt.  She was going to die.  She was going to pancake against the house like a cartoon coyote.  No, she could make it.  She’d have to let go before she hit and take her chances with the ground. 

From the corner of her eye she saw something blue streak toward her: Cesar, sprinting on an intercept course.  He shouted something and then he was in front of her. 

Riga let go.

She hit Cesar hard, knocking the wind from them both and driving him to the damp soil.    For a long moment, they lay there, stunned.

Then Cesar wheezed.  “Good thing you don’t weigh much, Miss Hayworth.”

Riga rolled off of him, gasping.  “You can call me Riga.”

“No, Ma’am.  Really, I can’t.”

He helped her to her feet and she brushed at the dirt on her khakis. 

Flames licked the bell tower. 

Wolfe, Ash and Pen ran across the damp ground.  On Wolfe’s shoulder was a camera, which he managed to keep aimed toward Riga.  Sam and Angus followed close behind, the latter hefting a boom mic. 

“Wow!  Riga!”  Wolfe laughed.  “That was amazing!”

“Did you get it all, Wolfe?” Sam asked.  Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Riga.  “What happened up there?  How did the fire start?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Riga asked him angrily.  “Again, Pen?  How many times do we have to go through this?”

 “You’re on a reality TV show and you’re investigating two brutal killings,” Sam said.  “Of course we followed you.  What did you learn at the church?  How is the fire connected?”

Riga didn’t answer.  Other people walked across the parking lot towards them, the silent watchers from below.  Their numbers had grown and they moved quickly, determined. 

“What now?” Riga said under her breath.  Her nerves hummed with adrenaline.

The little group stopped ten feet away, their voices an angry buzz.  Riga recognized the man who’d rushed her in the church. 

The Reverend’s wife pushed through the group.  “My husband.  What have you done to my husband?” She shrieked, and flew at Riga, her thin hands curved like claws.

Cesar stepped between them, one hand extended at forehead level, palm out.  The Reverend’s wife smacked into it, falling on her butt.  She sobbed.

There were angry cries from the crowd. 

Riga cringed.  She’d rather Cesar had let her take the hit.

Ash pushed Pen behind him.

A man built like a linebacker exploded out of the crowd, charging Cesar.  “You bastard!”

Cesar dodged left and sent the man flying past him to land face down on the earth.

The wail of a police siren froze the action.  Everyone but Riga turned toward the cruiser rolling down the rectory drive.  Riga kept her eyes on the Reverend’s wife, keening upon the ground. 

Sheriff King emerged from the cruiser and approached the crowd, eyes narrowed, hand on the butt of his gun.  Deputy Night paced behind him, muttering something into the radio clipped to his jacket collar.  He went to the sobbing woman, placed a hand on her shoulder.  She looked up at his touch, her eyes filled with longing.

“Is anyone in the church?” King said.

Riga tore her gaze from the Reverend’s wife.  “I found the Reverend’s body in his office before the fire started.”  She balled her hands into fists.  “It’s still there.”

“You killed him,” someone shouted.

“Is anyone alive in there?” the Sheriff insisted.

One of the men from the band said, “Everyone but the Reverend got out.”

With a roar, the bell tower collapsed in a shower of sparks and flaming timbers.  

Two more police cars and a fire truck roared into the church parking lot. 

Pen touched Riga’s sleeve.  “Riga—”

“Don’t talk to me.”

Pen’s eyes flashed and she stepped away. 

“Sorry.”  Riga shook her head.  “I meant don’t talk to anyone.  The police aren’t going to want us to speak to each other until they get a chance to interview us.  That way we won’t be able to taint each other’s stories.”

“No talking!” King snapped at them. 

Riga stuck her hands in her pockets and shivered. 

Chapter 22: Fermentation

“I have pictures,” Riga said, interrupting Sheriff King’s bellows.  They had returned to the police station’s cinderblock interview room.  The Sheriff and Deputy Night had a good cop/bad cop thing going.  Riga knew the game, but it worried her that she warranted the Sheriff’s personal attention, while lower ranking officers questioned the other crew members. 

The Sheriff stopped shouting.  “Pictures?”

“While I was locked inside the Reverend’s office—”

“Locked yourself inside,” the Sheriff said.

Riga leaned back in the chair and folded her hands across her stomach.  “While I was inside the office I used my cell phone to photograph the scene.” 

King extended his hand.  “Give it to me.”

“I then e-mailed the photos to myself and deleted them from my cell phone.”

“Why?”

Riga colored.  “Sometimes the police don’t like me taking photos.”  She’d had her phone confiscated by the cops once, and had learned her lesson. 

“Yeah, well the crime scene’s been burned.  I need those pictures.”  He waggled his thick fingers.  “The phone.”

She dug the phone out of her pocket, slapped it into his open palm. 

He fumbled with the phone then thrust it towards the Deputy.  “You figure this out.”

Night scanned through her photo album.  “There’s nothing here.”

“I told you,” she said.  “I e-mailed them to my own account.”

“What’s your password?” Night asked.

“For my personal e-mail account?  Don’t you need a warrant for that?  Give me the phone, I’ll open my e-mail for you and get you the photos.”

King snorted.  “Give it to her.”

Night hesitated, then handed it over. 

Riga tapped in her user name and password, turning and hunching her shoulders to hide the screen, just to annoy King.  She’d been in the interview room for over two hours, and most of that time had been spent waiting for someone to talk to her.  As payback went, it was petty stuff, but it made her feel better.

She downloaded the photos to her album, then looked up.  “Would you like me to forward them to you?”

“Give me that.”  King snatched the phone from her hands and scanned the pictures. 

“Look, at his head, here.” Riga rose from her chair and leaned over the Sheriff’s shoulder, pointing.  “He must have been struck from behind, probably by someone right handed.”

King grunted in response and scrolled to the next photo.

“He had a good-sized occult book collection and he’d dog-eared a page in this book by Agrippa on summoning demons,” Riga said.  “I didn’t take a picture of it though.  You’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Like that’s going to happen,” he said under his breath.

 “Now this is interesting,” she said when he got to the photos of the bulletin board.  “These are photos of pictures he’d tacked to his wall.  Assuming the Reverend took the pictures, he was there at the beach after we found Lynn Chen’s body.  And he’s been surveilling the other women in the Tea and Tarot group.”

“These are too small,” King complained.  “I can’t see anything.”

“Here,” she said.  “Give me your business card.”

Scowling, King dug a wrinkled card from his pocket.  Riga typed in his address and sent him the photos. 

“Now they’re on your computer,” Riga said.

“Huh.”  He turned and left the room.  Night followed.  A minute later, King returned.  “Well, are you coming or not?”

Riga followed him into his office, and looked around, trying to get a sense of the man.    The chairs were padded faux-leather.  An Indian blanket covered the linoleum floor, and a Remington sculpture of a cowboy on a rearing horse stood on one corner of his desk.  The desk was heavy, wooden, and scarred from use.  Riga edged around it to look at the framed photo of the Sheriff’s family.  It showed a smiling wife and a young man in a mortarboard hat and tassle, graduating from college.  The picture faced the Sheriff, rather than the guests, there for his own pleasure rather than a statement of pride or position. 

She stood before the heater and defrosted, then edged away when she caught the scent of the steam rising from her slacks.  It carried the acrid sting of smoke.

The Sheriff hunted and pecked on his office computer, retrieving each picture. “Nice shot of you, Miss Hayworth.”  He grunted.  “You don’t photograph well, Night, do you?”

Deputy Night said to Riga, “Good thing you took those pictures before the place burned down.”

“Yeah,” King said dryly.  “The fire was convenient for the killer.”

“I didn’t set it.”

“I know you didn’t,” King said, his eyes glued to the computer keyboard.  “One of the men confessed, not that he had much choice with two witnesses…  Who did nothing to stop him.”

“Did he tell you why he did it?”

“Said he was trying to smoke you out and the fire got out of control.  I know the guy slightly.  Didn’t figure he had that much initiative.”

 “Do you think someone put him up to it?” Riga asked. 

King glanced up, his blue eyes thoughtful.  “Who?”

Riga shrugged.  “Just asking.” 

“Okay.  What’s this picture?” King said.

Riga looked over his shoulder and took him through the photos, drawing a rough sketch of the room and showing him the angles each picture had been taken from.  He shoved aside a pile of manila folders, making more room on his desk.  On top was a black and white photo of the sigillum he’d shown her the day they’d first met, the symbol for the demon summoned to Sarah’s murder.  Riga’s eyes glittered.  She wanted that photo. 

“So what do you think?” King asked.  He propped his elbows on the desk, making a tent of his hands.  “I know you’ve got a theory.”

Riga lounged against the bookcase behind her.  He was humoring her, she knew, trying to draw her into a mistake.  But she talked anyway.  “The Reverend was reading about demons.  I think he was on the trail of the killer.  I think he suspected Tara, Audrey, or Lily were the next target and that’s why he was staking us out.  And I think he was killed because of it.”

“That’s a leap,” the Sheriff said.  “Here’s another theory.  The Reverend took an unhealthy interest in you tarot ladies and killed Sarah and Lynn.  And then you killed the Reverend.”

“He was dead long before I got there and you have witnesses, who can tell you exactly when I arrived.  The Reverend’s body was cold.  Rigor mortis had set in when I found him, which means he was killed three to twelve hours before I got there.  Just check time of death with…”  Riga trailed off.  With the body burned, would they be able to determine the time of death?

The door slammed open, striking the wall behind it, and the attorney, Sharon Williamson, stalked inside.  She carried a burnished crocodile skin case in one arm.  With the other, she pointed a well-manicured finger at Riga.  “You!  Stop talking.”  She put her hands on her hips, wrinkling her cream-colored woolen jacket.  “What’s going on in here?”

The Sheriff lumbered to his feet.  “Miss Hayworth is assisting us with our investigation.”

She shifted her weight, skeptical.  “Really?  What are you investigating?  The way I heard it, someone’s already confessed to the arson.  Did he implicate my client?”

“Not in the arson, no,” the Sheriff said.

“Then what?”