“Nothing’s wrong.” Sal wiped her eyes with her palm. “She’s going to be okay now.”
Riga’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she extracted it.
Sal laughed. “You forgot to turn off your cell phone?”
“I had headphones,” Riga muttered, checking the number. She didn’t recognize it. “I’ll be right back.”
“But we need to close the corners!”
“Go ahead without me.” She brushed past the curtains and stepped into the hall, where a nurse stood beside a food cart, frowning at a list in her hand.
“Red? Vogelberg here.”
She rolled her eyes. Her hair was not red. “What’s going on?”
The nurse slid a food tray from the cart, shook her head, put it back.
“How badly do you want to clear your boyfriend?”
“You got something.”
“Maybe. The question stands. How far are you willing to go?”
She blew out her breath. Donovan had gone to hell and back for her. “What do you need?”
“Gregorovich.”
The nurse pulled out another tray, checked her list, took both into the curtained room across the hall.
“I don’t follow,” she said.
“He won’t talk to me, but he’ll talk to you, thinks you’re magic or something. That, and he’s got an eye for the ladies.”
“What exactly are you asking me to do?”
“Come with me to see him.”
“He’s a sociopath. What do you expect to get from him? If he was involved, he’s not going to admit it.”
The detective chuckled. “Right you are. But I’ve got this theory, see? And I think he’ll talk to you.”
“So you want me to meet with a murdering sadist who thinks I’m magic, and wants to sleep with me?” Or worse, she thought.
The nurse emerged from the room, pushed the cart down the hall.
“I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
“You’ll be with me as long as his goons allow you to.”
“Gregorovich could be the key to getting your boy off. I thought you said you wanted that.”
Riga braced one shoulder against the wall. “Of course I do, but this doesn’t make sense. Why Gregorovich? What’s your theory?”
“Hold on.”
Through the line she heard footsteps, a door closing.
“I’m back,” he said. “Look, I can’t talk here. I’ll tell you when we meet. Where are you?”
“The hospital. Where are you?”
“The casino. What are you doing at the hospital?”
“My client’s cousin was poisoned.”
“Nasty, poisoners. Usually women. I can meet you there in thirty minutes.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you outside.” She needed to feel fresh air on her face.
“Roger.” He hung up.
She shook her head. Gregorovich scared her. Bad. And Donovan would go through the roof if he found out she’d met with him. But she’d cross that bridge when she got to it.
She stepped back into Zara’s room, and pulled the curtains aside. Sal sat in a chair, her head propped on her fist, Ash behind her.
His eyes narrowed.
“Sal,” she said, “I’ve got to meet someone. Will you be okay without me for an hour or two?”
“I’ll be better than okay. And I closed the corners without you. Ash took your place in the circle. So go ahead, do what you need to do.”
Riga nodded, wondering how Sal had gotten Ash to participate.
“And Riga? Those kids we saw. They’re not kids. They’re shadows – actually, most likely one shadow.”
Riga leaned against the doorframe. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve encountered something like that before in lower world. They’re someone’s shadow. You know, their dark side they don’t want to acknowledge.”
“But why kids? Why a baby?”
Sal shrugged. “The formative events that caused them may have happened in childhood.”
“Are they mine?”
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t sense that connection. But it’s weird that they’ve been following you. Have you seen them interact with anyone else?”
June, the cafeteria ghost. “Yeah. I may know who it belongs to. Sal, if those shadows belonged to a spirit, a ghost, what would it mean?”
“It would mean your ghost’s got some serious unresolved issues. It’s probably going to have a tough time moving on without integrating it into its psyche.”
She nodded. That made sense. Ghosts usually began interacting with her when they were ready. At some level, June was ready – the ghost might not know it, but her shadow did, and had been dogging Riga’s footsteps.
“I need to cross that ghost over,” Riga said. “Any ideas?”
“We all need to deal with our shadows. You should talk to her.”
“I can’t. She’s unaware of me. Which means I’ll have to approach it from the shadow side. You said you’d encountered one before? How did you deal with it?”
Sal colored. “That was a little different.”
“How?”
“The shadow was my own.”
“Got it. I’ll figure it out. Thanks.” She picked her bag off the floor and left.
Downstairs, she bought a cup of tea from a sleepy cashier at the café. The place was half closed down, metal grates lowered and blocking off sections of the cafeteria, lights dimmed.
The cashier yawned, gave Riga her change. “We’re open all night,” he said. “Take it easy.”
She raised the paper cup in a salute. “Cheers.”
The tea was scalding hot, raising a blister on the roof of her mouth. She winced, walking outside. Within the bubble of light at the hospital entrance, she could see snow steadily drifting, muffling sound. Outside it, the world was a dark curtain, the stars blacked out. She kept beneath the concrete overhang, and set the cup on a concrete ledge to cool it faster.
Her shamanic journey had left her feeling tired, out of sorts, and the cold air was a shock to her system, stinging her cheeks, slapping her into alertness. June was the key; she could feel it. And she was getting closer to figuring things out. She had the sense of something coming towards her, something she didn’t like.
A sedan screeched to a halt and a young man leapt out, eyes wide with panic. He hurried around the side, and opened the door for a heavily pregnant woman. She struggled out of the car.
“Can I get you a wheelchair?” Riga asked.
The woman panted, rested her hands atop her basketball-sized stomach. “No-o-o.”
The man steadied her, one arm around her waist, and rushed her inside. The automatic door closed behind them, and Riga was alone.
A breeze knifed through Riga’s jacket, lifted her hair. She couldn’t ignore her presentiments any longer, and closed her eyes, extended her magical senses. The aura from the hospital flooded her, and bile rose in her throat. Swaying, she tried to force herself past it, but the fear and sorrow dominated. Her stomach rolled, and gagging, she cut the connection, rebuilt her magical shell. She panted, willing herself not to vomit, picked up the tea and took a sip, wincing when the hot liquid touched her new blister.
Into the circle of light lumbered a bearlike figure, his shadow faint beneath the overhead lights. She took a quick step back.
Vogelberg pulled one gloved hand from his parka, waved. “Hey, Red.”
Riga’s shoulders sagged, and some of the tension flowed out of her. “So what’s the story?”
His fleshy grin was lopsided, sickening. “Like I told you...” He looked around.
“What?” A chill tingled in her chest, cold fingers plucking.
He twitched. “Nothing. Funny feeling, that’s all. Like we’re being watched. Or—”
A shot fractured the night.
His shoulder jerked back, and he spun.
“Shit!” Riga dropped behind the abandoned sedan. Tea splattered the frosted pavement.
A second shot cracked th
rough the darkness, jerking the detective again. His knees buckled. He slipped to the ground.
Vogelberg lay a yard from the car’s front bumper. His eyes were open, his chest rising and falling.
The killer was out there.
Vogelberg was alive, but exposed, still vulnerable.
Riga crawled forward. At the edge of the car she took a quick breath, stretched her arm toward him.
Another shot splintered the pavement beside her hand.
She yelped, yanked her arm back.
His lips moved.
“You’ll be okay, Vogelberg. I’m getting you out of here.” She looked around wildly. Remembered she had a cell phone, punched in 9-1-1. Surely someone had heard the shots?
He groaned. “Not Vasily.”
The phone rang. Hurry, hurry, hurry. “What?”
He wheezed. “Reuben. Alibi wrong.”
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
Her vision blurred. “I’m at the hospital in Stateline. There’s a sniper. A man’s been shot.”
“Can you repeat that please? Who’s calling?”
Blood bubbled at the corner of the detective’s mouth. “Fortune teller.”
“My name is Riga Hayworth. I’m at the hospital in Stateline. We’re in the parking lot, at the entrance, pinned down by a sniper. A man’s been shot.”
“I thought you said you were at the hospital?”
“Christ! There’s a shooter here at the hospital!”
Vogelberg coughed wetly. “Red.”
The phone trembled in her hands. She lowered it, saw death in the detective’s eyes.
A dark figure glided toward them, smoke in the wind. Ankou.
No. God. Had she done this? Had she brought Ankou to the detective? Was this the promised exchange?
“The photo...” The detective’s breath rattled, extended, and stopped.
Riga hurled the phone at the death fae. It passed through Ankou’s robes, bounced on the asphalt. The cover snapped off, skittered in the other direction.
She covered her eyes, bowed head in hands. “Fuck!”
Chapter 27
Riga’s eyes were burnt coals. She closed them, needing the cool of darkness, needing to blot out the cinderblock interview room, the man seated at the table across from her.
“Are you all right, Miss Hayworth?” Sheriff King’s voice rumbled, an eighteen-wheeler.
The scene replayed in her mind: Vogelberg spinning, falling. Ankou. Was the detective’s death on her? Had Ankou consummated their dark bargain, taken Vogelberg’s soul instead of Donovan’s? She’d called Donovan to learn if anything had happened – if he’d had a near miss, a threat, a scare.
He hadn’t.
And now Donovan was outside, in the waiting room. She checked her watch. Two A.M. So late it was early.
Riga opened her eyes. “I’m fine,” she lied. “Just tired.”
The Sheriff’s five o’clock shadow had gone on seven, his rolls of flesh sallow beneath the caged fluorescent ceiling lamp. He looked down at his yellow pad.
She wondered why he used the notepad. Habit? An intimidation technique? The interviews were all recorded. Her gaze flicked to the camera in the upper corner of the room. And filmed.
“Anything else you want to add?” he said.
“Yes.”
His head jerked up.
She’d already told him everything she remembered – Vogelberg’s last words, his plan to see Gregorovich.
“June Carding,” she said.
“Who’s she?”
“She worked as an accountant in the casino. Her death in March was ruled a suicide. Sandra got her job. It was a promotion for Sandra, one she’d been angling for a long time.”
“You think there’s a connection.” He rolled a chewed yellow pencil in his fingers.
“Yes.”
“But it was a suicide.”
“It looked that way. Death by car exhaust.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I remember it now. She was young. There was no evidence of anything but suicide. She was alone—”
“No. I talked to the neighbors. There was a Hertz rental car outside her cabin before your guys showed up. A black Lincoln.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember that in the report.”
Because it wasn’t in the police report. But Riga wasn’t going to admit she’d seen the report, was unsure how Cesar had acquired it.
She reached for the yellow pad, pulling it across the table toward her. “May I?”
He handed her the gnawed pencil.
She hoped he hadn’t done the gnawing. It seemed childish, out of keeping with the Sheriff’s demeanor.
Riga scribbled the names of the neighbors she’d spoken to, starred those who’d remembered the car.
“I don’t have the resources to track down this rental. I was going to ask Vogelberg for help before he...” A lump rose in her throat, choking her. What the hell? She barely knew the man. But watching him die had lent their relationship an unwelcome intimacy.
She cleared her throat, tapped the starred names. “These neighbors told me about the car, the timing.” She pushed the legal pad back to him.
He picked it up, read. His face darkened, and he cursed, a low, steady stream of invective. Rage rolled off him, a red tide. “Sloppy. God-damned sloppy.”
He looked up at her, a pulse beating in his fleshy jaw. “It’s late,” he said. “Can you drive yourself home, or would you like one of my men to take you?”
“Donovan’s here.” Besides, her car was here, too. She didn’t want to have to return for it.
“Two sniper hits in your vicinity. I want to send one of my men home with you.”
“To throw himself in front of the bullet?” She felt as hollow as her voice sounded. “We both know that’s no protection. Look what happened to Sandra. You want to help me, lend me a vest.”
He stood, lumbered to a metal cabinet against one wall. “What do you think we are, a rental outfit?” He pulled out a Kevlar vest. “I can’t lend police equipment to civilians. It’s against regulations.” He tossed it to her, and she caught it against her chest. He left the room.
Wordlessly, Riga took off her jacket, and fastened the vest over her blouse. Her jacket was tight when she put it back on, but she doubted anyone would notice. It was winter. Extra bulk was par for the course.
The Sheriff wandered back in. “You ready?”
“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll return it.”
He blinked guilelessly. “Return what?”
He held the door of the interview room for her, walked her through the quiet station to the waiting area. Donovan rose at the sight of her.
“Good night, Miss Hayworth.”
She opened her mouth, closed it. Either he’d check the Hertz rentals, or he wouldn’t. Her asking wouldn’t affect the outcome. She nodded instead, and went to Donovan. He put an arm around her waist, and together they walked down the wooden steps to the dark lot.
They paused beside her car. The snow clouds had passed, and above them the Milky Way drifted, a pale ribbon.
“Where to?” he asked.
“The press are at the penthouse. I’d planned on going to my cabin.”
He nodded. “I’ll follow in my car.”
The lakeside highway was empty this time of night, but it was slick and so she drove slowly.
Her cabin. Had Brigitte gone there?
She turned off the highway, and up the curving road to her cabin, the lights from Donovan’s SUV bobbing in her rear view mirror. Through the breaks in the trees, a trail of moonlight silvered on the black lake. She rose higher, ducked down a hill that obscured the lake, and pulled onto the street. Her driveway was unplowed. Riga wouldn’t be getting her car in tonight, was damned if she was going to shovel the drive at this hour.
The light was out above her door, and Donovan waited patiently beside her as she fumbled with the keys, exhaustion beating at her. He took the keys from her, inserting them into the
lock. It resisted, reluctantly turned, and they were inside, stumbling over the worn carpet.
“Brigitte?” she called.
Donovan followed silently behind as she made a quick tour of the worn cabin. They were alone. They removed their clothes, and fell into bed. Sleep swallowed her.
She woke to gray light streaming through her window and the buzzing of her cell phone. Groaning, she rolled off the bed, pawed through her bag. By the time she unearthed the broken phone, the call had gone to voicemail.
Isabelle.
At least she knew her phone still worked, even if it was missing the top piece of the clamshell... Which would make hearing difficult.
She waited a minute, called back, and put it on speaker.
“Hi,” Isabelle’s voice crackled. “I’ve been trying to reach Donovan. Is he with you?”
“Yes. Just a minute.”
Donovan groaned and rolled onto his back, one arm extended. She handed him the phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s the poker tournament. I think we can salvage it.” Isabelle’s voice blared, and Donovan yanked the phone away from his ear, wincing.
He sat up, glanced curiously at the top half of the phone lying on the bed between them. “How?” he asked.
“One of the organizers is in town,” Isabelle said, “and he’s available to meet with you at nine this morning.”
“Where?” He picked up the top clamshell, tried to connect the two pieces. It fit neatly into two slots on the bottom half, but one of the bits of plastic had broken off, and wouldn’t stay put.
Isabelle gave him the address, and Riga wrote it down on the pad on the table beside the bed.
“I’ll be there,” he said. “Thanks.” He looked at Riga. “You need a new phone. And a bodyguard. Or...”
“Yes?”
“It would be safer for you back in San Francisco.”
“That’s not an option.”
“I don’t want you chasing down leads on my behalf. One of my detectives is dead.”
She crossed her fingers behind her back. “It’s not always about you, Donovan. I’ve got a poisoner to deal with too, not to mention a death fae. Besides, I can’t abandon June. Sal’s got a theory that those things that went after her in the cafeteria are actually the shadow part of her fractured soul. If Sal’s right, they’re going to keep appearing to me no matter where I go. Running’s not an option.”
The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 19