The Hoodoo Detective (23 page)

Riga started. “What about me?”

“Nothing. I just heard your name.”

She thought about the pattern – one attempt on her life, and then a murdered dark magician. “What else?”

“I saw one of Turotte’s ceremonies through his window. This town is filled with crappy magicians. And that chick you work with was one of them.”

Riga jerked off the couch, the blood draining from her face. There was only one woman on her team: Pen. “The chick?”

“The one who looks like a fashion model. Old like you. She and Turotte killed a chicken together.”

“The PR consultant,” Donovan said.

Knees weakening, she sank back down. How could she have suspected her own niece? “I should have known her name was a fake. This woman, what exactly did you see?”

“She and Turotte in spooky black robes. You know, the usual B.S. Black candles and chicken blood.”

“How do you know it's B.S.?” Riga asked.

“I know when it's real. I know power. My Dad had it. This wasn't real.” He took another swallow of his soda. “What now?”

“We won't force you to go to the police,” Donovan said, “but I strongly suggest you do. They searched the homes of all the murder victims. If there were human remains inside, the police will have them.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

He looked about nervously, as if worried they might change their mind. Then he bolted for the door.

Riga rose and the dog with her. “We need to follow him.”

“No,” Ash said. “I'll do it.”

“Ash—”

“You know I'd be coming with you two anyway. And when it comes to a tail, three is definitely a crowd.” Ash slipped out the door.

Riga grabbed the hotel notepad near the phone and laid Pete's driver's license beside it.

“You palmed his license?” Donovan asked. “So many hidden talents.”

The corners of her mouth slanted upward. She copied the information from his driver's license, and tore off a sheet, handing it to Donovan. “Another background check for your PI firm.”

“Our PI firm,” Donovan said absently. “I didn't get the sense Pete was lying, but we can't take chances.”

Riga pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Sam. “And I want to know how a local necromancer landed a job as my P.R. consultant.”

Sam picked up. “Hi, Riga. How’s New Orleans?”

“
Mean Streets
got thrown off the case by the FBI. We're pursuing our own angle.”

Sam sighed. “Yeah. Dirk's a little obsessed with this one. He's got a lot of pull, but I'm not sure how far he'll be able to take it.”

“Obsessed?” Walking to the balcony door, she picked up her water and took a sip, staring at the rooftops.

“It's a big case. I think he has delusions of cracking it. It would be a big score for the network. But the way the D.A. has things knotted up, it's unlikely we could air anything until after the trial, and who knows when or if that will happen?”

“Sam, how did you come to recommend Jenny Wade as a consultant?” Walking to the dog’s water bowl in the corner, she dumped the rest of her bottle into it. Oz sniffed and lapped it up.

“Why? Is she giving you problems?”

“No. I'd just like to know a bit more about her. How did you get her involved?”

“It's no big deal. I knew her professionally. When she heard I was in town, she suggested we meet up for drinks. We got to talking about the show, you, and she came up with some good suggestions. It made sense to bring her in.”

“Did you suggest it, or did she?”

“I... Oh.” There was a long pause.

“Sam?”

He chuckled. “Jenny's a smooth one. Now that I think about it, I guess she got me to suggest it.”

“Okay. Thanks, Sam. How's L.A.?”

They chatted a bit more, and Riga hung up.

“So?” Donovan asked.

“It sounds like Jenny manipulated Sam into inviting her in.”

“We need to talk to her,” Donovan said.

“Agreed.” Riga rummaged through her purse for Jenny's business card and dialed. No one answered, no voice mail.

Donovan checked his watch. “It's working hours. Let's check out her office.”

They drove to her office, Oz and the bodyguards in tow.

It was closed.

Riga hung her head. “I know I'm going to regret this.”

She called Dirk. “Do you know where Jenny Wade lives?”

Jenny's home was an Eastlake-style townhouse. Gray and white, with a gabled roof and gingerbread trim, its two stories towered over the houses next door.

Donovan knocked on the white-painted front door. It swung open.

A clock ticked somewhere in the house. The air was cool, stale. A side table in the entryway lay on its side, shards of porcelain and flowers and water spread across the hardwood floor.

Bracing herself, Riga reached out with her senses. But no flood of dark magic assaulted her, just a gentle, seductive tug forward, past the winding staircase that curved to the second floor.

She caught Donovan's eye, and nodded in that direction.

Motioning to the bodyguards, he moved forward, panther-like.

She could feel the house was empty, the bodyguards unnecessary. The bodyguards were new, she didn't know them, and she felt a surge of resentment.

In the living room, cushions were slashed open, guts of fluff spilling onto the oriental carpet. The tug was stronger here, catching beneath her solar plexus, a longing.

Donovan looked to her, a question in his eyes.

Reaching into her bag she pulled out gloves, snapped them on, tossed him a pair. Crossing to a carved, wood china cabinet, she knelt and swung open the lower doors. Inside lay a grimoire, bottles of herbs, candles, an altar cloth, a skull. She ran one hand lightly over the top of the objects. Their pull was sweet, drug-like. Riga yanked her hand back.

“So she is a practitioner,” Donovan said.

“In the other houses,” Riga said, “I was so overwhelmed by the dark magic of the attack that I couldn't latch on to anything in particular. Here, I was led straight to these objects. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t magical.”

“You thought there were two people involved in the murders. Perhaps the second isn't a practitioner?”

“Maybe.” Dropping her defenses, she opened herself fully. The dark objects leapt to the forefront of her senses, and something else, above her. “There's something upstairs.”

They walked up the winding staircase. Riga pointed to a closed door at the end of the hall. “Through there.”

“Allow me,” one of the bodyguards said. He opened the door, went inside. “It's clear,” he called out.

They followed him into a modern-looking bedroom. The bed was torn apart, feathers scattered across the black satin coverlet lying rumpled on the floor. Vintage horror movie posters hung at rakish angles on the walls.

Another tug. Riga walked to one of the framed posters. Lifting it, she revealed a safe embedded in the wall.

“Can you get inside?” Donovan asked.

She'd used magic to get into safes before. Since her magic had changed, that technique had as well, involving heat and flame, and risking the safe's contents. Riga bit the inside of her cheek, uncertain.

There was something in that safe she had to have.

Desire flooded her. Unaware, she stepped closer to the safe. Why was she hesitating? There was something in there she wanted – no, needed. Her lips parted. The forces were drawing in now, the above, the below, the in-between. She didn't need to call for them. They were always there. Her pulse thumped, a rush in her ears. Yes, she would have it. She wanted it. It was hers.

A rip, a tear, and something white flew towards her, striking her chest.

Gasping, she leapt back, hand to her heart.

A fat envelope fell to the carpet.

“Did that come from the safe?” Donovan asked.

Head spinning, she knelt, pressing her fingertips to the floor for balance. She'd lost control. What if she'd gone into the safe instead? Embedded herself in the wall, like Brigitte had warned? What if she’d lost control in a different way and Donovan got hurt?

“Riga?” Donovan laid a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Yes.” Riga mentally probed the safe, the envelope. The safe no longer called to her, but the envelope, smelling of copper, made her mouth water. She reached for it, her fingertips brushing the envelope in a caress. The paper was thick, rich. A dark, red wax seal affixed it shut. Through her gloves she felt its surge of power, dark and sweet and right.

“Riga?” Donovan knelt beside her.

Coming to her senses, she jerked her hand away. She stood, cheeks warming, and stepped back. “I don't think I should open it.”

Sweeping up the envelope, Donovan rose. Before she could react, he fit his finger beneath the edge and lifted the wax seal away, intact. He unfolded the sheet of parchment paper, and scanned the paper. His jaw tightened. Returning the paper to the envelope, he jammed it into his inside pocket. He glanced at one of the bodyguards. “Call the police.”

The big man drew out a cell phone and made the call.

Riga stared at her husband, willing him to tell the bodyguards to leave, to give them privacy. “The envelope's important.”

He nodded. “Too important for us to keep. The police need to see this document.”

She walked to the window, frustrated.

A car door slammed. A blue, convertible Thunderbird, top up, pulled away from the curb. Roared down the street.

“Jenny,” Riga shouted.

They ran down the stairs. He dropped the envelope beside an overturned table, and they ran outside. She hesitated by the envelope. He must have had a reason for letting it go, but it still called to her. Wrenching herself away, she followed him outside.

Halting at the curb, Donovan peeled off his gloves, his movements jerky.

The car was gone.

“Are you sure it was hers?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “She's got too much of a head start. We'll let the police chase her.”

A black and white pulled up.

Donovan told the limited truth – they'd come to visit Riga's P.R. consultant, had found the door open, gone inside, concerned she'd been hurt in a robbery, and found no one. No, they'd touched nothing, but had found some odd occult objects. Could she be connected to the other murders?

They were allowed to go.

“Our luck seems to be turning,” Donovan said. “I was afraid your detectives from the
Mean Street
murders would order these cops to hold us here.”

“Let's enjoy local police inefficiency while we can. The envelope—”

“Let’s get away from here first.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I need something to eat,” Donovan said. “You?”

“I'm starving.” He was stalling, and that should have annoyed her. But anxiety chilled her. Donovan never stalled.

“Good,” he said. “I know a place.”

They drove to a barbeque joint in the French Quarter. A jukebox blared an Elvis tune. The bodyguards slipped into the red booth behind them.

The waitress took their order, and Riga asked, “What did it say?”

Donovan frowned, his brow wrinkling. “It's a contract, that bet Pete mentioned, I think.”

“The bet?”

He took her hand. “The signatories agree to take your life. If they fail after an attempt, the guarantor takes theirs.”

Her breath caught. “My God. I can understand one lunatic agreeing to this, but a group?”

“You did tell me once that necromancers tend to go mad.”

“But these aren’t real necromancers. They’re dilettantes.”

“Rich, arrogant, bored... It can become a sickness.”

Riga’s smile twisted. “Affluenza?”

“It's not the first time I've seen it, though a black magic murder club is a new twist.”

Riga turned the cardboard coaster in her fingers. “That explains the pattern, at least. One attempt on my life, followed by the murder of one of them.”

“Jenny wasn't killed in her home like the others.”

“Not yet. Maybe she ran because she knew what was coming.”

“Or it's not a part of the pattern,” he said.

Which meant something else was going on she didn't understand. “You said there were signatures?” At last they had evidence for the police.

He shook his head. “There was only one name on it. Yours. At the bottom were two columns of Latin sayings, written in different hands.”

Chin lowered, she slumped in her seat. “There's a tradition in magical societies of using magical names – Latin mottos – rather than given names. Dammit. We've got nothing.”

“It might be more than you think. The ink they used looked like blood.”

That was why she'd reacted to it so strongly. “And if there's blood, there's DNA. The police have got something tangible. Finally.”

The waitress arrived with their pulled pork sandwiches, and Riga found herself truly enjoying a meal for the first time in days. A cop had once told her there was no such thing as
hard
evidence, there was only evidence. And they had it, at last. “I'd like to pay another visit to the Old Man.”

“What will we gain from that? He'll hardly confess.”

She laughed hollowly. “You think? He's been taunting me from the beginning. Maybe he'll let something slip. Or...” She looked out the window, thoughtful. An Asian tour group meandered past, following a woman with a pink umbrella.

What if the Old Man did let something slip? Angus had access to recording equipment.

Donovan's phone buzzed, and he checked the caller. “Ash. What did you find out?” He listened, nodded. “Right. I think you can drop it. Meet us...” He gave Riga an inquiring look, and she told him the name of the Old Man's hotel. He repeated it to Ash, hung up. “Ash followed Pete to the police station. Looks like he's taking your advice.”

So at least some good might come of this mess. If he'd gone to the police station, then Pete likely was on the up and up. And if one of the skulls they'd found belonged to his father, he could get it back. “Should we pull Ash from the tail?”

Donovan nodded to the bodyguards at the table nearby. “They're competent, I'm sure. But I know Ash, and he's encountered some of our unique problems before.”