“They’re not above the law,” she said, setting her jaw.
He laughed. “You think there’s equality under the law? You know how many men like your husband I’ve seen skate? Men we’ve had dead to rights, but they had money and connections and a slick attorney?”
She straightened. “Donovan was—”
“Yeah, I know. He was innocent when the feds accused him of laundering money. He’s a straight arrow, or as straight as you can get when you run casinos. And if I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be mouthing off to you.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Because if he wasn’t one of the good guys, someone like Donovan could have your badge? Does that really happen?”
“It happens. And you’re right. This job is the pits. Every day I think of a new reason to quit. But I stay so I can do what I can, to keep folks like you and your husband and your kids safe. That’s all I can do, all anyone can do. And I’ll see what I can find on Tanhauser. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“All right,” she said. “Let’s assume I’m not wrong. What would a senator’s aide be doing at a senior care facility?”
“Not playing nurse, that’s for damn sure.”
“Visiting someone?”
“So why the uniform?”
“Visiting someone in secret?”
“The crazed wife locked in the attic? That’s a…” He trailed off, shaking one meaty finger. “Hold on.” Wheeling Riga’s chair aside, he bent over the keyboard, typing. He straightened. “I’ll be damned.”
“What?”
“Stile’s wife is in a private facility. She’s got dementia.”
“At the Sunset Towers?” Surely the senator could afford better.
“Maybe. I remember when she first went away. A reporter got to her, interviewed her in the facility for a tabloid.”
“While she had dementia?”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Yeah.”
Her lips twisted in disgust. “Stories like these make me want to bring back flogging. The man should have been prosecuted for elder abuse.”
“Woman reporter, and she was prosecuted. The gist of her story was the wife had been gotten out of the way like a heroine in a gothic novel, so Stile could pursue other interests.”
“Other interests being other women.”
“Fortunately for the senator, public opinion was firmly with Team Stile. But I’d be willing to bet he moved his wife after that and made sure to keep quiet about where she was. And I can’t say I’d blame him.”
She couldn’t either. When she thought of it — and she tried not to — she imagined growing old in a hazy mist of good health and long walks along the lake shore. But that sort of old age was for the lucky. For the rest, aging was a series of indignities piled on neglect. Which was why she tried not to think about it.
“What the hell was her name?” He snapped his fingers. “Hallie.”
“The reporter?”
“The senator’s wife.”
“I’ll find out where she is,” Riga said.
“Tell me what you learn.”
“Deal. And that blue Prius—”
“I’ll let you know when we find the owners.”
“Thanks.”
“Riga. Keep the faith.”
“Right on.” She pumped her fist in the air, unenthusiastic, and left the station. Outside she stopped, stared at the crowded lot, remembered she had no car. She returned inside.
The sheriff leaned against the front desk, grinning. “Forget your ride?”
Officer McAdam hurried through the low door, straightening his hat on his head. Curls of brown hair skimmed its wide rim.
The sheriff jerked his chin toward the officer. “McAdam will take you. He knows the way.”
In the car, Riga and the sergeant made desultory small talk. The adrenaline from her run-in with Gold Watch had faded, and she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. She asked McAdam to drop her at the gate, and she walked down the long, looping drive. The house felt vacant, its dormer windows blank eyes, seeing and revealing nothing.
Letting herself inside, she stopped in the kitchen and put a bagel in the toaster, called Donovan.
“Riga, we’re fine,” he answered.
“You’re not afraid I’m panicking?” She opened the refrigerator and took out a tub of sundried tomato schmear, scanned the shelves. She grabbed a bottle of orange juice. “I’m calling because we’re out of… milk.”
“I’ll buy a carton. How did it go with the sketch artist?”
“Interesting. He seems to have encountered a monster like our killer before, in Africa.”
“That can’t be coincidence. Do you think someone sent him?”
“I wondered the same thing, but he didn’t give anything away.” Had Mrs. Norton’s “police” sent her a helper?
“What did the sketch artist tell you?”
“He called the man he encountered a sorcerer.” She poured the orange juice into a tall glass.
“Not a necromancer?”
“No, but it could mean the same thing within the African context. I’ll ask…” She realized Brigitte was gone too, no doubt at the penthouse with Pen. “I’ll hit the books. How’s Pen doing?”
“I haven’t had a chance to check since we arrived at the casino. Do you want to talk—”
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m sure they’re all fine, and no one seemed to follow me back from the police station.”
“The twins are safe. How are you?”
“Sheriff King told me what you did for Eric Patterson.” She touched a photo on the refrigerator door — Donovan holding a twin in each arm and smiling on the lake shore.
“The kid may have saved your life, a stranger’s life. He deserves better than a burial by the State of Nevada.”
“I agree. Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll see you when you get home.”
“I love you. See you tonight.”
They hung up.
The bagel popped, and she spread it with the pink-flecked cream cheese. She carried her lunch upstairs and into her bedroom. Pressing the latch that swung the bookcase open, she walked into her secret library. She set the plate and glass on her desk, dropped her satchel to the wood floor.
A grouping of pines blocked the window view, and Riga found herself eye-to-eye with a stellar jay. It shrieked, a scolding call, and flew off, setting the branch swinging.
Snapping open the laptop on the desk, she booted it up, took a bite of the bagel, searched the web.
There was a wealth of online articles about Senator Stile. His stance on the farm standoff figured prominently in recent news accounts, and the situation between the protesters and law enforcement was tense. Rusty-witted reporters called him “Senator Style,” because of his tanned good looks and expensive suits. He’d been active in social causes and had a special interest in domestic terrorism targeting law enforcement. While in elected office, the senator’s net worth had grown from a few hundred thousand to millions. Riga quirked a brow. Nothing mysterious there — the man was an earmark king. Pundits thought he had a good shot at the presidential nomination. The words blurred on the screen, and she rubbed her eyes.
She found the story about the reporter harassing the senator's wife, but not the original story by the reporter. The original wasn’t in the tabloid’s online archives. There’d been a lawsuit. Perhaps the tabloid had been forced to take the story down. But nothing ever died on the Internet. There should be traces of it elsewhere. And while it was all interesting background, what did it have to do with the senator’s Aide, Connor Tanhauser?
Her eyelids drooped. She shook her head, reached for the bagel, discovered a plate scattered with crumbs.
Another hour of searching, and she had a rough outline of Tanhauser’s life. Born in Los Angeles in 1967. He graduated Cum Laude from UCLA and went directly into politics, working his way up from local campaigns to Senator’s Aide. There was almost too much information on the man’s political life.
But there was nothing more scandalous in his personal life than a divorce, five years ago. The divorce had been uncontested, and the couple appeared to have parted amicably. Still, the ex-wife, Gerrie, might have useful information and was worth following up on. If Tanhauser had an interest in the occult five years ago, his ex-wife might know.
More searching. Riga turned up five possible Gerrie Tanhausers.
She rolled a pen between her fingers. The solstice was days away. Riga needed help, speed.
Yawning, she picked up her phone and called a newspaper editor from California.
“Riga, what have you got for me?” Dora asked in her smoker’s sandpaper voice.
“Maybe nothing, maybe something,” Riga said. “I’m researching Connor Tanhauser, aide to…” Her brain blanked.
“Senator Stile? If you’re bringing me a presidential candidate scandal, I might finally mail your baby shower gift.”
“There’s almost too much information on them both.”
“And most of it revoltingly glowing. The press loves Stile, one of America’s few attractive politicians.”
“I need the material the press isn’t reporting.”
“And so you came to a newspaper editor? Am I the only one who sees the irony?”
“You’ve got access to sources I don’t. But my real focus is Tanhauser.”
Dora coughed. “If you think he’s dirty, you’re right.”
Riga leaned forward in her chair. “Really? Spill.”
“What’s to spill? He works for a successful politician. Of course he’s a crook. What do you expect?”
Riga snorted. “Cynic.”
“Newspaper editor.”
Riga swayed, rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t think Tanhauser’s your average senator’s aide.”
“You don’t think? What have you got?”
I saw him kill a store clerk. “He may have a past history of violence.”
“May have because…”
“I’ve got nothing printable.”
“You got anything off the record?”
“Not yet,” Riga said.
“What exactly do you think you’ll find? Dust ups with reporters? Beating his wife? You realize if I do find a juicy scandal, I’m going to run with it.”
“That doesn’t bother me.”
Dora exhaled, slow and throaty, and Riga imagined a cloud of smoke wreathing the gray-haired editor’s head. “You haven’t sent me on a wild-goose chase yet. You’re on.” She hung up.
Riga grinned. No how-are-the-kids small talk from Dora. If the editor couldn’t print it, she wasn’t interested.
She turned her attention to the Sunset Towers. It had all four- and five-star ratings on the federal database. If there was an unusually large body count at the facility, the feds hadn’t picked up on it.
Pensive, she rubbed her thumb against the wrong end of a felt-tip pen. She swore, rubbed her thumb on her palm, smearing the blue ink.
The facilities manager, Arwood Wilde, had complained about being short-staffed, and Riga checked the job boards. Judging by the frequent postings, there seemed to be high turnover at the Towers. But it was a tough job, as the sheriff had pointed out. What was normal employment in long-term care?
A search for Wilde, the administrator, Morgan Verdun, and the dementia unit’s head nurse, Kayley Jalonik, turned up nothing unusual. Morgan was the newest among them at the Towers, having taken the position eight months ago. She’d been at her last facility for three years, and the one before that, five.
Riga noted the names of the facilities, and added them to her file on the administrator. Both Verdun and the facilities manager had posted resumes on a job networking site. Arwood Wilde had done more bouncing from job to job, not staying more than two to three years in one place.
She typed in the dementia nurse’s name. Incorrectly. Cursing, she retyped it.
Kayley Jalonik had been at Sunset for nearly ten years.
“Dedication or desperation?” Riga asked the computer. If the woman had worked anywhere else before, Riga couldn’t find it.
Making a noise of disgust, she flicked the pen. It flew end over end and struck the window, clattering to the desk. Limbs heavy, she slumped in her chair.
What she needed was to get into the employee files, which would be… Closing her eyes, she thought back to her tour of the facility. Her eyes snapped open. They’d be in Verdun’s office, most likely on her computer.
She needed a nap.
And she needed a hacker.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Something banged on the window, and Riga jerked upright. The empty glass rolled across the desk, and she grabbed for it, knocking it with her fingertips. It crashed to the wooden floor of her secret library.
The jay perched on the sill and chirped, cocked its head. It rapped the window with its beak.
“That’s not going to get you anywhere,” Riga said.
“Neither will that computer,” the bird said. “You call that detecting?”
Riga slammed the laptop shut. “I’m dreaming.”
“No kidding, dollface,” a man said behind her.
She swiveled her chair and faced Vinnie, her guardian annoyance. He wore his sailor’s whites. “Funny,” she said. “You seem to identify with your military service, but I get the impression it wasn’t exactly the best of times.”
He slouched against a bookcase. “It was war, the best and worst of times. Oh, hey. I’m quoting Dickens!”
“And here I thought you were more a daytime TV sort of guy.” And then the memory of her earlier dream flooded back. Heat flushed through her veins. “You bastard! Look what you’ve done!”
“Huh?”
“You knew what was behind that rest home case and didn’t tell me. Now three people are dead.”
He raised one shoulder, dropped it. “I tried to tell you.”
But she hadn’t remembered his warning. Why? As a magician, she’d been trained to remember her dreams. The dreamscape was a magician’s essential workspace. And yet information this important had slipped from her mind like sand on a storm-tossed beach. She drummed her fingers on the desk. If she’d remembered, she might have taken the gun, might have ended it before—
“They would have died anyway,” the ghost said. “Eventually.”
“Everyone will die eventually.” Her voice bled sarcasm. “That’s not the point. These people died before their time, and if I’d known what I was dealing with, maybe I could have stopped it.”
“What do you want? Death is the truth. This vale of tears is just a testing ground. Oh, right, that’s too deep for you.”
“Not helpful,” she ground out.
“All right then, here’s a clue. For once, that dizzy gargoyle of yours is right.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
“She’s not mine anymore.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t seem too surprised.”
“The wheel turns, doll.”
“So what is Tanhauser?”
“You already know the answer,” he said. “Don’t waste my time with softball questions.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Then tell me what you came to tell me.”
He held up a thumb, as if hitching a ride. “Question A: Why is your brain like a sieve?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Vinnie. Could it possibly be because I’m exhausted?”
“It’s a serious question.” He stuck out his index finger. “Question B: Why aren’t you asking the right questions?”
“Vinnie! Three people are dead, and you’re playing mystic oracle?”
He shook his head. “Those murders weren’t your fault, kiddo. Move on. Question C: What’s happened to Pen?”
She stilled. Pen? Her adrenaline spiked. She had to wake up, wake up, WAKE UP.
Riga jerked awake, and a Navajo-patterned throw pillow slipped from the living room couch to the floor.
Donovan stood over her, grinning, a t
win in each arm. “You look so innocent asleep.”
Groggy, she struggled to her feet, sliding off the leather cushion. “Where’s Pen?” The warmth drained from her face.
“Upstairs, I think. We just got home. What—”
But she was running, barefoot, across the living room, taking the carpeted stairs two at a time. She skidded to a halt in front of Pen’s open door.
Her niece stood on her hands, her back to the door, her loose, knit slacks bunching around her calves. The stone gargoyle perched on top of her upturned feet.
Brigitte weighed well over a hundred pounds, and Pen’s arms weren’t even shaking.
Riga turned away, gathering her thoughts. They fled like startled birds. What had happened to Pen? For years she’d been into yoga, but when had her niece become this strong?
Relaxing her vision, Riga let her senses expand.
Pen’s aura blazed like the sun, pure gold, blinding. Power flowed from her in a steady wave. What had happened to Pen?
Riga stepped back, shaken.
The gargoyle’s head slowly rotated, one hundred and eighty degrees. Unblinking, Brigitte stared at Riga over her stone-feathered back.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I’m a straight arrow.” The phone squawked in her hand. “I’m clean as the driven snow. I don’t do that stuff anymore.”
The night was warm and dry, the pine-scented air still. Riga paced the deck, the lake spreading, obsidian, before her. Above, stars blazed, the cosmos a bowl of crystals over the mountains. A waning moon trickled light across the water. “Give me a break, Jeff. Once a hacker, always a hacker.”
Riga rolled her eyes and bounced Emma on one hip. Her daughter fussed, a sleepy, hiccup-y wail that had begun at dinner and was only now beginning to subside.
“That’s a very dark view of life.”
“I prefer to think of it as realistic. So what’s it going to cost me?”
“I don’t hack.”
“If it makes you feel better,” she said, “it’s for a good cause.”
“I don’t care if you’re the Vatican. The answer’s still ‘no.’”
Her voice hardened. “I’m not kidding around, Jeff. This needs to happen. Fast.” The solstice was in four days. “So quit playing around and name your price.”
The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7) Page 10