The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  “You’re right. She’s not aware of us at all, is she?” Donovan said.

  The temperature dropped.

  In the corners of the room, shadows grew, lengthened.

  “Donovan—”

  “Wait. I want to hear this.”

  June’s ghost straightened, adjusted the wire rimmed glasses on her nose. “It’s theft. It’s money laundering. It’s just wrong.”

  The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed.

  Beneath his dark suit, Donovan’s shoulders tightened.

  Stone-faced, the ghost went to the counter, brushing a stray bit of neutral-colored lipstick from the corner of her mouth, pushing a wisp of dark hair behind her ear. “Look. Just... I don’t want to talk about it again. Let’s forget about it.”

  Donovan went to stand beside the ghost, and pressed his hands upon the counter. “June, remember.” His voice was low and urgent. “Remember who you are. What happened to you? What do you know about this?”

  A metallic creak.

  Unwillingly, Riga turned.

  From the corners, three shadows crawled across the floor, toward Donovan and the ghost.

  “Donovan.” A wild, unreasoning panic churned her stomach.

  A metal chair tipped over, clattered upon the floor.

  He turned at the sound. “What’s wrong?” His gaze dropped to the shadows converging on him. He circled back toward Riga, one arm out, a barrier between her and the wavering darkness. “What the hell are those?”

  The ghost spun around, her mouth sagging. “What? Of course I won’t! I wouldn’t dream...” Her expression hardened. “Are you threatening me? Because if you are, I’d like to know exactly what you’re threatening me with.”

  The shadows took on dimension, swirling gray mists that congealed into the forms of three misshapen children with milky white eyes.

  Beads of sweat appeared on Donovan’s brow. “You didn’t mention them.” Walking backwards toward the door, he herded Riga, keeping himself between her and the gray children.

  “They weren’t here before,” she whispered.

  The ghost dropped her gaze to the children, and she screamed, a howl that froze Riga’s blood. June dropped through the floor.

  The children blinked out of existence.

  Donovan and Riga turned to each other.

  “Those are not normal ghosts,” he said slowly.

  She swallowed, her mouth dry. “I’m not sure what they are. Those things have been attached to that death fae.”

  The door to the cafeteria swung open, banged into Riga, and she jolted into Donovan’s arms.

  “Oh! Sorry...” A young Asian woman in a green sweater looked from her to Donovan. “Uh. Sorry, Mr. Mosse. I didn’t know you were, uh...”

  He released Riga. “I heard the coffee down here was outstanding.”

  “Oh! No, Mr. Mosse, it isn’t. I mean...” A flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “The coffee’s fine. Just... It’s been sitting there a while. But it’s usually good in the morning.”

  He chuckled, shepherding Riga past her and into the hall. “Duly noted.”

  The woman scuttled inside.

  He smiled, rueful. “Caught canoodling in the cafeteria. I do take you to the best places.”

  “As long as we’re together.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. “I was arrested in the middle of my proposal, you had to come visit me at the local jail, where you saw a woman killed, and once I got you alone, all I could do was tear your clothing off and then take you to a company cafeteria.”

  “I didn’t actually mind the clothing being torn off.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know.” Riga put her hand on his arm. “Life’s a wheel. It goes up, it goes down. We can’t always control it. But I know who I want to be with in good times or bad.”

  The cell phone on his hip buzzed. He checked the number, frowning. “I need to take this.” He put the phone to his ear. “Isabelle?”

  He listened for a moment, and swore, pocketing the phone, taking off at a run down the corridor.

  Riga hurried behind him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Reuben.” He veered left at the elevator and blasted through the door to the stairs, took the steps down two at a time.

  They burst out of the stairwell at the casino level. A few diehard gamblers, living and dead, sat at the slots and tables, but most chairs sat empty. Instead of the sound of bells heralding winners, Riga heard the pounding of their feet across the thin crimson carpeting.

  They rounded a bank of slot machines, and Donovan slowed to a walk, smoothing his tie. They approached a strange tableau: a group of men clustered around a blackjack table lit by a massive chandelier. It cast a slow moving galaxy of refracted lights across the carpet. A dealer, pale in a green vest and miniskirt, regarded Reuben warily. Isabelle stood beside the woman, hand tight on her wrist. Three men built like truckers lounged around the table, their eyes hard. A fourth, slight and sharp-faced, sat upon a stool, looking at Reuben with a bored expression, his arms relaxed upon the table.

  Reuben thrust his jaw forward, and leaned closer to the man. “This is a private facility, and I told you to leave.”

  “And I told you, that my business is not with you,” the man replied in a thick Russian accent. He turned at the sound of Donovan and Riga’s steps, running his hand over his black, greased-back hair. “Ah, Mr. Mosse. How nice to finally see you. You have been ignoring my invitations, but if Mohammad will not come to the mountain, the mountain will come to Mohammad.”

  Donovan gripped his cousin’s shoulder. “We have nothing to discuss, Gregorovich, and you’re not welcome here.”

  “I think we have a great deal to discuss.” The mobster’s gaze fell upon Riga.

  A shiver rippled through her. She’d met dead people with more life behind their eyes.

  He rose to his feet. “But who is this charming lady?” A sliver of light from the chandelier lit the middle of his high forehead like a third eye.

  Donovan shifted, blocked Riga from his view. “You didn’t come here to flirt. Say what you’ve come for, and leave.”

  “I can get this,” Reuben said.

  Feeling twitchy, Riga took a stealthy step sideways. The gesture of protection was all Donovan, but she felt safer with the action in her sight line.

  The mobster waved Reuben away with a flick of one hand. “Go away, little man, and let your betters discuss business in peace.”

  He turned scarlet. “I’m in charge here.”

  “You are in charge of nothing,” Gregorovich said.

  A pulse beat in Donovan’s jaw. “Reuben runs this casino.”

  “If you need to tell me this,” Gregorovich said, “then clearly it is you who run things.”

  Cesar and Vogelberg appeared at a run from opposite directions, closing on the group. Vogelberg panted, his gut bouncing with each step. Cesar scanned Gregorovich’s contingent of heavies.

  Donovan tightened his grasp on Reuben’s shoulder. “You’re wasting my time. Get to the point.”

  “I want to know why a federal prosecutor is sniffing around me like a hungry dog,” Gregorovich said.

  “You know exactly why,” Reuben snarled. “And coming here makes things look worse, you moron.”

  “Reuben,” Donovan ground out. “Enough.”

  Reuben shook him off.

  The mobster’s face tightened, and deliberately, he turned away from Reuben. “Your man would be wise to keep a civil tongue in his head, Mosse. Someone might cut it out.”

  Red suffused Reuben’s face. He lunged at Gregorovich, and spun him around.

  The hair lifted on Riga’s arms, and time seemed to slow. Gregorovich’s thugs reached inside their jackets, and Cesar and Vogelberg drew their weapons. Pulling the dealer with her, Isabelle dove to the ground.

  Fleetingly, she wished she could join the women, but Riga was frozen.

  Ankou. Was this the moment he’d meant? The moment she’d
lose Donovan?

  A flash of pure, red heat from below coursed up her spine, burst into her mind, flared outward.

  The men cried out, dropping their weapons, shaking their hands as if burned. Bewildered, they stared at their guns lying on the carpet.

  “Cool down.” Donovan grunted, grabbed Reuben from behind, one arm circling his neck, and dragged him away from the table.

  Reuben thrashed in his grip.

  Gregorovich hissed, looking at the discarded weapons and then to Riga. “What did you do?”

  Donovan released his cousin, and shoved him away. Reuben took a few, staggering steps, rubbing his throat.

  “Gregorovich.” Donovan’s voice cracked like a whip.

  The mobster wrenched his gaze from Riga.

  “I don’t have any answers for you,” Donovan said, “or the feds. Now cash in your chips, and go.”

  Gregorovich was motionless for a long moment. Finally, he nodded, and stood. “I will not be pulled into your problems, Mosse.”

  “Then we’re on the same page,” Donovan growled.

  He nodded to Riga. “Until we meet again.”

  A pulse throbbed in Donovan’s jaw. “You’ll stay away from her.”

  From above there was a light, tinkling sound. Riga glanced up, frowning.

  “But will she stay away from me?”

  A squeak, a rending. Metal groaned. The chandelier plummeted, crashing upon the table. Its chain arced like a whip, clipped Gregorovich’s temple. His head jerked backward, and he clasped his hand to it.

  Isabelle scrambled backward with a shriek. The table wobbled, slid sideways, and slowly crumpled to the floor, chips rolling in all directions.

  The dealer burst into tears.

  Donovan and Riga stared at the wreckage, pieces of crystal glittering on the green felt, on the crimson floor, Gregorovich cursing, blood seeping through his fingers.

  A red chip rolled to a halt at the toe of one of her boots.

  She shook her head, aghast. “That wasn’t me.”

  Chapter 21

  Donovan walked to the window, and gazed at the mountains, silhouetted against the starlit sky. “Isabelle, I want maintenance to check the light fixtures in the casino. Someone could have been killed today.”

  The detective, Vogelberg, leaned one shoulder against a bookcase, watching. The lights were low, and his face was lit by the fire and the warm glow of table lamps.

  “I’ve already made the call.” Isabelle strode to the bar, poured herself a shot of whiskey.

  Reuben joined her, throwing ice in a tumbler, and splashing whiskey in it. His hand trembled. “You’re giving orders in this casino? We agreed you’d let me handle things.”

  “And there’s graffiti by the service entrance,” Donovan said. “Have them take care of it.”

  Reuben slugged back the drink, poured another. “Gregorovich was here because of you.”

  “He was goading you, Reuben.”

  Reuben’s jaw clenched. “No, you were goading me.”

  Donovan turned. “How do you figure that?”

  “Why the hell did you come down? He wanted you there, and now there are witnesses that have seen the two of you together.”

  “But why?” Riga asked. “Why would Gregorovich want people to think there was a link between him and Donovan? He’s implicating himself as well.”

  “He’s a sociopath,” Reuben snarled. “Who knows how he thinks? The question is, what the hell were you thinking, Donovan?”

  “Isabelle called and told me you were about to get yourself killed.”

  “I had everything under control until you showed up.”

  Isabelle rolled her eyes, and gestured to the wine cabinet beneath the small bar. “Want anything, Riga?”

  “Yeah,” Riga said. “Answers. Reuben, where were you when Sandra was shot outside the police station yesterday?” She knew Donovan wanted to believe in Reuben – she did too, for his sake. But the question had to be asked.

  Donovan shook his head, frowning.

  Reuben looked up from his drink. “What? Why?”

  Vogelberg unglued himself from the bookcase. “I’d like to hear the answer, too.”

  “This is outrageous.” Reuben spluttered. “You have no right.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Reuben,” Isabelle said. “Just tell them.” She looked at Donovan. “Reuben was in his office. I came by to ask him for some papers, but he was on the phone. I left without him seeing me.”

  Reuben blinked rapidly.

  “Is this true, Mr. Mosse?” Vogelberg persisted.

  “Yes,” Reuben said. “Yes, I suppose it must be. I’m not sure exactly where I was. It’s a big building.”

  “What does it matter?” Isabelle said wearily. “We all know Gregorovich killed her.”

  Vogelberg caught Riga’s eye. “Do we?”

  Isabelle put her glass down. “I’ll go see about that graffiti.”

  “Wait,” Reuben called after her. “I’ll come with you.” He slammed his glass on a nearby end table, and followed her out the door.

  Vogelberg picked up Reuben’s glass, sliding a coaster beneath it. “What’s the story with Gregorovich, Mr. Mosse? I hear he’s a local crook.”

  “There’s no story,” Donovan said. “I know who he is, but we’ve never spoken before this day.”

  “The Feds think he’s involved in the money laundering.”

  Donovan’s shoulders slumped. “He could be. I don’t know. I thought I knew everything there was to know about this place. Clearly, I was wrong.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Mr. Mosse,” the detective said. “But not by standing around here chewing the fat. I’ll call you.”

  Donovan nodded absently, and Vogelberg strode from the study.

  Riga hesitated, then followed the detective to the elevator.

  “Something you want to get off your chest?” He jabbed the call button.

  “Sandra took the place of an accountant who died under mysterious circumstances. The police have it down as a suicide.”

  “But you don’t think it was?”

  “There was a strange car parked outside the accountant’s house at the time of her death. The neighbors I’ve spoken with haven’t been able to identify it, though there’s one I haven’t been able to speak with yet. The accountant’s name was June Carding.”

  Vogelberg grunted. “Could be nothing, but I’ll check it out.” He punched the elevator button again. “Take care of yourself, Red. I’ve got a feeling we’re running out of time.”

  Riga walked slowly back to the study. She had the same feeling.

  Donovan had returned to the window. A fingernail moon hung suspended above the black lake. It cast a wavering trail across the water.

  “I can’t let him run the casino,” he said.

  “I know.” She went to him, touched his hand.

  He grasped hers. “But he’s right. I shouldn’t be in charge either.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “For now, use Isabelle as my proxy, but I need a transition strategy. I’d prefer to keep the casino in the family, but I don’t see how they’d come up with the financing in case—”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Riga said.

  He turned to her. “It might. We need to be realistic. Both of us.”

  “Can Isabelle do it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not much of a change for her. The only difference will be that I won’t be here.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “The house we looked at together.” He went to the bar and poured a glass of whisky, gave her a questioning look.

  She shook her head, and leaned back against the windowsill, a thick curtain brushing against her arm. The air was colder there, and she shivered.

  “The owner agreed to let me lease it until we make a decision.” He took a gulp of the whiskey, and grimaced. “It’s private. The press can be kept outside its gates. I’ll go there.”

  “Whe
n?”

  “Tonight. There’s no sense putting it off.” He turned, and gave her a searching look. “You should go back to Sal’s. It’s getting late.”

  “Yes.” But she made no move to leave.

  “What happened in the casino?” he asked. “Did you do something to the guns?”

  “It wasn’t intentional – just a reaction. It happens sometimes.”

  “And the chandelier?”

  “I thought that might have been your doing.”

  “Me?” He looked into his glass. “I’m not magic, Riga. I only see ghosts.”

  “We’re all magic. Most people have just stopped seeing. But you haven’t, and this casino is a part of you, or you’re a part of it. Maybe both. Sometimes, when a bond is that strong, it can manifest. The feelings I’ve been picking up in the casino since you’ve been arrested... They’re a lot like I imagine you must feel.”

  He shook his head. “If what you’re saying is true, I should feel it, be aware of something, shouldn’t I? But I don’t get anything. The casino feels the same as it ever has.”

  “The chandelier could have just been an accident,” she admitted, wishing Brigitte was here to talk it over with. The gargoyle had centuries of magical experience.

  He gave her a skeptical look. “You don’t believe that.”

  “No.”

  Her cell phone rang, and she checked the number. Ash. “I should probably take this.”

  He nodded, and she picked up the call. “Riga.”

  “Where are you?” Ash demanded.

  “The casino.”

  “When are you getting here?”

  “Shortly,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. But I have to leave soon. Got stuff to do.” Ash hung up.

  Donovan ran his hands over her arms. “You need to go, don’t you? I’ll send Isabelle over with those personnel files tomorrow.”

  “Donovan—”

  His large hand caressed her face and his lips brushed against hers, slow, drugging.

  “Go,” he said hoarsely.

  Chapter 22

  Ash yanked the door open beneath Riga’s raised fist. “About time you got here.”

  “Did I keep you overtime?” Riga knew she had not. She stepped past him, and toed off her boots in the narrow entryway.