The Hoodoo Detective (21 page)

She glanced up the hill. Hannah's grandfather stood, shoulders hunched, looking down at them.

Riga waved to the groundskeeper.

Turning away, he disappeared on the other side of the embankment.

“Riga, that file you brought on the Old Man. Think he's got one on you?”

Riga sat at her computer in their hotel room, the sound of water streaming in the nearby shower a gentle lull. She shifted her feet, looking to make sure she didn’t kick the dog, then remembered he was out for a walk with the hotel’s concierge. She shook her head. The dog was having more fun in New Orleans than she.

A knock at the door. Riga rose and looked through the fisheye.

Beside the guard, Dirk waved, his grin monstrous through the distorting lens. His damp, white t-shirt stretched tight across his chest and muscular abs.

She opened the door.

“Hi there.” He grinned. “I brought your video.”

“Thanks. You didn't have to come up.”

“Got any beer?”

It seemed a little early for drinks, even for New Orleans, but she nodded and led him into the living area. A blow dryer roared in the bathroom.

“Your husband a late riser?”

“No, he just needed a change of clothes.”

She pulled a bottle of beer from the mini-bar and gave it to him. “You didn't come all this way to deliver a video.”

“Well, I'll sort of need that back when you're done.”

“You want me to watch it now?”

“Yeah, I’m a busy guy.” He handed her a USB drive.

Shrugging, Riga went to her laptop and plugged in the stick.

Donovan emerged in a fresh change of clothes – a black button-up shirt and matching trousers. “Dirk. This is a surprise.”

They shook hands.

“Yeah, well, I’m intrigued.” Dirk swigged the beer.

At the dining table, Riga angled the laptop towards Donovan and opened the computer file. She watched, sickened by the content and the jumpy video. When she could take no more, she turned to Dirk. “You said the victim discovered this morning had a maid. Did you get her name?”

“She was a part-timer. Came in to clean twice a week.”

“And her name?” Riga prompted.

He dug a battered leather notebook from the back pocket of his jeans and dangled it before her. “Yeah. I got it.”

Riga swiped for it, and he yanked the notebook out of her reach.

“Hysterical,” she said. “Since when do you take notes?”

“I'm on a cop show. I've been deputized. Cops take notes.”

Donovan gave a slight shake of his head. “Did you note her contact info?”

“Maybe. Why? Are we going to interview her?” Dirk scratched his belly through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “I'll call my cameraman.”

“No,
we
are not,” Riga said.

“She'll open up to me,” Dirk said.

“Why should she open up to you?” Riga asked.

He grinned. “I'm Dirk Steele.”

Donovan rolled his eyes.

“Right,” Riga said, “and when the cops you're working with find out you're interfering with their investigation—”

“Who's interfering? They've already interviewed her. We tried to get in on it, but they wouldn't let us.”

“The police you're working with sound somewhat schizophrenic.” Lowering his head, Donovan stared at him. “One minute they're letting you video the crime scene, the next they won't.”

“Yeah, well, the FBI is involved now,” Dirk said. “They're calling it a serial killer. My guys are sort of out.”

“And so are you,” Donovan said.

She pulled out the USB stick and handed it to him.

Dirk pocketed it. “But as you can see, I can still be useful.”

“Give us the maid's name, Dirk,” Riga said.

“What's in it for me?”

Riga tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “People are dying. We don't have time for this.”

“I agree. Under the circumstances, your attempts to negotiate with me seem petty. People are dying,” he said, his expression somber.

Riga wanted to smack it off his face. “The maid's not going to talk with a camera on her.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dirk laughed. “That's why she'll talk. That and my southern charm.”

“Deal,” Donovan said.

“What?” Riga twisted in her chair. “No! No deal.”

But Dirk was handing the notebook to Donovan. “It's a pleasure doing business with you.”

“We could waste another day tracking down the maid,” Donovan said, “or we can talk to her now.”

Riga pinched her lips together. He was right, dammit. “Fine. But I take lead on the interview.”

Dirk grinned. “It's your funeral.”

She called the maid, who was shaken, but eager to talk. Grabbing her leather satchel off the table, Riga rose. “Let's go.”

Donovan yanked the hotel room door open. Angus stood beside the guard, hand raised to knock. Reddening, he took a step back, bumping into Wolfe. “Uh, hi.”

“What are you two doing here?” Riga sidled up beside Donovan.

“We've been checking places we thought Pen might be.” Wolfe stared past Riga's shoulder at Dirk. “No luck. Then we were walking by and saw the
Mean Streets
van outside. What's going on?”

“Just an interview,” Donovan said.

“With Dirk?” A camera dangled from Wolfe's hand. “And his crew? Are they in there?”

“No.” Dirk pushed past Riga and Donovan and into the hallway. “They're waiting outside. We're interviewing a possible witness.”

“You were going with Dirk's crew and not us?” Angus said.

Riga rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Something like that.”

“Riga.” Angus's look was reproachful. “We're your team.”

“We're trying to keep this interview low key,” Donovan said.

“With him?” Wolfe jerked his thumb at the actor.

A door down the hall opened, and a head stuck out. “Can you keep it down?”

“Sorry.” Riga waved.

“We need to go,” Dirk said.

“Fine,” Riga hissed. “You can come.”

“Of course they can come,” Dirk said. “You need your own camera crew.”

“Who doesn't?” Donovan asked.

They trooped outside and piled into the
Mean Streets
van.

“Are these leather?” Wolfe ran his hand over the buttery seat.

Dirk winked. “Only the best for my team.”

The
Mean Streets
sound tech slid into the front passenger seat.

Ash grabbed him by the collar and pulled him out. “Mine.”

“Better not argue with the man,” Dirk said. “Now come on, Riga. Do you mean to tell me that your team is not accustomed to traveling in such fine surroundings?”

“Wow. I'm in love.” Angus stroked an electronic console. “This is state of the art.”

“I'm not in charge of the van.” Riga buckled herself into one of the swivel chairs. “Or the equipment.”

“And that hotel they put you in was a disaster.” Donovan slid the door shut behind them.

She shot him a look. The van lurched forward, and her head banged against the window. She cursed, rubbing her head, the mistress of cool.

Dirk and Donovan chatted about movies and actresses. The
Encounters
crew fondled the electronic equipment, trading tips with the
Mean Streets
team.

Riga propped her head in her hand, staring between Ash and the driver's shoulders out the front window. She was Marley's Ghost, dragging behind her the clanking chains of TV production teams, bodyguards, dogs.

“If you get bored with the Big Easy,” Donovan said to Dirk, “you should try Vegas. Equally seedy, but it’s a dry heat.”

Riga shook her head.
Mean Streets
had gotten her inside crime scenes. But she'd lost control of this investigation. She'd been reacting, not investigating. The PI firm Donovan had hired was doing the real investigating. And what had she accomplished? She'd discovered the victims were necromancers, if poor ones. She guessed they all practiced together. And she was certain the Old Man was involved in the killings, in spite of any evidence to the contrary.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Donovan asked her in a low voice.

“They're not worth that much. I thought you were a better negotiator.”

He put his hand on her knee, his touch sending a tremor of awareness through her. “But I usually get what I want.”

“Usually?” She laughed. “Always. I was thinking about the murders.”

“I still can't figure why the killer keeps changing his M.O.,” Dirk said. “He's not even consistent about his inconsistency. He's not trying something completely new each time – why two beheadings?”

Riga said nothing, surprised Dirk knew to ask the question.

They pulled in front of a modest house in a neighborhood of well-preserved shotgun-style homes. Pale green with purple shutters and gold and white trim, the maid's home was bounded from the street by a low, wrought-iron fence.

The crew piled out.

“Hold it, Riga.” Angus snapped an audio pack to the back of her waistband, ran a cable over her shoulder.

Resigned, she clipped the mic to her collar.

“Mr. Mosse.” Angus waved him over. “We should set you up too if you're going to be in the interview.”

“No,” Donovan said. “When the police charge you with interfering with an investigation, you'll need someone to post bail. Ash, go with Riga. And for the record, Wolfe, you do not have permission to film him.”

“Got it.” Wolfe adjusted the camera on his shoulder.

“What are you going to do?” Riga asked.

“Ash can watch you. I'll watch the van,” Donovan said. “We don't need another surprise package.”

“Are you sure? Ash can—”

“I prefer to stay off camera today, and I don’t trust Dirk’s cameraman.”

She nodded, her chest tightening with guilt. The day was miserably hot, and a rivulet of sweat dripped down her back. “This shouldn't take long.”

“Shall we, my lady?” Dirk bowed, motioning toward the front of the house.

They trooped up the brick walk to the front porch. Dirk knocked on the door.

It cracked open, and a brown eye peered out at them. “Yes?”

“Ms. Puccetti? I'm Riga Hayworth. We spoke this morning.”

The door opened wider, revealing a thickset woman in a blue tunic and matching flowing pants. Her olive-colored skin was unlined, her hair dark and wavy.

“And I'm Dirk Steele.” He took her hand.

She flushed. “Why honey, I know who you are. You didn't tell me you were bringing cameras.”

Dirk took a step back, pressing one hand to his chest. “Riga, you didn't tell her? I'm sorry.”

“Oh, no. I guess it's okay.” She touched her hair. “It's just that my house is a mess.”

“I don't believe that,” Dirk said.

Geraldine Puccetti led them down a narrow hallway into a cramped living area decorated in shabby-chic style. The wood floors were bare. The walls were mint green with white trim. All the furniture was white, cloud-like. A slow-moving ceiling fan failed to stir the sweltering air.

Motioning them towards the couch, she sat in a wing chair then sprang up. “May I offer you some sweet tea?”

“I'd love a glass of sweet tea, ma'am.” Dirk gazed at her soulfully.

Thinking of Donovan roasting outside, Riga shook her head.

“I'll have one,” Wolfe said.

The other crew members agreed, enthusiastic. The woman hustled off.

“Aren't you laying it on a little thick?” Riga asked the actor.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he drawled. “This lady was kind enough to offer me refreshment, and I accepted. You could learn a bit from good old Southern manners.”

“There's nothing wrong with my manners.”

Dirk raised a brow. “Maybe in California.”

“You're from Bakersfield,” she snapped. “And what's with that accent you put on?”

“I'm just goin' with the flow. You might try it sometime.”

Their hostess returned with a tray filled with tall drinks. Thanking her, the men gulped the tea, and Geraldine returned to her chair.

“You told the police that the last time you saw Peter LeCroix alive was last night.” Riga leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. “Can you tell us about that?”

“It was a normal evening. I work there twice a week – just light housekeeping, vacuuming, giving the bathrooms and kitchen a scrub down, that sort of thing. He'd been out all day, which was unusual.”

“Why?” Dirk asked.

“Well, he didn't need to work. His routine – on the days I worked, at least – was to go out for a morning run, come home, then go out for breakfast. The rest of the day he was usually here, at the house. He had a home office of sorts, but I never cleaned it.”

“Why not?” Riga asked.

“There were several rooms he preferred to keep private. That's not so unusual. I don't think there was anything wrong. Not until today.”

“If you worked there twice a week, and you were there yesterday, why did you go by there this morning?” Riga asked.

“I forgot my cell phone on his kitchen counter. I'm always losing the darn thing. When I realized it was gone, I called it. He picked up and told me to come by this morning.”

“Wait – you talked to him later that night? What time?” Riga asked.

“It must have been around nine o'clock.”

“What time did you go over there this morning?” Riga asked.

“Seven. I had another job to go to, and that was usually about the time he got back from his run.”

“How did you get inside?” Riga asked.

“The door was unlocked, of course.”

“There are still places where people don't lock their doors, Riga,” Dirk chided.

Under the circumstances, a locked door might have been a help. Or not. “Ms. Puccetti—”

“Mrs.”

“Mrs. Puccetti, what can you tell us about your employer?”

“He was a true gentleman. I can't understand why anyone would kill him. It must have been a robbery, a random crime, don't you think? And that terrible vandalism!” She shuddered.

“Vandalism?”

“Those horrible marks painted around his body on the floor. I don't know how they'll clean that off.”

“The circle was done in red paint this time,” Dirk said to Riga.

She raised a brow. Messy. Chalk was a neater solution, but the paint more dramatic.

“At first I thought it was blood, but I could smell the paint. The fumes made my head swim.”