The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7)

by Kirsten Weiss

“Always,” Riga said. “But I think Donovan and I will be staying in for the night. Are you free tomorrow?” Behind her, her cell phone rang. Twisting, she dug the phone from her satchel, hung over the back of her chair. A number she didn’t recognize flashed on the screen. She took the call. “Riga here.”

  “It’s me,” a voice hissed.

  “Jeff?”

  “Don’t say my name! This isn’t a secure line,” the hacker said. “I just messengered a package to you. Did you get it?”

  She blew out her breath. The package at the gate. “Someone’s at the gate now. Why didn’t you just e-mail it?”

  “Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how insecure the Internet is?” The hacker hung up.

  Donovan walked into the room holding a thin manila envelope. “One USB drive and one terrified messenger.”

  “Jeff sent him. It’s that data on the Towers.” She leaned toward her husband, one arm outstretched, and he handed her the envelope. Finally, she could conduct a real investigation. True, she’d farmed out the task of getting the data, but a good investigator knew when to delegate.

  “I suspected as much,” Donovan said. “The messenger was from a local service and had no clue about the package.”

  “Poor man.”

  “Woman.” His phone buzzed, and he checked the screen, smiled. “Oz is out of surgery. The prognosis is good.”

  “Thank God,” Pen said.

  Riga bowed her head, letting the relief sink in. Her father had grown up on a farm. In their family, pets had to be useful. But Oz meant more than that to her. He was a part of her family.

  Donovan massaged her shoulders. “I told you he’d be all right.”

  “The power of your magical thinking.” Maybe Donovan’s confidence was his super-power. Riga smiled quickly, cleared her throat. And now she had to catch the bastard who’d shot Oz.

  Setting down the jar of applesauce, she drew the red USB drive from the envelope and searched for a computer to plug it into.

  Pen picked up Jack’s jar. “I’ll finish up for you here.”

  “Thanks. He’s on sweet potatoes now. Emma’s switching to applesauce.” Riga hurried upstairs to her bedroom. Pressing the latch on the bookcase, she strode inside her hidden room, switched on the laptop on her desk.

  While the computer hummed to life, she scanned a bookcase and pulled down a thick, leather tome. Its binding was loose, frayed, and she handled it reverently, laying it open on the floor. If she could learn the name of the demon Tanhauser had invoked, she had a chance of gaining control over the monster. But there were too many demons to choose from. She sighed, scraped her fingers through her hair.

  Tanhauser had swam in the political scene for years, so he probably had an oversized ego. She was willing to bet he wouldn’t invoke a minor demon, even if they were easier to control. No, he’d go for a demon that could grant him real juice… Until it stole Tanhauser’s body for good, making him a helpless observer.

  She glanced at her computer. Her home screen lit, a background of fog drifting over the San Francisco Bay.

  Leaving the book open on the floor, she plugged the USB into the computer port and sat, scanning the drive.

  Jeff had done his job. He’d provided her with complete personnel files on the staff at the Towers, right down to their social security numbers. “And this is why I don’t e-file my tax returns,” Riga said beneath her breath. There were too many names for her to comb through. She called a background search firm she’d used in the past and e-mailed the list to them. They’d be able to tell her if there were any hits on the names by tomorrow.

  She searched the Internet, noted phone numbers, called.

  “Winwood Pines,” a woman answered.

  “Hello, will you transfer me to your HR department?” Riga asked.

  “One moment, please.” Strains of music flowed through the receiver.

  Riga leaned back in her chair and swung her feet onto her desk.

  “Hi, this is Patty.”

  “Hello, Patty. My name is Rita Hanworth, and I’m with the Glenwood Arms in Utah. We’re doing a reference check on a recent job applicant, Arwood Wilde. According to his resume, he worked at the Pines as a facilities manager. Could you confirm his dates of employment, job description, and reason for leaving?”

  “Of course, I remember Arwood. As I recall, he was moving to Lake Tahoe to be closer to his mother.”

  “So, he was a model employee?”

  “Well, I don’t think I’ve met a model employee.” She laughed faintly. “One moment. I’m at my computer now… Yes. He left to be closer to his mother, his evaluations were all high, no black marks of any sort.”

  Drat.

  They chatted longer, but Riga was unable to pull out any juicy gossip. Had she lost her touch? She dialed another number.

  “Hi, this is Reena Hammer. We’re doing a reference check on Morgan Verdun…”

  “Oh, how’s she doing?”

  Riga leaned back in her chair. “You remember her?”

  “Of course! I’m sorry I lost touch with her. How is she?”

  “Doing well, it seems. I’m with an executive search firm. We’re hoping to poach her. How did you two become friends?”

  “We were both going through divorces at the same time, so we pity-partied together.”

  “Sounds more like cause for celebration,” Riga said.

  “It was in Morgan’s case. That abusive sonofa… Sorry. I shouldn’t… Do you want to talk to our HR person?”

  “Was Morgan’s husband abusive?”

  “Listen. We were friends, so maybe I’m not the best person for you to talk to for a reference. I’m only going to say good things about her.”

  “I get that,” Riga said. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I’ve just got a friend going through something similar, and I’ve gotta say, I’m not sure how to support her.”

  “Just make time for her. Let her know it’s not her fault. Help her make a safety plan.”

  “Is that how you helped Morgan?” Riga asked.

  “She didn’t want anyone’s help. She’s tough that way.”

  But refusing help wasn’t always a sign of strength. “What’s your position with the facility?”

  “Today, I’m just a lowly nurse answering phones.”

  And this was Riga’s lucky day. Finally. “I understand Morgan left your facility about a year ago?”

  “A little more than that,” she said. “She was with us for five years, and we were sad to see her go, but she wanted a clean break and a Nevada divorce. She had to set up residence there to get it. Morgan really is excellent. Hire her. Should I put you through to HR?”

  “Thanks.”

  She transferred her, and Riga blew out her breath. Maybe Morgan was just what she appeared — a top notch manager.

  The HR administrator came on the line and gave Riga the basics on Morgan’s employment – dates, job title. Riga shook her head. She’d caught a break with the earlier nurse, unguarded and unaware of California employment law.

  Riga called Morgan’s prior employer and got a similar response.

  She scanned the list and made another call.

  “This is Rila Hornsby,” Riga said. “We’re doing a reference check on Kayley Jalonik. According to her resume, she worked at your facility as—”

  “Our policy is only to confirm dates of employment and job description,” the man in the HR department said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Riga tipped her chair back. “Is it?”

  “For liability reasons. Now let me check those dates…” He rattled them off to her.

  “I interviewed Ms. Jalonik myself,” Riga said, “and she seemed impressive.”

  “Well. We hired her.”

  “Were you sorry to see her go?”

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Hornsby.” He hung up.

  Huh. Was potential liability the only reason the man had been reluctant to share?

  She returned to the files. By the time
she’d finished poring over them, the nearby mountain cast its long shadow over Riga’s window. Something rapped at the glass.

  A crow peered in at her, its eyes shiny black stones.

  She twisted her wedding band. Birds had been used to spy on her before. Breath quickening, she extended her aura toward the crow, felt the brush of wings.

  But no magic.

  The bird was just a bird. Her wards held.

  The crow launched itself from the sill and glided to the darkening ground.

  Yawning, Riga stretched, folded the laptop shut. She lay the old book atop it and hoped her background checking firm would come through. Anyone on that list could be Tanhauser’s accomplice, but she sensed Mrs. Norton had been on the right track. The accomplice was most likely Morgan, Kayley, or Arwood.

  Riga glanced out the window. The sky had not yet gone full dark, but stars had sprung into view. It was too late to follow those leads now.

  Assuming Mrs. Norton had been right about the murders, Tanhauser could have used those deaths at the Towers for invoking the demon. Perhaps the ritual had occurred in its basement? His gang seemed to have a fondness for them. If so, there might be signs of which demon he’d invoked.

  Her stomach churned. She had to return to the Towers.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Balancing two bouquets against her hip, Riga elbowed the reception desk’s cracked doorbell. Her gaze flicked to the wall clock. Ten in the morning and it felt like five AM.

  She smothered a yawn, her eyes burning. The twins had been up most of the night. They seemed to have settled down after breakfast, and she hoped they wouldn’t give Pen much trouble. She sniffed the flowers, trying to mask the scent of drying paint fumes and antiseptic rot. The new, murky green walls recalled swamps and decay.

  The frosted glass window slid back. The same, moon-faced blond sat in her swivel chair. “May I help you?”

  “I’ve brought these flowers for Mrs. Norton and her roommate. Nurse Jalonik said I should call her when I arrived. I’m Riga Hayworth.” There was no use being coy with her identity. Whoever her enemies were, they knew where she lived.

  The nurse picked up a phone and pressed three buttons. After a moment, she spoke. “A Miss Hayworth is here with a delivery for Mrs. Norton and her roommate.” Shooting Riga a swift smile, the nurse placed a hand over the phone. “Lovely flowers, by the way.” She removed her hand and spoke into the receiver. “Certainly.” She hung up.

  “Nurse Jalonik will be here shortly. Please, have a seat.” She motioned toward the chairs lined up against one wall.

  Riga slumped in a plastic chair. Tipping her head against the wall, she closed her eyes. Only for a moment. Just…

  The elevator doors clanked open, and Riga sat forward, blinking.

  Nurse Jalonik stepped into the hallway. Spotting Riga, she strode toward her. Her gait was smooth, strong, and Riga imagined long muscles beneath her pale blue cardigan.

  Riga’s grip on the vases tightened. Could the nurse have been yesterday’s intruder? On the video, the intruder had worn baggy clothing, obscuring his or her build. And he’d been moving with a quickness that belied Jalonik’s gray hair and the lines around her eyes. But it was possible.

  Riga rose, adjusting the vases in her arms. Her satchel slipped from her shoulder, bouncing against her thigh.

  “Mrs. Hayworth, how thoughtful of you to bring flowers. They’re lovely.”

  “I thought they might brighten Mrs. Norton’s room. The other bouquet is for her roommate.”

  Jalonik jammed her hands into the pockets of her cardigan, the corners of her lips angling down. “Yes, neither gets many visitors, I’m afraid.”

  “May I take these to them?”

  Jalonik grimaced. “Mrs. Norton is having a bad day. It would be better for her if you didn’t.”

  “A bad day? What’s wrong?”

  “She’s been agitated, aggressive. I’m sorry you came down here and won’t be able to visit. Under other circumstances, she would have appreciated the attention. But once this phase passes, she’ll enjoy your flowers and know that someone is thinking of her.”

  “I understand. May I come back another day?”

  Jalonik’s eyes widened. “Of course! Call in advance next time, and I’ll tell you then if she’s up for guests.”

  Riga should have called in advance today, but she wanted to catch Jalonik off guard. And she had other plans.

  The nurse held out her arms. “May I?”

  “They’re heavier than they look,” Riga said. “Why don’t I walk you to the elevator?” She strode in that direction, and the nurse hurried behind her.

  Jalonik pressed the up button, and Riga handed off the bouquets.

  Riga shifted the satchel to a firmer position over her shoulder. “Does Mrs. Norton become agitated like this often?”

  “No more or less than our other patients on the seventh floor. Dementia is a terrible thing. The confusion frightens them, and then they react in anger.”

  “It’s hard to imagine. She was so lucid at my house.”

  “And that I have a hard time imagining. Not that I don’t believe you. You’ve no reason to lie. But it’s been years since she’s been aware of her surroundings, much less able to hold a conversation.”

  The doors slid open, and the nurse stepped into the elevator. She turned to Riga. “I’m sure Mrs. Norton would want me to thank you for the flowers. They really are beautiful.”

  The doors slid shut.

  Riga stood for a moment, thoughtful. Then she turned and strode to the stairwell.

  No one stopped her. No one paid attention. Good for Riga, bad for the residents if she were someone intent on mischief.

  She ran down the steps to the basement. The stairs dead-ended at a concrete landing and a closed, metal door. She grasped the knob, twisted.

  Locked.

  Steps sounded above, clattering toward her.

  Closing her eyes, she breathed, finding her center. Riga imagined the open space on the other side of the basement door. The elevator would open somewhere nearby, and she visualized facing its closed doors. She pulled in the energies from the above and below, felt them fill her, electrifying. Riga reached for the in-between, and a there-and-not-there force hooked beneath her breastbone.

  The footsteps on the concrete stairs thumped louder, closer.

  Riga lurched forward and opened her eyes. She faced the elevator. Turning, she regarded a long, blue-painted corridor. Overhead, fluorescent lamps flickered. Their unnatural light cast weird shadows across the unfinished, concrete ceiling. Green bins and closed doors lined the hallway.

  The knob to the stairwell access rattled.

  She hurried to the nearest room and grasped its doorknob, turned. It opened easily, and the muscles between her shoulder blades loosened.

  Riga edged inside. Lights pinged on automatically, illuminating metal stretchers and unused medical equipment.

  Behind her, a key scraped in a lock.

  She pulled the door shut, easing its latch closed.

  Heart thumping, she pressed her back against the wall.

  In the hallway, a metal door clanged open, banged shut. Footsteps passed her hiding place, and Riga released her breath.

  She edged the door open and peeked out. Arwood Wilde, the facilities manager, loped down the hall. A lock of his brown, curly hair stuck up from the back of his head.

  There were logical reasons for Wilde to be in the basement. But what an accomplice he’d make for a dark rite. Keys to every room and a million reasons to be wherever he wanted. Riga retreated inside her hidey-hole and waited.

  A clock ticked on the wall. She frowned at it. Why put a clock in the basement? The second hand stopped, moved a tick backwards, paused, recovered its forward motion. Question answered: the clock was broken.

  Odd that someone had hung it on the wall though.

  She watched the clock, listening for Arwood’s footsteps.

  Something gray shifted in the
corner.

  She whipped her head toward the movement.

  A brown, plastic chair stood, lonely against the wall.

  The timepiece ticked on.

  Something rumbled past her room. Elevator doors creaked open, shut.

  The second hand paused, ticked backward once.

  She cracked open the door and peered out. Alone at last.

  Riga stepped into the basement corridor and stared at the long rows of doors. A room-by-room search would take longer than she’d like.

  Finding her center, she closed her eyes, visualized her aura encircling her in a pearlescent bubble. Fingers sprouted from it. Eyes of all colors opened on its outer edge. Breathing deeply, she pushed her aura outward, into the room she’d just left, testing herself.

  She felt exactly what she expected.

  Nodding, she paced the corridor, eyes half closed, using her aura to feel her way into the rooms on one side.

  Nothing.

  At the end of the corridor, she turned and began her slow return trip, feeling with her aura into the empty rooms on the other side of the hall.

  A cold, decadent sweetness whispered against her.

  She shivered and drew away, bumping into an abandoned stretcher. It rattled against the wall.

  Swallowing, she stopped in front of the metal door. B15 was stenciled on it in black. She forced herself to reach out again with her aura, push her senses deeper into the room.

  Death magic coiled around her, repellent, enticing. Heart thundering, she leaned into its cool embrace.

  Shaking her head, she wrenched her aura back, hardening a protective shield around her. This was only the remnants of dark magic. It couldn’t hurt her. But she hesitated, resisting the pull that made her want to plunge through the door even as its cloying scent twisted her gut. Her craving for the dark was genetic. It would always be there, but she didn’t have to give in.

  I’m stronger than this. She grasped the handle and opened the door, striding into the darkness.

  An insect buzzed past her, and she ducked.

  Lights flickered on overhead, illuminating a boiler. Black pipes coated with oil and dirt and spider webs ran from various large pieces of equipment. The pipes snaked up the walls, and she imagined them peeling away, reaching, grasping.