“How would you know that?”
Inwardly, Riga cursed. She didn’t want to explain her involvement. “I heard they searched the nearby buildings,” she said. “That must have inconvenienced your residents.”
“Not a bit.” Verdun’s smile was brittle. “Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Mosse.” She turned and stalked to the elevator.
“I wonder what she’ll tell your friend, Turk?” Riga threaded her arm through Donovan’s, and they walked outside. The day had begun to warm, heat reflecting off the asphalt parking lot.
He shrugged. “What can she say? It’s not as if we sabotaged the building. And Turk’s not my friend.”
“He’d like to be.”
“Maybe.” He stopped beside their SUV. “I didn’t see a single ghost in there. Did you?”
“No.” But she sensed someone watching now, and hair prickled the back of her neck. She squeezed his arm.
“I feel it too,” Donovan rumbled. He opened her door, and she stepped inside. Donovan paused, scanning the parking lot. “He’s out there.” He shut her door and slid in on the driver’s side. “What do you think?”
“I think we should watch for a tail.” She called Sheriff King on her cell phone.
“Yeah?” the sheriff asked.
“Donovan and I are leaving the Sunset Towers,” she said. “We just spotted him here – the man who killed the clerk. He’s in the same, white uniform.”
“I’ll send some of my men. You said you’re leaving the Towers? Could you stop by the station?”
“Have you found anything?”
“No, not yet, but our sketch artist is here. If it’s convenient—”
“I’ll be there.” She hung up.
“Well?” Donovan asked.
“The sketch artist is waiting for me at the station.”
He nodded, started the SUV. “What do you think of the Towers?”
“I like Verdun and that facilities manager, Arwood Wilde, as suspects. They both have access to the entire building, and that gives them power.”
“But there are at least a hundred staffers in that building we didn’t meet,” he said. “If he’s got an accomplice here, it could be anyone.”
“True.”
They drove toward the sheriff’s station, Riga checking the mirrors for a tail and finding none. Stomach burning, she rubbed her damp palms on the legs of her slacks.
“I don’t think we’re being followed,” he said.
“Neither do I, and that worries me.”
“You think he already knows who we are?” He turned into the parking lot, the SUV’s tires crunching on the gravel. The car drifted to a halt beside the steps leading to the timber and cinderblock station.
“Your face isn’t exactly unknown around here,” she said.
“Neither is yours.” Getting out of the SUV, he handed her out. Together they walked up the short set of steps to the front door and inside.
Sheriff King stood in the station’s waiting area, his arms folded over his button-down shirt. He chatted with a dark-skinned man wearing thick glasses and perching on the edge of a plastic chair.
The sheriff glanced toward them and straightened. “Thanks for coming by. What else can you tell me? Did you both see the guy?”
“Yes,” Riga said. “On the stairs.”
Donovan cleared his throat. “I saw someone, but I couldn’t give you a description.”
“You don’t strike me as the unobservant type, Mr. Mosse.”
“I chased him down a stairwell, only caught glimpses of the man. And then when he hit the hallway…” He glanced at the young man. “He was unusually fast. I lost him.”
King grunted. “All right.” He motioned to the man in the chair. “Mrs. Mosse, this is our sketch artist, Mr. Nwosu.”
The young man rose, tucking a sketch pad beneath his arm.
“Have you got time to give him a description?” the sheriff asked Riga.
“Yes,” she said. But her stomach knotted with anxiety. Gold Watch was out there, and the twins were home with Pen and Brigitte. Wards or no, she didn’t like it. “Donovan, if you have to leave, I can call a car.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ll check on the kids. If Pen’s available to babysit, we can bring them all to the casino. The penthouse is empty.”
She relaxed. Donovan understood her fear. He always understood. “Tell her if they get cranky to take them downstairs.” The twins loved the casino’s flashing lights and ringing bells.
Donovan brushed his lips across her cheek and squeezed her arm. He strode from the station.
“This way.” The sheriff pointed over the low, swinging door to the inner sanctum. He led Riga and Nwosu past a bored-looking desk sergeant, listening to a woman complain about her neighbor’s cars. They wove through rows of desks. Uniformed officers typed at computers as witnesses gave statements.
The sheriff tapped a plainclothes officer on the shoulder. “Another sighting of the liquor store murder suspect at the Sunset Towers. He’s wearing a white nurse’s outfit. Take Martinez and some uniforms.”
“Yes, sir.” The officer walked into the scrum of cops.
“There’s a vacant conference room you can use,” the sheriff said to Nwosu. King shepherded them into a glass-walled room with a circular, wooden table and six worn chairs. He tugged on the blind pull.
The blinds resisted.
He yanked again and one side dropped with a clatter. “The hell with it,” the sheriff muttered. “You got everything you need, Mr. Nwosu?”
The young man bowed his head. “Yes. Thank you.” His voice was low, melodious.
“I’ll leave you to it then.” Frowning at the blinds, the sheriff left, yanking the door shut behind him. The blinds swayed in the breeze.
The sketch artist motioned toward a chair, and Riga caught a whiff of frankincense from his button-up shirt. “Please, sit, Ms. Hayworth.”
Belly knotting, she laid a hand on the back of a chair, positioned herself behind it. “You know my maiden name.” The sheriff had referred to her as Mrs. Mosse.
“I am aware of many things, but I do not know the face of this demon who killed the store clerk. You will have to assist me.”
She cocked her head, studying him.
He smiled, his teeth white and even.
“A demon? Interesting word choice,” she said.
He pulled out a chair beside hers and sat, turned his head. The overhead fluorescents glinted off his glasses. “English is not my first language. I am more skilled with my pen than my tongue.”
She sat beside him. Maybe the demon comment was just colloquial speech. Or maybe it was more. She smiled faintly.
He flipped open his sketch book and drew a metal tin from the front pocket of his blue plaid shirt. His hands were broad, strong, the veins mapping thick roads across his dark skin. “Let us start with generalities. What can you tell me about the shape of the man’s face and features?”
“Oval face. Prominent cheek bones, but not because he was slender. He was muscular. Bald.”
His opened the tin and removed a charcoal stick. “Did he remind you of any celebrities?”
“That guy on the toilet cleaner commercials?”
Nwosu’s teeth flashed. “Excellent.” He drew the outlines of a face, asking her questions that plucked at her memory. When they finished, he sighed and slid the sketch book to her. “Is this the man?”
She frowned. It was, and it wasn’t. But she’d been fighting more than a man and couldn’t describe those eyes.
“It is not quite right?” Nwosu prompted.
“It’s good. It’s him.”
“But?”
“His eyes were strange. Not the shape of them, you captured that perfectly.”
“But I did not capture the darkness you saw inside of them.”
“No. I’m not sure how you could.”
The muscles in her neck loosened. “I get the feeling you’ve encountered this sort of… man before.”
; “As you may have guessed, I am not originally from this great country.”
She nodded.
“When I was young, a sorcerer came to my village.” The muscles above his left cheekbone twitched. In a swift motion, he erased the eyes, blew on the paper, drew. He swiveled the sketch pad to her. “This is what I saw.”
She drew a sharp breath. Black, charred moons stared out at her from the page. Riga swallowed. “That’s it. But the police will think it’s a fantasy.”
“Or that you were intoxicated, perhaps?” He sketched a few quick strokes, and the eyes were ordinary eyes again, if their gaze intense.
“What happened in your village? With the sorcerer?”
“I do not know what happened to the sorcerer. My village…” His face tightened. “My village no longer exists.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The man came and then soldiers. My mother knew what he was, that darkness would follow. She took my sister and me from the village. We escaped.” Nwosu’s hands stilled. He lowered his head.
And Riga understood the subject had been changed. They would not return to the sorcerer or the soldiers. But she knew meeting this man had been no coincidence. She didn’t believe in them. “What brought you here?”
“She is clever, my mother, if a bit ruthless. Because of her, I came to America. I was lucky.”
“I meant here, to this sheriff’s station. Sorcerers are rare. So rare I’ve never encountered one before. And here you are today, knowing what they are. And here am I, needing to understand.”
He rose, his chair scraping back. “Good luck, Ms. Hayworth. May you never again encounter this demon.”
Riga’s nostrils flared. The man had information that might help. But she sensed that pressing would only tighten his lips.
Unspeaking, they walked to Sheriff King’s office. Through the glass window in the door, she saw King sitting against his desk, speaking on the phone. He faced away from them, one hand resting on the sculpture on his desk, a Remington of a cowboy on a rearing horse. A small TV screen flashed on a bookcase.
Riga rapped on the door.
He turned, motioning them in, and Riga and the sketch artist walked inside.
“Right,” King said. “Thanks.” He hung up. “Finished already?”
“Mrs. Mosse has an eye for detail.” Nwosu handed the sheriff the open sketch book.
King regarded the image. “We’ll circulate it. Thank you, Mr. Nwosu, Mrs. Mosse.”
The sketch artist checked his watch. The band was frayed, the glass scratched. “If you will excuse me, I must go.”
“Hold up.” The sheriff reached for the phone. “I’ll have Sergeant Lynch give you a ride.” He pressed a button and arranged for a squad car, then hung up. “You’ve met the sergeant before,” King said.
“Yes,” Nwosu said. “With your permission, I will find her desk. Thank you.”
“Give my best to your mother,” King said.
They watched while the sketch artist left the room.
“You have information for me?” King asked.
“Not yet. I saw two policemen at the Sunset Towers this morning.”
“I didn’t send them, if that’s what you’re asking. Which floor were they on?”
“The first.”
“Then they were probably there on a 5150.”
“A 5150… Someone behaving erratically?”
He shifted on the desk, and it groaned beneath his weight. “If the suspect is older, sometimes we’ll take them to the Towers for observation. It’s better than dragging them into a jail cell.”
“Is that… normal?”
He heaved a sigh. “It isn’t right, if that’s what you’re asking, but in my line of work, sometimes there aren’t any good solutions.”
And what sort of solution was it for the other first-floor residents? “Have your people been called out to the Towers for other reasons?”
His eyes narrowed. “Sometimes.”
“Complaints from people who have relatives in the Towers?”
“If there’s a complaint of physical or financial abuse, we try our best.”
“Try your best?” What the hell did that mean?
“It’s not easy to prosecute cases there. Many of the residents are confused — either because of their medications or just plain mental deterioration. They don’t make the best witnesses.”
“I see. But they do make ideal victims, don’t they? They can’t fight back, and those who do complain about abuse aren’t believed.” Heat bubbled inside her, and she tamped down her rising anger, the sense of unfairness. The situation wasn’t King’s fault. Nothing he said was untrue. It was just wrong.
“The Towers is a decent place, comparatively. But I’d rather die on the job than end up in there. And we haven’t had any unusual calls to the Sunset Towers, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Nothing unusual,” she said. “What’s usual?”
“About six weeks back, a man fell out a seventh floor window. It appeared to be an accident. His son said he’d warned the Towers that his father was a jumper, that they had to keep his windows locked. They did. He somehow got out of his room and found a different window.”
Sickened, she thought of the restraints binding Mrs. Norton. “And they can’t watch every patient every minute of the day.”
“Not likely. Can you imagine the resources they’d need for that kind of individualized care? And no one wants to do that work. Would you want to work in there?”
“No.” She couldn’t imagine it, being surrounded by the unrelenting pain and confusion and death. It would take a brighter soul than her own to work in a place like the Sunrise Towers. She smiled briefly. “But I don’t know how people do your line of work either.”
“You’re one to talk. I noticed you renewed your private detective’s license.”
“That’s different. I get to choose my cases.” It was a half-truth. Certain cases, like Mrs. Norton’s, chose her. “Something’s wrong at the Sunset Towers.”
He snorted. “I’m sure there’s plenty wrong with the place. But that’s not my jurisdiction.”
She shook her head. “There’s more to the Towers than meets the eye. The person who owned the blue Prius, did you find him?”
He shifted papers on his desk, not meeting her gaze. “We know who they are.”
“And what? Are they being protected?”
“They would be if we could find them.”
“Christ.” She rubbed her temple. Let them be safe. Let them be on a trip to Napa. And yet a small, dark part of her was glad she hadn’t been standing beside her own car when she’d first encountered Gold Watch. Her stomach turned over. The thought was wrong in so many ways.
“We’ll find them,” the sheriff said. “The good news is they’re traveling, on vacation. They stopped by the Towers to visit a relative, and were on their way out of the Tahoe Basin. If we can’t find them, odds are your guy won’t be having it easy either.”
Her lips parted in relief, and she exhaled slowly. “I never asked. What was the name of the store clerk?”
“Patterson. Eric Patterson.”
She twisted the ring on her fourth finger. “Did he have any family?”
“None. An orphan.”
Her heart lurched. Would they send him to a potter’s field? She couldn’t let that happen. She’d been responsible for his death. The least she could do was take responsibility for his burial. “What will happen to the body?”
His brows rose. “Didn’t your husband tell you? He’s arranged for Mr. Patterson to be released to the local mortuary when the M.E.’s done.”
“No.” She studied the bold-colored rug. Just when she thought she knew him, Donovan surprised her. “He really is my better half.”
Nodding to the sheriff, she turned to go and swayed, her feet glued to the rug. A campaign rally flashed on the small TV, the silver-haired senator waving to the cheering crowd. People of wannabe importance shouted their approval be
hind him. And Gold Watch stood the closest, applauding.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“That’s him,” she croaked, pointing at the TV.
“Who?” The sheriff rose off the edge of his desk.
The scene shifted to a news announcer, and then a shot of rolling farmland. Men and women in cowboy hats and jeans stood beside a low, metal fence and waved American and Gadsden flags.
Frantic, she grasped the TV, as if she could will the image to return. “The man behind Senator Stile. That was Gold Watch, the man from the facility, the man who killed the clerk. He was right there!”
“At a campaign rally?” He rubbed the back of his neck, his palm rasping on the rough skin and hair.
“What channel is this? Maybe they have footage online,” Riga said.
“Seven.” He motioned toward the computer on his desk. “Go wild.”
She hurried around his desk and sat in the leather swivel chair, searched the internet for Channel Seven, Senator Martin Stile. The sheriff watched over her shoulder.
Biting her lower lip, she scrolled through video clips on the news station’s site, clicked on one. She tapped her fingers on the desk. “There!” She pressed the pause button and pointed. “It’s him.”
King looked at the screen, looked at her, looked at the screen. “You’re kidding, right?”
“He’s the man. Can you find out who he is?”
“I don’t need to. That’s Senator Stile’s aide, Connor Tanhauser.”
“We’ve got him,” she breathed.
“No, Riga, we don’t got him. Didn’t you hear what I said? He’s the senator’s aide.”
“So?”
“So I’ve got no video from the liquor store. And my only witness is a so-called metaphysical detective who once starred on a paranormal reality TV show.”
Fuming, she leaned back in the chair, her mouth a thin line. “In short, you’d be better off with a witness from the dementia unit.”
“Okay,” he said, more kindly, “I’ll do some digging, find out when this video was shot. Maybe he’s got a double. But I gotta tell you, Tanhauser’s one step away from untouchable.” He jabbed his finger at the senator, frozen on the screen. “And that’s untouchable.”
The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7) Page 9