Ciarra made her way along the familiar streets of Acadia the next morning after a fitful night’s sleep despite her father’s wonderful, fulfilling meal. As it turned out, her father was genuine in thinking she needed to know about the death of the stepfather she had never met.
Ciarra walked the city in search of one of the few people she knew who had, at one point, dabbled in Voodoo. Tiesha had a point. She needed to ask a couple of questions to ease her mind and get back on track to solve this case.
Early in the morning before the sun could rise high enough around the city’s buildings made the walk bitter. Maybe the sun would melt the dusting left behind from the night before. It wasn’t often Acadia experienced these cold temperatures. An arctic air front settled over the area last night and it seemed it had no intention of leaving anytime soon. The local news station was predicting a possibility of more snow as a system was moving in off the Gulf Coast.
Her watch read eight a.m., just after the shelters fed the homeless and closed their doors until evening again.
This side of the city was not safe, but then again, nowhere seemed safe in this day and age. Block after block, the alleys in between the various storefronts housed dumpsters overflowing with garbage, and the homeless attempting to keep warm while waiting to get through the day and for the local shelters to open in the evening. Whether it involved curling up in the large cardboard boxes, in between the piles of trash, or a bon fire in a barrel, this is how they lived every day.
Ciarra’s heart went out to them, regardless of their reason for being out in the streets. After all, she had been one of them over twenty-five years ago.
She thought back to the day she’d had enough of the St. Joseph’s Children’s home—where she’d been dumped as a newborn—by the time she hit thirteen. She’d been a rebellious teenager, hating the rules and regulations the nuns enforced with a wooden ruler or kneeling in the corner on dry rice. It had taken Ciarra hours to painfully pick every last grain out of her knees.
That morning, Ciarra had caught one of the haughty righteous nuns with a deliveryman in a compromising position, naked. Ciarra snapped, screaming at them about how the nun could stick the rules right up her exposed ass and ran out of the building, swearing never to return to the dungeon.
Ciarra smiled thinking of the irony as she was at present a parishioner of the same church. Time and maturity changed things. She couldn’t give fault to the very church which took her in and gave her food and shelter. Hell, it could have been much worse. She could have been stuck with someone who abused her, or still living on these miserable streets. Or even worse . . . dead.
Being homeless on the city streets, she’d had her run-ins with the city police. She’d had her share of shoplifting food, peddling, disturbing the peace, etcetera. Minor things, but street life had been hard. She’d dug through restaurant dumpsters during her last days. She’d only had two options. Either join one of the gangs to survive or jump in the Runaway Project van for teens. She’d chosen the latter and changed her life for the better.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted dear Sean the journalist and her pain-in-the-butt brother, zooming in and out between the vehicles parked along the street across the way. She couldn’t resist. “Hey, Sean. Are you slumming again?”
He popped his head up and after being discovered, popped it back down behind an old, multi-colored, rusted-out Camaro.
“Too late. I already saw you, you nasty stalker, you! Is this what you call changing your life around?”
“Come on, sis. One tiny break.” Sean stood up.
“Like your neck?”
Her screaming at the man turned a few heads in her direction. One tall young man approached her from behind. “Ma’am, he bothering you?” He had a deep rich voice.
James looked perplexed but then seemed to shrug it off. “Well, to tell you the truth, he is stalking me. He won’t leave me alone. But I don’t want him hurt. Lord only knows his gram would kill me.”
“I won’t beat him up. How about I escort you along your way and make sure he leaves?”
The two turned toward where Sean had been and realized he had left. Ciarra laughed and patted the man on the back. “Thanks, James.”
“No problem, Detective. Who was that?”
“Just my brother. Are you staying out of trouble?”
“Yes, ma’am. I got myself a job working part time at the Save More bagging groceries and carrying them out for the customers.” He smiled, obviously very proud of having a job.
Ciarra had a soft spot for some. James in particular as he had helped her out of a sticky spot on a couple of occasions. She had put a whisper into the owner’s ear over at Save More.
“Have you seen Crystal around?”
James pointed down the alleyway. “She’s down there, messed up on the drugs again.”
Just perfect.
She moved with caution down the alley past a couple of old men who were boozing it up and arguing in the corner of one of the buildings. A card game was at hand. By the sounds of it, someone didn’t like to lose. How either could read their own cards as much as the pair slurred their words, she hadn’t a clue.
“Crystal?”
The tiny woman huddled near a dumpster on her knees rocking back and forth. Her once luscious strawberry blond hair was now black and spiked. The former model had been reduced to appearing twice her actual age. Pox spots covered her cheeks and the skin around her eyes and mouth sagged. She looked up at Ciarra and blinked her eyes a couple of times.
“It’s me, Ciarra. Detective P.”
The confused wrinkling of her face turned smooth. Her rocking stopped. “Hey.”
She crouched down near her. “Hey, are you doing okay?”
“Today’s not one of my good days.” Her eyes wandered all over, scattered.
“I’ll make this quick and then I’ll have James get you out of here. How much do you know about Voodoo?”
Crystal shrugged her shoulders as she began to rock again, not looking up at Ciarra. “Depends on why you are asking.”
“Do you know if human bones are used in Voodoo and what for?”
Crystal’s eyes found her face. “Human bones? I never once used human bones. Never. Don’t be accusing me of that!” She swatted at Ciarra’s hand reaching out to her.
“I’m not accusing you of anything, hun. I’m only asking if you know.”
Crystal continued the rhythmic rocking on her knees, her hands shaking. “Using human bones is bad mojo. Very bad.”
“What are they used for?”
Crystal’s eyes darted from Ciarra’s, up the alley, back to Ciarra, down the alley, and back to Ciarra again. In a much lower tone, an almost whisper, she answered, “Curses, a revenge that only ends in death. It’s never good.”
Ciarra jumped from the vibration of her cell phone. She held up a hand to Crystal and moved down the alley. “Detective Pacelli.”
Her partner’s hoarse voice filled her ear. “It’s me. Do you remember several months ago when there was an accident that killed a young boy, and the mother went off the wall outside of the Howard Parish courthouse because they weren’t going to prosecute the taxi driver for running the kid over?”
“Vaguely. Wait a minute. Wasn’t that the woman who said something about Karmic payback?” Ciarra had heard about it from the officers involved in the case.
“Yes. Judge Reynolds happened to be the presiding judge. Take a guess who the solicitor was?”
Shit. “Baker. You have the couple’s names?”
“Of course. The file’s sitting right in front of my face. Eduardo and Kiyana Montreuil. The son’s name was Liam.”
Liam. What a beautiful name. It saddened Ciarra the little boy lost his life, and the parents suffered from his passing. “Start digging up some info on them, especially anything to do with Voodoo or black magic.” But it had been an accident after all. Jesus, what did this woman do?
“Voodoo? Are you serious?”
&nb
sp; Rick Simmons didn’t believe in witchcraft, Voodoo, Christianity, or any other practiced religion, being an out-and-out Atheist. If he didn’t physically see it, it didn’t exist. It was unfortunate because Rick would have a hard time solving cases out here on the street without an open mind. He was black and white. There was no gray area. Ciarra’s mind had always stayed open to the possibilities, which in turn helped her become a successful detective. “Yes. Let me know what turns up.” As she was about to hang up the phone, she had a disturbing thought. “Rick, who was the ER doctor that night?”
“Hold on. Let me see . . . ah, here it is. Interesting.”
“Who?”
“Doctor Trent Moore.”
Double shit.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Trent yelled into the phone as he made his way through the park. “Do you realize how much fucking money that is? Do you?”
“Doctor, you need to—”
Trent cut his financial advisor off. “Stop.” He counted to three. Swearing wouldn’t turn back the clock or bring back his money. “You are fired. I will find someone else to handle the rest of my accounts. Do not touch them anymore. My accountant will be picking up my files and such.” Trent closed the phone with more force than necessary. With the way his luck was working, he was surprised it didn’t break.
One hundred grand thrown out the door because the advisor thought the stock would pick back up again before the end of closing. Dim wit!
Today seemed to be no doubt turning into another bad day like yesterday. That had been a good chunk of money, and it royally pissed him off. He looked down at his watch. Eight o’clock. He should go back home and stay there, but couldn’t. He had to get to the ER. He was already late for the meeting.
Damn farm.
Walking along the sidewalk, he avoided the ice patches. Knowing how his day was going, he’d slip and crack his skull open. Joggers were out despite the extreme, frigid temperature. A couple walked their sweater-wrapped dog. The tiny Chihuahua did not want to be out in the cold, whimpering as they passed by.
There were no other people milling about as he rounded the corner near a long row of bushes. An icy chill ran up his spine causing the hair on his neck to stand up. Trent stopped in his tracks and turned around. No one behind him. He scanned the bush line. Nothing. “Knock it off you quack,” he spoke aloud.
He continued through the west end of the park and within a moment, came out across from the hospital. He looked both ways before stepping off the sidewalk.
First the left foot, then the right. He saw the vehicle hurling at him, but he couldn’t move. He stood frozen staring at the vehicle bearing down on him.
All of a sudden, his face slammed into the cement of the sidewalk. The hit his head took to the ground dazed him for mere seconds. Then, he rolled his attacker off of him and looked into his eyes. Strike that, hers. Those deep brown eyes from yesterday.
“So, doc, how has your luck been going today?” Ciarra’s voice spilled out with sarcasm.
The hit on the head caused buzzing in Trent’s ears, and everything blurred for mere seconds. Ciarra’s vague impression stood in front of him. Had she just said something? The car horn in the distance drowned out the temporary buzz. Ciarra’s face came back into focus.
“Did you happen to see the driver?” Ciarra repeated as she brushed the snow from the overnight’s light dusting off her jeans.
He’d almost been road kill. Temporarily losing his sight and the buzzing alarmed him at first. But when his vision returned, he caught sight of the detective brushing her hands against her ass. The sexy movement caused him to temporarily forget the throbbing pain for a second or so.
You’re a nut. You’re losing it. Maybe he was damn thankful for getting his vision back. Or maybe he handled shock in a different way. He wouldn’t have a clue seeing as how he had never been almost mowed down by a vehicle before. “Um . . . no. I was being shoved face first into the ground by you.”
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. She held out her hand and helped him to his feet.
“Thanks by the way. What did you mean about my luck?”
Ciarra didn’t answer right away. Turning to a couple racing up behind them, she asked, “Did you see the driver?”
The man answered through heavy breathing, “No. But the truck’s a black Dodge Ram. Are you both all right?”
“Yes.” Ciarra pulled out her ID and badge. “Didn’t happen to see the license plate?”
“No, ma’am. Sorry. Do you need a statement from us?”
“Yes. Give me just a moment.”
She walked away from the couple, waved her hand for him to follow. “What’s your religion, Doctor Moore?”
“Call me Trent. I don’t really have any one in particular.”
“We’ll stick with the formalities. What do you remember of a Haitian boy who’d been hit by a taxi driver in front of Le Femme’s several months ago?” She removed her blue and white knitted hat and tugged at the hair band.
Why did he have this crazy interest in the detective? She stood too tall for his taste, at five foot seven. Boy, what an exotic woman. Her ebony long hair and those warm brown eyes . . . He had to focus back on the question. “Refresh my mind. Was it in the newspapers?”
“Don’t you remember your own patients?”
Now, there was a reason not to like her. Sarcasm. “Of course I do.”
She looked beyond him, then back into his eyes. “Look, I’m not trying to be a hard ass. I need to know. He was five. He let go of his momma’s hand and stepped off the sidewalk into oncoming traffic.”
“Haitian?” Trent searched his memory. Flashes of the young boy battered his mind. Those lifeless brown eyes. The same ones in which haunted his dreams for weeks afterward. Still did from time to time. “Yes, I remember.”
“When the parents were in the ER, did they pray or say any chants or anything?”
That night had been a rush of activity. Two car accidents, a broken ankle, a couple of kids vomiting, a stabbing, and three food poisonings. “No, I don’t . . . actually, the father crossed himself. The mother gave me some evil glares when I spoke to her. She muttered something incoherent under her breath. I assume she was either praying or swearing.”
She reached out almost touching the side of his cheek, but yanked her hand away. She took a step back. “You should clean that cut. I’m sorry for slamming you into the concrete.” Her eyes had softened.
“Are you kidding? You saved my hide.” She stared at the hand he held out. The second she touched it, needlelike sparks rode from his fingertips to his shoulder. Her hand was cool to the touch, yet smooth and silky. Raising it to his lips, he kissed the top. “Thank you.”
The detective’s eyes fixed upon his hand causing his heart to pick up the pace, slamming against his ribcage.
She pulled her hand back and stared at the ground briefly. “You’re welcome.” When she glanced back up, the softness disappeared. The hard detective had returned.
Trent had no doubt she was attracted to him. “I—”
“Let’s get on with business. This may sound crazy, but it seems you’ve been cursed.”
Another reason to dislike her. She sounded like a lunatic. “Cursed?” He let out a throaty laugh. “There is no such thing.”
She didn’t seem to find him amusing. “Oh, I assure you there is, Doctor Moore.”
Trent spotted Detective Simmons barreling down the sidewalk toward them appearing a little flushed and anxious. Trent pointed past her. “He doesn’t look too well.”
She spun around. “Rick, you okay?”
Rick was huffing and puffing, attempting to catch his breath. “The judge . . . his autopsy’s . . . complete.” He bent over, placing his hands on his knees.
Ciarra placed a hand on her fellow detective’s shoulder. “Rick, catch your breath. You really need to quit smoking.”
“And . . . if I do, you . . . will hate being around me. Mark my words.”“ He sucked in a
couple more gulps of air.
Now Trent knew what had nagged at him yesterday when she mentioned the judge and the solicitor. He’d read where it had been reported in Acadia News about the judge’s death. He was well known, after all.
“The same judge you were asking me about yesterday? He’s the one that is dead?”
Simmons got his breathing under control and replied, “The one and the same. He was the one Solicitor Baker convinced to give a lighter sentence to the taxi driver who had run over the Haitian kid. Judge Reynolds.”
Detective Pacelli turned to Trent with a cold hard stare. He couldn’t imagine what caused her to look at him in such a way. It certainly didn’t take him long to find out.
She twisted the watch wrapped around her wrist and stated, “I told you. Cursed.”
Ciarra had stayed with him for a little over an hour ensuring he was okay and took his statement. She left with an unexplainable uneasiness which wouldn’t go away. What was with this doctor who caused her heart to race and made her feel like a little school girl with her first crush? She didn’t want to leave him alone, fearing something horrible would happen to him.
She seemed to have an emotional tie to Dr. Moore and it scared the hell out of her. She needed distance to clear her head and concentrate on the case. She went to Acadia’s courthouse in search of the records on little Liam’s death. Rick had gone to the coroner’s office to pick up Judge Reynolds’ autopsy report. She and Rick met back up at the station.
“What do you have?” She held her hand out to her partner.
Rick handed her the large manila envelope. “Read. It says undetermined pending testing. Bergeron told me he sent out for toxicology, but felt he was wasting his time. He thinks everything points to natural causes.”
Deadly Curses Page 4