He rubbed his chin. “And she’s completely unaware of what’s going on around her?”
“It seems so.”
“So how do we manage it?”
“June’s ghost is manifesting, so at some level, she’s trying to resolve her issues. But with a residual haunting, the ghost can’t get beyond reenacting that scene. Something must be blocking her from moving forward. We need to find out what it is.”
“I’ll get her personnel file. That may give us a starting place.” He stepped closer, and put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look up to meet his eyes. “Now, what do you want to know about the money laundering charges?”
“I heard you and Reuben arguing. What’s going on with you two?”
“Reuben wants me to step down. He’s right. I need to. My connection to the casinos is killing business.”
“But how can you? It’s a privately held company, and you’re the majority owner.”
“I’m not ready to sell my shares yet, but I’ll hand over the management to Reuben until this is resolved, one way or another.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who would you sell your shares to? Reuben?”
“I doubt he could afford them all, but I’d like to keep it in the family.”
“Would he be able to take majority ownership?”
He sighed. “I don’t know. Why?”
“You must have thought about who in the casino could have set you up, who was positioned to do this.”
“Not Reuben. He’s family.”
“And families can get ugly over money,” she said, echoing his words.
He turned from her, and walked to the windows looking over the mountains, frosted with snow. “Not Reuben. He’s more of a brother than a cousin. After our parents died, the state split us up into different foster homes. As soon as I was old enough, I tracked him and his sisters down, pulled them out. Reuben and I have been like brothers ever since... Which is probably why we want to kill each other half the time. We argue the way we can’t with anyone else. Do you understand?”
Riga nodded. She and Rebecca had had some knockdown, drag out screaming matches, dishing out cruelties they’d never speak to a stranger. And at the end of the day, they were still sisters. It was a rotten way of treating family, she reflected, but it was a model she understood.
“We rebuilt our family around these casinos,” he said, still looking out the window. “Reuben wouldn’t endanger them.”
“Can he shoot?”
“We all can.”
Her breath hitched. “All?”
“Our annual company retreat is at a ranch in Montana. We shoot there. The ranch provides the weapons. The rancher’s an ex-military sniper. We’ve all gotten pretty good, even Isabelle, especially Isabelle. Women make better shooters.”
“And no one thought training your employees to kill was a bad idea?”
“We were shooting paper and bottles of water. Lots of people hunt around here. You shoot.” He turned to her, his head lowered. “I’m surprised by your attitude.”
“This is the attitude of someone whose field of suspects just widened. Did you train with sniper rifles?”
“Like I said, the instructor was an ex-sniper. None of us are at his level, but from a middling distance...”
“How middling?”
“Most of us were hitting at three or four hundred yards by the time we were done.”
Her hands carved through her hair. Was she the only person at the casino who wasn’t a trained killer? “Damn. What about Finn? As chief financial officer, he’d be well placed to engineer this.”
“Yes. He’s smart, ambitious, level-headed.”
“How long has he been working here, at the lake? I would have thought your CFO would stay with your Vegas operations. It’s a bigger city, with more business there.”
He shrugged, and Riga tried not to get distracted by the ripples of muscle along his chest.
“Candace hates Vegas,” he said. “They moved here two years ago.”
“What’s his story?”
He leaned one hip against the polished wood desk, legs crossed. “Harvard MBA. He met Candace when they were studying for their CPA licenses. She asked me to give him a job in our finance department. I resisted, but we had an opening, and our CFO at the time wanted him. Finn became his protégé, and moved up fast. When the CFO retired, it was natural he take the job.”
“When did that happen?”
“Three years ago, before they moved here.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Back east. Boston, I think. Do you want his personnel file, too?”
“Yes, as well as everyone else in accounting and teller operations. And Isabelle’s,” she added.
“You won’t need it. She’s been with me over a decade. I can tell you everything you need to know there.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
A corner of his mouth crooked upward. “That was badly worded.”
He walked to her, ran a hand through her hair, twined it around his broad fingers.
“I’m not worried about it,” she said. He’d never given her reason to be jealous, and she’d never sensed anything other than professional in his relationship with Isabelle. “Tell me about her.”
The firelight flickered on Donovan’s skin, a play of shadows and golden light.
“She grew up rough. We had that in common, after my parents’ deaths, at least. Somehow, she managed to climb out of the muck, put herself through school. When I met her, she’d just quit her job as executive assistant for another casino owner – Joe Summers. You’ve met him.”
Riga nodded, remembering. Summers was big, blustery, and successful. She’d liked him for all those reasons. “Why did she quit?”
“Personal reasons, she told me. Joe gave her a sterling reference, and I never had any reason to dig deeper.”
“But?”
“But I always wondered if there might have been something between those two. She’s beautiful, and he has an eye for good looking women.”
Her violet eyes crinkled in a smile. “Unlike you.”
He pulled her close. “Unlike me, who has an eye for only one good looking woman.”
“Well played.”
He smiled modestly.
“But back to Isabelle,” she said.
“She’s completely reliable. If I need something done, I never have to worry about it.”
“What about friends? Relationships?” She shivered, drawing the blanket tighter around her, the fire no longer warming.
The skin on Donovan’s arm twitched, raising gooseflesh. “She keeps her private life private – something else I like about her.”
Something squeaked. Metallic. Dry. Rusty.
She whipped her head around, searching for the source of the sound, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. Ankou and his damned creepy kids were here.
She didn’t want to see them. She liked even less the thought that they were here, and she couldn’t see them. “Donovan—”
“Look out!” Donovan yanked her away from the fireplace with one arm, his other sweeping in an upward arc.
Something bashed down upon him, clattered to the stone floor.
He pulled her close. “Dammit!”
She gasped, and clutched at his shoulders, the blanket slipping from her own. Blood seeped from a long gash on his triceps. An antique ski lay upon the hearth, the metal hook that had held it in place now dangling loosely from the overmantel. As she watched, its mate slid out of its metal fastening, followed its descent to the floor with a crash.
“That was unexpected,” she said, uneasy. “Where’s your first aid kit?”
“I don’t know.” He grabbed his arm, turning the muscles and flesh toward him to peer at the wound. “The bathrooms, I guess.”
“Never mind, I’ve got one in my bag.” Riga walked to her satchel, abandoned on the floor beside the leather couch. The squeak had been natural – the sound of the hook pulling f
rom the wall, but she hadn’t imagined the abnormal chill. Donovan had reacted to it as well.
He scowled at the remaining skis upon the wall. “You could have been hurt.”
“You were hurt,” she said. Had it just been a coincidence, or had the skis been given a supernatural push? It was a weak sort of attack though, meant to send a message, rather than actually do harm.
She knelt and rummaged through her bag, pulling out a slim metal tin with a red cross on it. Riga glanced up. He remained staring at the wall, arms akimbo.
She shook her head and put the first aid kit aside, slipped her arms into her blouse, discarded upon the rug.
He turned swiftly. “Now don’t do that.”
She tossed his pants to him and he caught them easily with one hand. “You’re too distracting when you’re naked,” she said.
“Am I?” He grinned.
She opened her first aid kit. Riga cocked a finger. “Come here, and take your medicine.”
“Kinky.”
She bit back a smile, and tipped a plastic bottle of alcohol onto a cotton ball. “Have you noticed anything different about the casino since you’ve returned?” She looked up at him.
He winced when she applied the antiseptic to his arm. “There aren’t any customers.”
“Aside from that.”
“No. Why? What have you sensed?”
“A change in the atmosphere. It’s gotten heavier, feels… disturbed.”
“Do you feel that here, in the penthouse?”
“No.” Her forehead wrinkled. “I’ve felt it in the service corridors, and the casino itself, and to a lesser extent, in the offices. But not here. And the ghosts are acting strangely. Have you seen Gwenn since you returned?” She slapped a bandage on his arm.
He examined it, then dropped his arm to his side. “Our resident ghost? No. And where’s Brigitte, by the way?”
Riga paused in her ministrations. “You mean, she’s not in the penthouse?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
She frowned. “That’s strange. I asked her to stay here and watch—”
“Watch?”
“The penthouse has been a gathering place for Isabelle, Reuben, and Finn. I asked her to keep watch for anything unusual.”
“To spy on my friends and family.”
She felt her cheeks heat. When he put it that way, it sounded like a bad thing. Riga shrugged. “She remembers conversations verbatim, even if she does relate them with smug commentary. It’s helpful. Everyone lies.”
Past him, out the window, the snow on the mountains shone hard and cold in the sunlight. “Brigitte seemed eager to start the job,” she fretted. “I’m surprised she’s not here.”
The gargoyle didn’t have to do what Riga asked, and she’d never shied from taking initiative. Her absence was explainable.
But where was she?
She sighed. “The feelings of your family and friends matter a lot less to me than your freedom. Are you angry?”
“I’m disturbed.” But his mouth curved upward. “And a little aroused.”
Riga snorted with laughter. “Now I’m disturbed.”
“In a good way, I hope.”
“When you’re near? Always.”
He curved an arm around her waist.
Chapter 20
Sex, Riga reflected, was not a detective’s friend. She’d gotten a lot more accomplished as an investigator when she wasn’t involved with anyone, when family and acquaintances were kept on the other end of an infrequent phone call. On the other hand, she hadn’t had much of a life either – just hapkido classes with old Mr. Chen, and the occasional glass of wine with her neighbor. It had been enough for her at the time.
But it wasn’t any more.
Donovan traced the curve of her spine with his hand. They lay tangled upon the couch again, Donovan breathing gently against her neck.
The study had grown dark, and Riga rolled off the couch, walked to the fireplace. She grabbed a log from the basket and threw it on. Flames shot hungrily upwards, their orange light flickering weirdly across her legs.
“Hand me my watch, will you?” Donovan stretched his arm toward the coffee table, just out of his reach.
Riga tsked. “Lazybones.” But she strolled to the table and picked up the watch.
She glanced at it, heavy and glittering in her palm. “Donovan, we have to move or we’ll miss June’s ghost... Assuming she shows up tonight.”
He sprang from the couch, grabbed his clothing from the floor. He jammed one leg into his slacks. “How much time do we have?”
“Twenty minutes, maybe less.” She slipped into her panties and bra. “I’m not sure at what point in June’s routine I walked in on her.”
He grimaced, tucked his shirt into his pants. “I lost track of time.”
She hastily buttoned her blouse, realized one side hung longer than the other, and re-buttoned it.
Donovan slid his feet into his black cowboy boots, and took his bone handled knife from the table, slipped it into the sheaf on his belt. He swept his tailored jacket from the floor. In spite of its recent rough handling, it was wrinkle free.
You really did get what you paid for, she thought, rueful.
They took the penthouse elevator to the finance department. The doors slid open, revealing a silent hallway.
“Where is she,” he asked.
“Cafeteria.” She pointed. “On the left.”
He stepped into the corridor, and Riga followed, the thick vine-covered carpet smothering the sound of their footsteps.
Riga’s pocket buzzed. She fumbled for her cell phone, drew it out. “Hello?”
“Riga? It’s Dora,” the newspaper editor rasped. “What are you doing?”
“Chasing a ghost.”
“I know the feeling. Your friend Elizabeth, a.k.a. Lizzy Jackson may as well not exist. I’ve got bupkis on her, which is really pissing me off. Derek seems a little hinky. Had a nasty dispute with a business partner two years back. It went to court, but the case was dropped when his partner died. Car accident.”
Riga wondered if it was really an accident. “Do you know which police department handled it?”
“San Mateo County Sheriff.” Dora gave her the date and street location of the accident.
“Thanks.” Riga knew some guys there, would follow up on it, talk to the officer who’d filed the report. “What was the dispute over?”
“His partner, Elton Jennings, accused Derek of keeping a second set of books, hiding losses from him. Whatever the case, the restaurant ended up going under after Jennings died. Now this Martin fellow... You sure he’s not involved in the Mosse case?”
Riga stopped in her tracks.
Donovan turned to her, curious.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because he’s got connections to terrorism – specifically, eco-terrorism.” The editor took a slow drag on a cigarette. “His little brother was involved with some nasty folks – arson, tree spiking—”
“Tree spiking? What’s that?”
“Sticking a metal nail or spike into a tree where a logger might cut. It snaps the saw, can take a logger’s leg off or worse.” Dora’s voice turned caustic. “But hey, it’s all for a good cause. Anyway, Martin’s little brother’s on the run. He’s not exactly ten most wanted, but he’s on the FBI’s list. Name is Tobin, Tobin Billings.”
“Anything else?”
“Anything...?” Dora sputtered. “What the hell more do you want?”
“Elizabeth.”
“I’m working on it,” Dora said irately.
“The terrorism connection is interesting though. Thanks.” Interesting, but Riga didn’t believe in guilt by association.
“What terrorism connection?” Donovan leaned in to the phone. “Who is it?”
“It’s Dora,” she whispered, “the newspaper editor you met last October.”
“Is that Donovan Mosse?” Dora asked. “You’re with him? He didn’t give anyone an interview
yet, did he?”
Donovan held out his hand. “Here, let me talk to her.”
Riga handed over the phone.
“Dora,” he purred. “How are you...? Yes, of course I’ll speak for the record... I’m innocent, and my detective is pursuing some leads that point to someone else inside my company who engineered the crime... No, that’s all... Of course, I’ll tell her.”
He hung up the phone, and handed it back to her. “Dora asked me to tell you that she’ll keep digging on Elizabeth.”
Riga stared, aghast. “Why did you tell her you had evidence against someone?”
“I didn’t use the word ‘evidence.’ I said ‘leads.’ There’s a difference.”
“But—”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “I know what I’m doing.”
“What are you doing?”
“Shaking some trees to see who falls out. Now come on. We’re going to miss June if we don’t hurry.”
She trailed after him. He’d always do things his way – his way had made him successful. And he had never pushed her when she’d done exactly as she’d wanted, even when he’d disagreed.
Donovan strode inside the cafeteria, surveying the room. He frowned at a stain on the ceiling tiles. “Remind me to get that replaced.”
A cool draft blew across her, lifted the hairs on her arms.
Through a linoleum counter littered with sugar packets and stirring sticks, breezed a ghostly female figure. She poured coffee only she could see into a ghostly mug. Then she blew upon it, made as if to take something off the counter. A translucent stack of file folders appeared under one arm.
She turned and jumped, the files cascading to the floor.
“Oh! What are you doing in here?” The ghost knelt in her tight pencil skirt, gathering the translucent papers and binders.
Donovan watched, head tilted, as the tips of the ghost’s fingers dipped through the black and white checked tiles.
The ghost craned her neck toward them. “It’s okay, forget about it.” Her voice was tight.
He walked toward the ghost and peered at the papers she gathered, then shook his head. “I can’t read them, can’t make out what they are. They’re too faint.”
“No.” June shook her head, flinging ringlets of brown hair about her face. “No. That’s not it. I can’t—” Her lips pressed together, as if she were listening to something she didn’t like.
The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 13