The Hoodoo Detective (29 page)

“Once this is over, I'll work on that.”

“Do you think it's possible?”

“Yes. It's all energy, electrical impulses.”

They swept through the house, opening drawers, rummaging through boxes and closets. The rising sun heated the room, raising trails of sweat on Riga's back, when she admitted defeat. “I've got nothing. You?”

He shook his head. “What next?”

“I've got one more idea before we try Jenny’s office, and then it's desperation hour.”

“Meaning?”

“Magic.”

“Ah.”

“The occultists have been holding ceremonies in local graveyards on – we believe – nights of the new moon.”

“And tonight's a new moon. You think Jenny will take Pen to a cemetery?”

“She's lost half her group to the killer. A blood ritual in one of their sacred haunts makes sense.”

“Your blood, you mean. I won't let it come to that, Riga. And I don't like the idea of you walking into their trap playing the sacrificial lamb, even with back-up.” He looked away, a pulse pounding in his jaw. “But I'd do the same if my family was threatened.” He ran a hand through his raven hair. “All right. We find the site they're planning to use and create our own trap. But even if you're right about a cemetery, there must be a dozen in New Orleans.”

“Help me out the fire escape?”

He grasped her hand.

She edged out the window, feet first. “I've got an informant.”

Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1 was a furnace in the morning sun, each whitewashed crypt, each strip of pavement a pyre, reflecting heat.

Sweat beaded the back of Donovan's neck. “When I die, I'd like a Viking funeral. A blaze of glory into Lake Tahoe. Or the ocean, since they’d never allow a burning boat on the lake. But barring a Viking pyre, bury me somewhere with trees.”

The way her luck was running, Riga thought it highly unlikely she'd be the one dealing with his funeral arrangements. But the old cemetery did have a strangely industrial feel, its only signs of greenery on the opposite side of the high, plastered wall that enclosed the graveyard. The offerings left at certain graves, faded Mardi Gras beads and empty bottles, seemed more trash than gift.

A dull, clunking sound echoed through the crypts.

“This way,” Riga said, following the noise.

Beside the obelisk, a young man swung a pick, breaking up bits of brick and mortar. His blue, denim shirt was open, loose, exposing a white tank. It bagged around his tight jeans.

He let the pick head drop to the ground and leaned on the handle, his chest heaving. “Can I help you?”

“I was looking for an older gentleman, the grandfather of a friend of mine, Hoodoo Hannah?”

He frowned. “He's not here. Had a heart attack on Tuesday afternoon and has been in the hospital ever since.” He shook his head. “He shouldn't have been doing this work at his age. I told him I'd get to it, but he wouldn't listen.”

Riga paled. “Tuesday afternoon? Are you sure?”

“Sure as I'm standing here.” He heaved the pick, splintering a brick.

Head swimming, Riga turned to Donovan. “Let's go.”

“Maybe he knows something,” Donovan said.

“No.” She drew him away. “Donovan, I saw Hannah's grandfather Tuesday night, in the garden beside one of the victim's houses. And later, near the river when the Old Man went into the water.”

“Wait here.” Donovan walked back to the young man. They spoke, and Donovan returned. “He said it happened right after lunch, here at the cemetery. Are you sure it was the same man?”

“Yes! No. He gave me a key...” Something dug into her hip. She reached into the pocket of her slacks, pulled out the skeleton key. “I left this at the hotel.” She stared at the key. “I think I know where we need to go.”

Riga and Donovan stood in the shade of a brick wall, outside the locked garden gate. Two women passed in shorts and tees, discussing brunch plans.

“Are we trespassing?” Donovan asked. “Not that I mind, but I like to know where I stand.”

“I've got a key.” She inserted the skeleton key, cool in her fingers, into the lock.

The iron gate swung open, creaking.

“I think I need to do this alone,” she said.

“What do you expect to find? Hannah's grandfather is in the hospital.” Donovan had called and confirmed it. He'd been unconscious since she'd met him in the cemetery five days ago.

In the distance, a siren wailed.

She laid a hand on his arm. “Someone else is here. Someone with information.” And somehow, she knew he was waiting.

His lips tightened. He nodded. “I'll be right out here.”

Slowly, she walked inside, her sandals padding on the brick walk. Neatly trimmed bushes led her in a straight line to the fountain, and the intersection of three other walks. She stood at the crossroads, alone.

Riga fingered the key. He wasn’t here. “If you didn’t mean for me to come, why did you give me this?”

The fountain splashed in response, and she considered tossing the key in, like a lucky penny.

Something shifted in the air, and her flesh pebbled. Riga cocked her head, listening intently.

The water stilled, frozen in air. She stared, incredulous. The street sounds had fallen silent.

Tentative, she reached out her hand, plucking a drop of water from the air. She squeezed it between her fingers. Like a rubber ball, it snapped back to its original shape when she released it. Her lips parted, and she laughed, marveling at the magic.

“I thought I might be seeing you again.”

She whirled.

Hannah's grandfather — or someone who looked like him — leaned on a shovel in the shade of a tall cypress. But Hannah’s grandfather – the man they’d met in the cemetery – was in the hospital. And this man was no man at all. Her scalp tingled.

“I’d ask who you are, but I think a better question is what are you?”

“Just an old man.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not
the
old man, the old man at the crossroads?” If she was right, she’d met this archetype before, in another form, as Hermes. In any form, he scared the hell out of her.

“I don't got time to fiddle faddle around.” His chin jut out. “What do you want, girl?”

“To ask you about vandalism in the cemeteries.”

He snorted. “That true?”

“Hannah told me a group of occultists were using the cemeteries for rituals,” Riga said.

“Hannah did? Then why aren't you asking Hannah?”

“She's not at home,” Riga said.

“Course not. She should be at her shop by now.”

“And somehow she's gotten mixed up with the occultists, and a necromancer, a powerful one,” Riga said. “She may be in trouble.”

He stiffened. “Well, now. There's necromancers, and there's necromancers. Lots of folk do death magic. Don't mean it's bad.”

“These necromancers have been getting killed. I suspect you've heard about the murders.”

He twirled the shovel, released it. It spun on its point, scraping the brickwork.

“When Hannah and I came to see you,” Riga said, “and she told you the hoodoo hit man was dead, did you know he was her husband?”

“Course I knew she was married to that good for nothing.” He spat. “Think Hannah and I are going to talk about someone like that in public? His killing was a blessing.”

“The occultists hold their rituals in cemeteries on nights of the new moon.” Riga shifted her weight, eyeing the still-spinning shovel, wondering why he maintained the pretense of humanity. But he was a trickster and traveled his own path. She would play his game. “Have you any idea where they’ll be tonight?”

“Even if I did know, why should I tell you?”

“Why are you here at all?” she asked. “Why are you pretending to be someone and something you're not?”

“Why do you want to know where those folks are? Sounds like you'd do best to steer clear.”

“Because they have my niece,” Riga said.

“She like you?”

“I think you know the answer to that. She was wearing your charm.”

The shovel hit the ground with a clatter. “What do you want from me?”

“I wanted to speak to Hannah's grandfather, because he knows the cemeteries, has contacts at other cemeteries.” Energy flashed, hot and dangerous, crawling up her spine. She'd broken the rules he'd set, acknowledging he wasn't Hannah's grandfather. Mouth dry, she went on. “They'll hold their ritual tonight, and my niece will be a victim of it. Where will they be?”

He stared at her a long while.

“We need to stop this.” In spite of the heat, Riga rubbed her upper arms. “The occultists have Hannah in their sights. Whatever she's done, she's in over her head.”

He gazed at the fountain. “They won't come to St. Louis Number 1. They never do. Scared of Marie Laveau, I reckon. She sleeps there, and she doesn't suffer fools. Besides, that cemetery is too close to the French Quarter – drunks and drug dealers are always trying to get in, so they've got more patrols. Last new moon, your occultists were at St. Louis Number 2. It's always the old cemeteries they go for. But my guess is they'll try St. Louis Number 3 or Metairie. Number three is nice and quiet.”

“And why Metairie?” Riga asked.

“Because they seem to like that one best. Don't know why, since it's more exposed – doesn't have walls like this one. But they're holding their meetings there every three or four months.”

“Thank you,” Riga said. “Why are you helping me? Why did you give me the key?”

Grunting, he picked up the shovel. “I'm helping
him
. And that key opens all sorts of doors. You might find it useful.”

“Who are you?” Riga whispered.

The old man vanished. It was an answer.

The outlines of the hotel bedroom trembled, a charcoal drawing. Holding the image in her mind, Riga took a cautious step. The lines dissolved, sweeping past her in a shadowy sandstorm.

Her knee banged something hard, and color surged back. The king-sized bed with a gold-tinged duvet. The tall headboard with blue fleur-de-lis on a field of white, climbing nearly to the ceiling. A splash of burgundy on the elegant lounge chair in the corner. And the scarlet footstool at the base of the bed, which she'd struck.

“Ow.” Making a face, she rubbed her knee.

“You were supposed to reappear in ze bathroom.” Brigitte's brow ridges drew down, her stone eyes narrowing. “Another failure! How will you learn to walk ze in-between in time to save Pen?”

“At least this time I could see it, know I was in it. How long was I gone?”

“An instant, no more. Try again. Go to Donovan. Perhaps he will help you focus.”

Drawing a breath, Riga centered herself, felt the cool energies from above, the warmth from below, and the nothingness of the in-between flow through her. And then the wanting, filling her with desire to be elsewhere, in the room with Donovan.

The hotel bedroom dissolved into odd, gray shadows. It was like looking at an unfinished house through a veil of shifting black and gray sands. The gargoyle was a shimmering silhouette, and through the wall, Riga saw her aunts, shadowy figures hunched over a round end table in the living area. The dog sat beside them, his tail a blur. A wraith-like Donovan bent over a table. About his edges, sparks of energy lifted, swirled, an impressionist's sketch. And the more she noticed the subtle movements, the harder it became to focus.

She released the image. Heat struck her like a physical force. Gray wings flapped, striking her face, and she staggered back, stumbled over something, cursing. Grabbing the balcony's iron rail, she steadied herself, watched the pigeon fly over the rooftops.

Heart thudding, she looked down and shuddered at the five-story drop. God, that had been close.

With an angry shove of her foot, she thrust aside the pot of impatiens she'd nearly stepped in. Brigitte was right. At this rate, she'd get herself and Pen killed.

Forcing her breathing to steady, she pasted a smile on her face and rolled back the glass door to the living area.

Donovan straightened from the cemetery map, unfolded on the table. “The balcony? Aren’t you cutting it close?”

Brigitte pushed open the bedroom door and hopped through. “Two feet to ze left and you would have fallen to your death. Concentrate!”

There was a clatter from the other side of the room. Peregrine rose, her brow creased with annoyance. “Must you make such a racket?”

“Sorry.” Riga closed the door behind her. “Any luck scrying for Hannah?”

“Not much,” Peregrine said. “She keeps fading in and out. She must be using a cloak. As soon as we think we've got hold of her, she vanishes. But none of our partial sightings have been near any of the cemeteries.” The aunts had rested and changed their clothes, but their faces were drawn. They were too old for such intense work.

Dot wobbled to her feet, her black skirts swaying. “A pity Jenny’s office was destroyed as well. From what you told us, she isn’t the magician Hannah is. We might have had better luck scrying for her.”

“Actually,” Riga said, “when Ash gets back, I was hoping you'd help me with something else.”

Dot tipped her head. “Oh?”

“Whichever cemetery they choose,” Riga said, “it's bound to be a trap. I thought we'd lay one of our own.”

“I'm still not convinced we've got the right cemeteries.” Donovan tapped one of the maps with his pen. “Hannah's, er, grandfather may not have been honest with you. We need to do some footwork to verify this.”

“Then we need more feet,” Riga said. “It's already mid-afternoon. Jenny could call anytime.”

A sharp rap at the door, and Ash walked inside, a heavy paper bag under one arm.

Brigitte froze, a statue beside the bedroom door.

“I got what you wanted.” Ash placed the package on the table. “And just as a head's up, Dirk, Wolfe, and Angus are sniffing around.”

“Sniffing around you?”

“They're in the lobby. It won't be long before Dirk gets bored waiting for you to come out and comes up here.”

Riga grimaced. “Just what we don't need.”

“They could be useful.” Donovan rubbed the faint scar on his chin. “If handled properly.”

Their gazes met. “Dirk does love conducting interviews.” Grabbing her phone off the table, she called Wolfe.