The Sheriff grunted, returning to his notebook. “I thought you’d be at the penthouse.”
“The press have been all over the casino, so I came here to stay. It seemed like a good escape.”
“Famous last words.”
She waited until the sound of his pen scratching on the paper stopped, before continuing. “I spent my first night in the sitting room off Sal’s bedroom up top. When I came down the next morning, someone had stretched a length of fishing wire across the top step.”
His expression stilled. “The steps to Sal’s room, you say?”
“When I went back later, it had been removed.” She pushed the bag with the fragment of wire across the table toward him. “You can see the nail holes in the banister. No one’s admitted to doing it.” She clawed her hands through her hair. It felt greasy. She hadn’t had a chance to shower.
“I was upstairs with Sal,” she continued, “going over some company documents, when Zara came into the room carrying a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine. She offered us the chocolates. We declined. She ate one, and collapsed.”
“I wasn’t here when dinner was served—”
He waived a hand dismissively. “It was strychnine – too fast acting to have been consumed during dinner. Know where the wine and chocolate came from?”
“I think she picked the box off Sal’s night table. You’ll have to ask Sal where they came from, but a box has been sitting there for days. I don’t know the story with the wine.”
King fiddled with his pen.
A red crowned cardinal hopped along the window sill, peered at them.
“You ever heard of civil forfeiture?” he asked.
“No.”
“Mr. Mosse ever heard of it?”
“Since I don’t know what it is, I have no idea—”
The Sheriff rose, ending the interview. “Might be an interesting thing for him to look into.”
Puzzled, Riga wandered to the balcony outside, where Lizzy huddled in a blanket-covered Adirondack chair. The older woman didn’t look up at the sound of Riga’s booted feet on the wood planks. The morning sunlight was cruelly bright, illuminating the dark circles beneath Lizzy’s eyes, the papery texture of her skin. The older woman raised a coffee to her lips, her hand trembling.
“Poisoning... As long as I live, I’ll never understand it.” Lizzie set her mug on the arm of her chair, stared into the coffee’s inky depths. “You think when you get older you’ve seen it all, nothing can hurt you. But life just keeps coming. Coming and coming.”
Riga leaned against the wooden rail, said nothing.
“The police interviewed me,” Lizzy said. “I could see in their eyes – they think it’s murder, that Zara’s not going to make it. I should be with Derek. I shouldn’t have left last night.” She touched the pearls at her neck, ran them through her fingers.
“Would you like me to take you to the hospital?” Riga checked her watch. “I’m waiting for someone to drop some files by, but they should be here soon, and then we can go together.”
“Yes. Yes. I should go. I should be with Derek.” She rose and walked to the sliding glass door, stumbling upon a raised plank.
Riga darted to her side, steadied her elbow.
“Thank you.” She straightened, adjusting her pearls, and went inside.
Riga returned to the railing, gazed out at the stand of trees. A chipmunk scurried across the snow, disappeared beneath a boulder.
She closed her eyes. Was it her fault? Could she have stopped it? She’d only given Sal’s problem half her time. She’d told herself her first obligation was to Donovan, it had to be. Perhaps she’d been wrong.
The door scraped open behind her, and she turned.
Isabelle stepped out upon the deck, an overstuffed briefcase beneath one arm. The heels of her ankle boots clicked briskly against the wood. “This place is crawling with cops.” Her nose wrinkled with distaste. “What happened?”
“A woman was poisoned.”
“My, isn’t life around you fun? Here are those files you wanted.”
She handed the case to Riga, who accepted it wordlessly, thumbed through the files.
Riga looked up. “There’s a file missing.”
“Oh?”
“Yours.”
Isabelle’s voice flattened. “Sorry. I thought it was a mistake, since I’m not a part of the finance department.”
“I’d still like to see it.”
“Why?”
“Because even though you’re not a part of finance, you had access, just like Donovan.”
“I’ll have it sent over.”
“Don’t bother. Cesar and I are going to the casino later today. You can leave it at the penthouse.”
“That was the other thing I have to tell you. Cesar can’t come. Donovan needed security at the lake house and Cesar is there, getting things set up.”
A cold tendril wound its way through Riga’s insides.
Isabelle arched a brow. “What’s wrong? I realize it’s inconvenient for you, but the press have already swarmed the gates of the lake house.”
“It’s not...” Riga clutched the files to her chest. “You realize that Sandra was Cesar’s ex-wife?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Donovan is free because she can no longer testify.”
“Free for now,” Isabelle said darkly.
“That’s beside the point. Donovan is being painted as the person behind Sandra’s shooting. How can Cesar protect him with that hanging over them both?”
“Because Cesar’s a professional, and he knows the difference between being accused and being guilty.”
Riga rubbed the back of her neck. Cesar had certainly proven his professionalism the day Sandra was killed. But she couldn’t shake her uneasiness. Still, Donovan had to know Cesar and Sandra had been married. He knew everything about the casino.
“I need to get back to the casino,” Isabelle said. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No, thanks.”
Riga walked Isabelle out, then drove Lizzy to the hospital. The ride was filled with a desiccated silence. It was with relief that Riga left her in Zara’s room, where Sal and Derek slumped in chairs, hope and despair etched on their faces. Riga nodded to Sal, then went to the waiting room, giving the family their space.
She sat down in a chair, and laid the personnel files out on a side table. An hour later, she was ready to beat her head upon it. Nothing leapt out at her, nothing seemed wrong. Sandra hadn’t taken any time off since she’d got the job in accounting, a classic indicator she was running an embezzlement scheme, but they already knew she was guilty of that crime. Cesar was still listed as her emergency contact – a smart move on Sandra’s part. Her ex knew how to handle himself in an emergency.
Riga called the San Mateo cops, tracked down the officer who’d filed the report on the car accident that had killed Derek’s partner.
“Yeah, I remember it,” he said. “The guy was drunk, rear ended a truck with his convertible, and took his own head off. It took me twenty minutes to find it – it had rolled under a parked Audi. The only bright spot was he didn’t kill anyone else.”
“No sign the car had been tampered with?”
The cop blew out an exasperated breath. “He was drunk!”
So they hadn’t checked.
Sal stumbled past as if lost, her red sweater sagging and bunching around her waist.
“Thanks,” Riga said, hanging up. “Sal. Hey.”
The shaman jerked, and she blinked, looking about. “Riga. You’re still here.” She laughed hollowly. “But you’re always there to witness my failures, aren’t you?”
Riga’s chest tightened. Sal hadn’t been the failure. She couldn’t blame the shaman for what had happened all those years ago, never really had. It was Riga’s own shame that had driven her away.
“That’s not how I remember it,” Riga said. “How is she?”
“Still in a coma. The doctors say there’
s hope, though they don’t sound as if they believe it. She’s just not there. And I can’t...” Sal blinked rapidly.
Riga waited.
“There’s a chance I can find her,” Sal said, “but... It’s not working. Or I’m not working.”
“What do you mean, ‘find her?’ A soul retrieval?” Riga knew shaman’s worked on the premise that many illnesses were symptoms of some level of soul loss. The shaman could retrieve those lost pieces, return them, make the ill person whole. But Riga had never heard of reviving someone in a coma. “Can you do a retrieval when someone’s in a coma, unable to participate in the ritual?”
“I could, past tense,” Sal said. “When I try to find Zara, I just can’t get past the barrier to the otherworld. I can’t get into a deep enough trance state, and when I go to trance, I just end up… coming out.”
“It can’t be easy going into trance here.” It was a mystery to Riga how a patient could recover amidst so much noise and chaos – beeping equipment, nurses rushing in and out of rooms, loud chatter.
“I can find the quiet. The problem is something else. Now, when I need my shamanism the most, I can’t do it.”
Riga leaned forward in her chair. “Give yourself a break. You’ve been rattled. We all have.”
Sal nodded, walked down a green painted corridor, and disappeared around a corner.
Riga jammed the files into her leather bag, and called Finn.
“Riga.” His voice warmed. “How are you holding up?”
“Good. Has Candace forgiven you yet?”
“I’m golden.” He chuckled. “She’s ready to launch a one woman assault on the FBI though. Donovan’s more of a father figure to her than a cousin.”
“Have you found anything that might exonerate him?”
He paused. “How did you know I was looking?”
“This happened in your department, Finn. It’s got to sting on a lot of levels.”
Another beat of silence. “Yeah. But I’ve got nothing.”
“In that case, I’d like to call in that favor you promised.”
“Shit. Did I?”
“Meet me at the casino at...” She checked her watch. “One o’clock?”
Finn sighed. “I’ll be there. I always am.”
Chapter 24
The oppression at the casino hit like a sledgehammer. She staggered in the front entrance, strengthening the protective aura around her, drawing energy from above and below. The raw anger subsided to thousands of ants crawling over her skin.
Riga hated bugs.
An elderly ghost sat alone at a nickel slot machine, fruitlessly grasping at the handle. Riga padded past her, across the crimson and gold printed carpet. In the distance, a lone slot machine clanged. A dealer looked up hopefully as Riga passed, then, recognizing her, returned to his newspaper.
For the first time, Riga was glad Donovan wasn’t here, glad he couldn’t see the casino’s death throes. She wound past vacant chairs, and bored waitresses. The corridor to the penthouse elevator was a haven to her now, an escape from the mournful scene.
The guard inside the elevator nodded as she stepped inside. His forest green jacket bulged above his hip, pressing against the holstered weapon there. They ascended in silence. Riga ran her hand up and down the strap of her leather satchel, slung over her shoulder.
The elevator doors slid open, and Riga strode into the foyer. Gwenn the ghost danced beneath the antler chandelier, the skirt of her dealer’s uniform whole and clean, flaring about her knees. Riga inhaled. The scent of smoke that followed Gwenn was barely detectable.
The ghost glided to a halt, eyes widening. “I keep forgetting you can see me.” Gwenn had eyes again, and the once burnt out holes filled with piercing blue.
“Gwenn, you’re looking... better.”
“I feel better. I feel wonderful!” The ghost spun in place. “But my name’s not Gwenn.”
“What is it?”
Her brow furrowed, and a blackened piece of skin flaked off. “I can’t remember. But it’s not Gwenn. It’s something else, something close. Gail? Gloria? Glenda the Good?” She laughed.
“Can you remember anything else? How you died? Why you’ve stayed?”
“I don’t remember burning. I don’t think that’s how I died. I think it happened after.”
Riga placed her bag upon a wooden chair against the wall. “What about your friends? Your family? Do you remember their names? Where they lived?”
She shook her head. “No. But it seems... closer. Like it’s all just out of my reach. Something’s changed in the casino, and I’m changing too. Can you feel it?”
Riga stilled. There was nothing good in what she sensed at the casino. “What exactly do you feel?”
“Something warm, something I know. It’s a part of me somehow, and I’m waking up.” She extended her hands. “Look! I can see skin, real skin. It’s not all black and burnt anymore.”
“That’s great news,” Riga said, apprehensive.
“Oh, and Reuben and Isabelle are in the study, arguing again. You might not want to go in there.”
“Do they argue a lot?”
“I think they’re jealous of each other.”
Riga nodded, wondering about the ethics of instituting a ghost spy network. It would certainly simplify her investigations. “What are they arguing about?”
“The casino. Reuben is doing something Isabelle doesn’t want him to do.” Gwenn straightened, head tilted, as if straining to hear. “He’s calling. I have to go.” She vanished through the floor.
Riga frowned. There was more going on here with Gwenn and the casino than she understood. That worried her.
She tiptoed to the door to the study, and bent her head to it.
“—doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Reuben’s voice was muffled.
“Why are you arguing with me about this?” Isabelle said. “These are Donovan’s orders.”
“Because I don’t take orders – not from you and not from Donovan.”
Riga’s cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She sped away from the door, fumbling with the phone.
“Riga? This is Finn. Listen, I’m in my office, but I’m going to have to run out shortly. You said you wanted to talk to me. Can we do it now?”
“I’m upstairs, in the penthouse. I’ll be right down.”
She hustled into the elevator, took a wrong corridor, doubled back, cursing under her breath, and finally found Finn’s office. She passed into a sleek antechamber, and a frowning secretary ushered her into the inner sanctum.
Finn rose, coming around his shiny black desk to greet her. “Riga. Please, sit down.” He motioned her toward a scooped black leather and chrome chair that looked straight out of the new Star Trek movie. She liked the movie, didn’t like the chair.
Warily, she perched on its edge, feeling the metal bite into her thighs.
He leaned back against the desk, and crossed his legs, the overhead light glinting off his glasses. “What can I do for you?”
She drew a stack of folders from her satchel. “I’m working a case that involves the sale of a sportswear firm, but I can’t make heads or tails of the numbers. The profits are declining, though sales are stable. The costs show an increase, but they’re in odd places.”
Finn arched one fine brow. “Odd places?”
“Could you take a look at these for me? Give me your opinion?”
He grinned. “You’re in luck. As part of my masters, I developed a business plan for a sportswear company, and had to research the hell out of the industry. I might actually be able to understand their numbers.”
Riga leaned back, relieved, and promptly slid into the dip in the chair. She wriggled forward. “Thank you.”
“It’ll be a relief from looking at our own numbers.”
“That bad?” She struggled out of the chair.
He nodded, rueful. “And not just here, our Vegas properties as well. We’ve got strong asset ratios, but this can’t go on much longer.�
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“I’ve got another favor to ask. I’d like to talk to your finance staff.”
He blew out his breath. “They’ve already been questioned by the police, and by that detective, Vogelberg.”
“I know they’re fed up. But I’m more interested in an accountant who died earlier this year – June Carding.”
“June,” he said flatly. He shook his head. “What a waste.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Well enough. She was smart, diligent, honest. A nice woman. Her suicide came out of the blue. We had no idea she was depressed.”
“And then Sandra took her place.”
He raised his head, the light turning his glasses to flat sheets of silver. “Are you saying there’s a connection?”
“It positioned Sandra to embezzle funds. Why did you choose her to replace June?”
“She’d been angling for an accounting job for over a year. She was smart, aggressive... She’d just gotten her CPA license. I admired her drive, the extra hours she put in. Sandra was hungry, and I thought that should count for something.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You think June’s death wasn’t a suicide?”
“I don’t have any evidence to suggest it. Just looking backward, trying to figure out how this began.”
He replaced his glasses. “I guess in a sense it did begin with June. Sandra began stealing, laundering money in mid-April, not long after she got the promotion.”
“Quick work.” Sandra must have been planning it, or someone else had planned it for her, someone who knew the systems, knew how to get around them. Someone like Finn.
“Usually it takes a couple weeks just to figure out the systems,” he said. “There’s a training period, and Sandra went through it. But the theft began almost immediately, as if she already understood them well enough to manipulate them.” His face darkened. “Someone helped her.”
“Who would have been in a position to do it?”
“Donovan. Reuben. Me. But I know I didn’t.”
“What about another accountant?”
He stood, and went to gaze out the window. The lake was gray steel beneath a leaden sky. She wondered how he could take all that monochrome: the black and white interior of his office against the stark winter landscape.
The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 16