The Hoodoo Detective (5 page)

Her attacker rolled to his feet, knocked Guard Two into the wall.

Guard One cursed, didn't let Riga go.

Riga kicked out, sent the extinguisher rolling, imagined it tangling between her attacker's legs. Breathing the in-between, she felt the extinguisher spin, his feet catching, tripping.

There was a crash, a thud, a groan.

Riga smiled. Her magic was improving. “Hold him for the cops!”

More scrambling, crashing, swearing. From her vantage point, she couldn't see the action, and she'd reached the limits of her magic. “I promise not to go anywhere if you want to help your friend.”

Swearing, the guard released her.

She sat up, rotating her shoulders. Propped against the wall, she watched the battle. Her attacker held one guard in a headlock and used him as a shield against the other. He slammed the guard's head into the wall. The print of Van Gogh's sunflowers rattled on the wall, and the guard collapsed. Her attacker turned, grinning.

Riga's eyes drifted to half-mast. Pulling in the in-between, she sent a burst of energy at the painting. It flew off the wall and hit her attacker in the head. Glass shattered. He blinked, cursing.

The painting didn't do more than break his stride. But she was enjoying this.

Two uniformed cops charged out of the stairwell, drawing batons from their holsters.

“Get down,” one shouted.

He didn't.

They wailed on him with their batons.

He dropped to his knees, fell to the floor, lay still.

One of the cops cuffed him.

The other approached her. “What happened?”

In answer, she tugged down her collar, exposing her throat.

He winced. “Ouch.”

“He jumped me. And I think he may be connected to a local murder.” That took some explaining. Detectives Long and Short arrived. More explaining.

Pen's door opened. She stepped outside and leaned against the frame.

“It's bad luck for you,” Short was saying, “but coincidences do happen.”

Riga tore her gaze from Pen. “Not to me.”

Pen went back inside.

After taking her statement, the cops let her go. The hallway cleared out. She knocked on Pen's door. “Come on, Pen,” she said in a low voice. “We need to talk.”

Pen opened the door, her expression hard.

“Thanks for calling security,” Riga said.

Her niece held out her hand in a warding gesture. “I’m glad you’re okay, but I’m still too angry to talk to you right now.”

“All right. Later.”

Pen nodded, closed the door.

Fair enough.

Riga went to her own room, doing a magic check as she unlocked the door. The room was clear, and she stepped over the threshold, locking the door behind her.

Definitely not a coincidence.

Toeing off her shoes, she sprawled on the bed and checked her watch. Donovan would be awake by now, had probably been awake for hours.

Her lip throbbed. Tentatively, she ran her fingers across it. No blood, but it was swollen, tender. She couldn't remember when that had happened.

Rolling onto her side, she dug her phone out of her purse. She hesitated, surprised by how badly she wanted her husband. For decades, she'd solved her own problems. She hadn't had anyone to run to for sympathy. But this definitely fell into the need-to-know category between husbands and wives. And she wanted him. Badly.

She made the call.

“Riga.” His voice was a rough purr, like a great cat. “I was just thinking about you. What are you wearing?”

“A fat lip and a pensive expression.”

A moment's quiet. “What happened?”

Riga started from the beginning. The hoodoo hit man. Dirk the jerk. The mysterious spell in her room. Her opportunity to consult with the cops. The assault. Donovan let her speak, saying nothing until she'd finished.

“I’ll catch the next flight. Come home, meet me there.”

“I wish I could,” she said, “but that’s not an option right now.”

“You mean it’s not an option you like.”

“I can’t investigate a murder long distance. And this is one I can’t ignore.”

“Just a minute.”

Riga looked at her feet, noting the chipped, scarlet nail polish. Donovan would come. He’d want to come, and she wanted him there. Remorse chewed at her edges, but she was an old hand at guilt. Guilt about dragging him from his work. Guilt about Pen. Guilt about waiting too late for them to have children.

“I can be there tomorrow afternoon. Hold on.” A moment's murmured conversation. “It might take longer. How badly are you hurt?”

She smiled and winced at the throbbing response in her lip. That was Donovan all over. Focused. “I'm fine. Pen's heading back to California.”

“Riga... A hit man. You know there's a possibility it may not have anything to do with the old man.”

She massaged her scalp. “Have you gotten any threats?”

“The usual. I'll have security go through the list.”

“The usual?” She swallowed. So much for need-to-know. “You've been getting threats? Why didn't you tell me?”

“It happens more than you'd think, and none of them have been serious. You know I have security.”

“Yeah.” She knew, but she'd avoided thinking about
why
he had security.

“Ash is in Vegas. I'm sending him to you. He can get there before me, in the morning. I’ll follow. We’ll have dinner in the French Quarter.”

Riga didn’t respond. Ash was a security expert and bodyguard, and a scary one. She liked him, and the TV crew knew him. He was also dating a shaman she knew. He'd fit. But she'd never have been able to afford him – or an interim private firm – before she'd married Donovan. Something about it burned.

She lowered her gaze. A black thread was loose on the spread, and she picked at it.

“Riga?”

“I'm still here. Sending Ash until you can get here is a good idea.”

“A good idea, but you don't like it.”

“I don't like any part of this situation,” she said. “But I love you. Thank you.”

“For protecting you? That's my job. Now let's talk about your marital duties. Seriously, what are you wearing?”

Riga laughed. “Not a stitch.”

Someone banged at her door, and Riga jerked, sat up. “Who is it?”

“Pen.”

“Donovan, Pen's at the door. I need to—”

“I know. Take care of your family.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Safe flight.”

They exchanged quick, murmured endearments and hung up.

She yanked open the door.

Pen and John Wolfe stood in the hall, Pen's photographer's backpack and suitcases at their feet.

“I'm going to the airport now,” Pen said.

“Now?” Riga checked her watch. It was after midnight.

“Red eye. When the producer fires you, they don't mess around.”

“You haven't been fired,” Riga said.

She roughed her tangle of hair. “I'm off the show. What would you call it?”

“A reassignment. Pen, there's more going on here than you understand.”

“Then explain it.”

Riga glanced at Wolfe. They couldn't discuss this in front of him.

Pen folded her arms across her chest, too angry to pick up the signal or stubbornly ignoring it.

Wolfe stared at the ceiling, a flush creeping up his neck.

Riga felt a flare of annoyance. Pen wasn't a little kid anymore. She had to have some idea what was going on. “I'd like to talk about this later,” Riga said.

“After I get back to California.”

“Exactly.”

“Fine!” Pen grabbed her backpack and stormed down the hall.

“I'm taking her to the airport,” Wolfe said. “I'd better...” He trailed off, looked down the hall.

“It's fine, Wolfe. I'll see you when you get back.”

Grabbing Pen's bags, he jogged after her.

Riga mimed kicking the door shut, then closed it quietly, gently, carefully.

Collapsing onto the bed, she stared at the textured ceiling, adrenaline still sputtering through her system. She hadn't even asked Donovan about Macau. How much damage would this emergency trip to New Orleans do to his business?

She rolled over, sat up, and grabbed the leather satchel off her bed. Riga hadn't been sleeping well since she'd come to New Orleans, and she wouldn't sleep tonight.

Digging the old man's file from her suitcase, she put it in her satchel.

Riga drove to the Old Man's hotel and watched.

The morning sun blazed, and Riga’s eyes burned from last night’s fruitless surveillance.

Riga and the
Encounters
crew stood outside the wrought iron gate to the New Orleans mansion of the man who’d been hanged upside down. It had a black mansard roof and black trim. Windows gaped between ebony shutters, eyes reflecting nothing. Ivy twined around the porch banister, grew up the sides of the white-painted house as if throttling it.

Sweat trickled down Riga’s back, and she knew her hair was going limp, its soft waves flattening.

She checked her watch. No, she and the
Encounters
crew weren't early. The cops were late. So was Dirk, the jerk.

“I still wish you'd caught the guys who dropped that flower pot onto my van.” Sam studied the van's dented roof, his expression rueful. At least the marks Brigitte had left hadn’t looked too obviously like talon scars. Those would have been hard to explain.

“It happened so fast,” Riga lied. “By the time I stopped the van and got out, the balcony over the bar was empty. It was probably an accident.”

His brow furrowed. “You don't think it had anything to do with the attack on you last night?”

“No,” she said quickly. “You know what it’s like around Bourbon Street at that hour.”

“You should have at least called the cops. The bar is responsible for its patrons.”

“In a stolen van?”

“I would have vouched for you.”

“Eventually,” Riga said.

Angus adjusted the sound equipment clipped to the back of her waistband, giving it a gentle tug.

“I'll pay for the damages,” Riga said. “I shouldn't have taken the van without permission.”

“No, but that's not the point.”

A gray sedan followed by a black van with
Mean Streets
painted on the side swerved to a red-painted curb. Cameramen and crew members leapt from the van, still rolling.

Detectives Long and Short exited their sedan.

Its rear door opened, and Dirk bounded out, swaggered toward them. “Ready to get started?” He stared at Riga’s neck. “Too much fun on Bourbon Street?”

“We've been ready for the last twenty minutes.” Riga adjusted her silk scarf, hiding the marks from last night’s attack.

Dirk pressed a broad hand to his chest. “Meow! Do I detect some crankiness?”

“Maybe I wasn't clear,” Riga said. “You're late. Twenty minutes late. While we've been standing on the un-air conditioned sidewalk. It's—”

Sam laid a hand on her arm. “We're all here now. Shall we go in?”

Riga's jaw clenched. The heat and having to lie to Sam about Brigitte had made her irritable. Dirk might have been late for a good reason. Traffic could be bad in New Orleans. And the cameras were rolling.

Which made her wonder why Sam had stopped her blossoming tirade.

Dirk smirked, brushing past her.

“Sorry we're late,” Detective Long said. “We got caught up at the water cooler. But I'm interested in hearing what you've got.”

Riga nodded, following the detectives up the black-painted porch steps to the front door. Carved leaves and vines crawled around its border. A green man leered from an ivy bas relief.

“See something, Riga?” Sam asked.

“Just admiring the green man.” She tapped its wooden nose.

“Green?”

“His name, not his actual color. He's a vegetative god, Celtic.”

“Any bearing on the murder?” Sam said.

Long unlocked the door. Dirk shoved through, his cameraman at his heels.

“Probably not.” She walked inside the foyer. It was cooler than outside, but airless, stifling. “Green men are everywhere. You can even find them in old churches.”

“Our crime scene techs have been through the place.” Short gave her a hard look. “But try not to touch anything.”

Dirk replaced a brass figurine of a nude woman on the side table.

Riga shook her head minutely, her gaze flicking upward. She examined a burn scarring the wallpaper, a trendy gray and white scene of narrow, barren trees. The burn angled upward, starting at chest height, tearing beneath a coat rack, ending before the door to the next room. Riga caught the faint odor of smoke and dark magic – sweet, cloying, rotten.

“What do you make of that?” Sam asked.

“Was there any evidence of a fight in this room?” Riga asked the cops.

They glanced at each other.

“We found a broken vase with some blood on it,” Long said. “The crime scene techs have it. What
do
you make of that burn?”

“Looks like an electrical burn to me,” Dirk said.

The cops nodded sagely.

Riga forced a smile. “The cleaning staff might know if the mark has been there a while.” If he could afford a house this size, surely he'd have maids. Maids she'd like to chat with. But she was just a consultant.

“He used a cleaning service. They rotated staff in and out. But I'll ask.”

“Who found the body?” Riga asked.

“The killer left the front door open. A neighbor noticed and stopped in.” Short motioned toward the door. “Through here.”

They trooped down a hall lined with closed doors. Closed by the cops to keep nosy metaphysical detectives from seeing inside? The air grew closer, the dank, New Orleans atmosphere crawling inside.

Short paused beside a door, eyed Riga. “The body's gone, but it's still unnerving.”

“I promise not to faint,” she said.

Dirk snickered. “Don't expect me to catch you if you do.”

Short swung open the door, and they followed him inside, the temperature dropping the deeper they penetrated.

The room was octagonal, the parquet flooring concentric octagons with a star of darker wood inlaid at the center. A chalk circle marred the finish.

“That hook in the ceiling,” she said. “That's what he was hung from?”