The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  A new phone tumbled out, clattering upon the table.

  She dropped the phone in the nearby wooden garbage bin, and stalked to the bedroom.

  Riga sat on the bed, carefully opening her own phone, and tried to snap the two pieces together beneath the duct tape. No go. She’d have to peel the tape off, start over again.

  Frustrated, she dialed the Sheriff, putting the call on speaker.

  “King here.”

  “It’s Riga. I just had an expert look over the financial statements to Sal’s firm. Someone’s been embezzling. I think Martin’s your man.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he had access. He’s the manager. He’s got no alibi for the time the car was tampered with. He said he was at the cabin, but no one can place him there. And he could have put the string across the top step. Because people were getting in late, Sal sent everyone their room assignments and told them the location of a spare key. He said he got there early and waited in the car, but I think he let himself in, rigged the trap, then went back to his car. Besides, his presence at the cabin doesn’t make sense. He says he’s there to try to convince Sal to sell to the workers, but she’s made it clear she’s not going to. And he’s still there.”

  “And if Sal dies, the sale of the company doesn’t go forward,” the Sheriff said. “Things continue as is, and there won’t be any pesky buyers going through the financials, uncovering the theft.”

  She picked at the tape on the phone. “I’ll fax the documents over to you now. He said he was making calls during the time Sal’s car was tampered with. There’d be records of that on his phone, wouldn’t there?”

  “Yes, there would. I’ll be waiting for that fax, have one of our guys look them over. It’s enough to pull him in for questioning.”

  “One more thing, he’s been wearing a lot of sportswear. I’ll bet there’s a hoodie somewhere in his suitcase.”

  The Sheriff grunted, and hung up.

  She dropped her phone on the bed, and the two pieces sprawled drunkenly apart.

  Martin had motive, means, and opportunity. If the Sheriff found the hoodie, he might be able to break him.

  Sal would be safe, and she’d get Brigitte back.

  Riga felt a surge of rage at Ankou, at all the fae. They were always interfering, playing games with people’s lives. Brigitte was probably safe – Ankou had no reason to harm her. But Riga had let the gargoyle down.

  She changed into workout gear – a pair of gray sweatpants and a black tank top. Donovan had a state of the art gym in the penthouse, and she went there now, bypassing the weight machines and treadmill and going straight for the punching bag. He probably kept a spare pair of gloves somewhere, but she preferred to practice open hand fighting; she wouldn’t be wearing gloves in the street.

  It had been weeks since she’d had a hapkido class, and she felt it. She was a little slower, a little clumsier, and that pissed her off even more. She closed her eyes, took a breath.

  Work the form.

  She slowed it down, concentrated on her technique. When she was striking and kicking to her satisfaction, she increased the pace, the force.

  It still burned that she’d let Gregorovich’s men bully her into the car. She’d used smiles and lies and charm to get out of sticky situations before. But she despised herself for it afterward.

  It never occurred to her to tell Donovan about the incident. It was done, finished. He couldn’t change it, and it would only infuriate him.

  Her muscles quivered, sang, as she struck the bag with her palms, her elbows, her feet. Sweat poured down her back in rivulets. Hair escaped her ponytail, plastering her forehead.

  “I love watching you sweat.” Donovan stood framed in the doorway. He wore one of his trademark sin-black suits.

  She grabbed the bag to stop its swinging, and leaned her head against it. Her lips curved in a smile. “You’re back.”

  Donovan strode through the rows of weight machines, slipped his arms around her waist. “Mm.”

  Unsuccessfully, she tried to wriggle free. “I’m dripping on your suit, and I can’t smell good.”

  He pulled her closer, nibbled on her earlobe. “Well, no, you don’t. What you need is a long, hot shower.”

  “That was next on the agenda,” she murmured, arching toward him.

  He picked her up, and she shrieked, laughing, as he strode to the bedroom.

  Seated on the rumpled bed, Riga paused to watch him dress – snap on his gold watch, check his tie in the mirror, frown, brush a speck of dust from the shoulder of his ebony blazer. She smiled, and tugged her boot on, but her heart ached. His eyes were shadowed with a worry he couldn’t articulate. She got it – verbalizing it would make it real. But...

  He caught her gaze in the mirror.

  “What’s the latest from the lawyers?” she asked.

  He loosened his tie and whipped it off, looking away. “The feds are moving to take the casino.”

  She leapt to her feet. “But they need local law enforcement to do that. The Sheriff’s helping them?”

  “The Sheriff’s not the only game in town, and he’s got officials to answer to. It’s not his fault.” He selected a black and white patterned tie from the rack, and slipped it through his collar. “Don’t look so worried, I’ve got options.”

  She regarded him uneasily, wanting to ask just what those options were, unsure where the boundaries lay between business and personal. If he wanted to tell her about his “ace,” he would.

  “We’ll find out who did this,” she said. “We’re close, Donovan. I feel it.”

  “I know.” He came to her, and kissed her forehead. “Now let’s go talk to June.”

  Donovan took her hand in the elevator, grasping it until they reached the door to the cafeteria on the finance floor.

  He checked his watch, and pushed the door open for her. “Ladies first.”

  She walked inside. The place was empty.

  “We’ve got some time before she...” Riga trailed off as June’s ghost wavered into view.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” June said. She looked healthier, her hair glossy, her skin clear and bright. Even her pink suit seemed sharper.

  “June,” Donovan said. “What happened to you?”

  “It’s hazy in spots, but he wanted me to tell you that I was murdered.”

  Riga’s brow furrowed. He? Who was he?

  Donovan took a step closer to the ghost. “What do you know about the money laundering, June?”

  “It’s about you – revenge and hate and love all tangled up together and directed at you. That’s why this is happening. That’s why I was killed.”

  “What do you remember?” Riga asked. “Who killed you?”

  “I was home, and I was angry. I’d tried to talk to Mr. Yamamoto, but he was busy, tied up, and his secretary told me I’d have to wait until tomorrow. I had to get to him, to talk to him. I remember pacing the kitchen, so angry. And then I realized someone was there, behind me, and then I was floating above the car, watching myself die. I was furious at the unfairness. Maybe that’s why I stayed. I know it was wrong. I don’t belong here anymore. I see the light now, wherever I turn, calling to me. But I thought I should wait, just a little longer, to tell you.”

  Donovan shifted. “Why did you want to talk to Finn?”

  “It seemed so important at the time. It must have been important.” She nodded to herself. “All I know, is I’m supposed to tell you it’s not over, there’s still danger, Mr. Mosse.” June turned away, her outline brightening.

  Riga reached toward her. “Wait! Who told you to warn Donovan?”

  The ghost dissolved in a haze of golden light.

  “Augh!” Riga covered her face with her hands. She’d worked so hard, and gotten so little. “I was sure she’d be able to tell us more.”

  “She told us quite a bit.” Donovan looked thoughtful. “We know she was murdered, and we know that murder was connected to the casino.”

  “Fat
lot of good it does us,” Riga grumbled. “It’s not admissible in court.” And Riga would have liked to have known what those childlike shadows had represented. She wondered if even June knew. That particular human heart would remain a mystery.

  But Donovan was right, she realized. June had given them more than she’d first thought.

  He frowned. “I wonder what she would have told Finn, if she’d gotten the chance.”

  “She said this was about revenge, about you.” The pieces were fitting together now, but she needed more, she needed something tangible. “I need a hacker,” she blurted.

  “A hacker?”

  “Someone who can find bank accounts, get into them, trace transactions.” She’d been watching too many movies. Where would she find someone like that?

  “You mean Jeff.”

  Riga raised a brow. “Jeff? You know a hacker named Jeff?”

  “I doubt his parents knew he’d grow up sideways of the law when they named him,” Donovan said.

  “How do you know him?”

  “He tried to break into our systems here. Did a damned good job of it. It was dumb luck we caught him.” Donovan pulled his phone from his breast pocket. “I’m sending his number to you now.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Notice I haven’t asked you why you need him.”

  “I wondered about that.”

  He smiled enigmatically.

  The door slammed open, and Isabelle stalked inside. One of her stilettos caught on a crack in the tile, and she wobbled.

  She straightened, smoothing the front of her gray pencil skirt. “We need to talk.”

  “How did you find us?” Riga said.

  “Believe it or not, people take notice where the CEO goes with his girlfriend.” She glanced around. “Though as hiding places go, this one isn’t bad.”

  “We’re not hiding,” Donovan said.

  “You should be. Reuben heard you were here, and is having a meltdown.”

  “This is still my casino,” he growled.

  “Yes,” Isabelle said, shooting Riga an amused look. “But you did promise him you’d stay away until things were sorted out.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “It wasn’t exactly a promise.”

  Isabelle just looked at him.

  “Hell.” He ran his hands along Riga’s arms. “I’m sorry. She’s right. I should go.”

  “It’s fine. I should probably get back to Sal’s.”

  “Cesar’s waiting for you with a car in the loading area, Mr. Mosse.”

  Donovan took Riga’s hand, and dragged her past Isabelle, into the carpeted hall. His kiss was slow, thoughtful, and left her mouth burning fire when he released her.

  “Tomorrow,” he rumbled.

  She nodded, wanting to ask why Cesar was back, what Donovan was thinking, but she didn’t want to speak in front of Isabelle.

  He glanced at his assistant. “Isabelle? Find Reuben, and tell him I’ve gone, will you?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  The two women watched him stride down the corridor.

  Riga tightened her fists.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter 32

  The parking lot lamps cast a golden glow on wide expanses of damp asphalt. There were few cars in the lot beside her own, and she locked the doors, flipping on the headlights for security. Thor sat in an SUV parked beside her, watching.

  Ignoring him, she called Hacker Jeff on her mangled phone, and told him who she was, what she wanted.

  “Yeah, I can do that,” he said cautiously. “When do you need it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  He chuckled. “I’m good, but I’m not that good. I’ll get it to you when I get it.”

  “You’ve heard what’s happening, what Donovan’s been accused of?”

  “Yeah. I’ll put a rush on it. But these things don’t always happen on schedule. I’ll do my best.”

  “Thanks.” Riga rang off, wincing as she yanked out several hairs stuck to the phone’s duct tape.

  A message from Sal blinked at her. She pulled her hair to one side, and called her voice mail.

  “Riga, what’s going on? The cops are here and Martin’s missing. They say they want to question him. Oh, and uh, Ash is spending the night, so you don’t have to come. But Martin... Is it over?”

  She shook her head and started the car. It was over for some. For others it was just beginning.

  At her cabin, she re-set her wards, the silent Thor watching. When she’d finished, she left him in the living room with a pile of pillows and blankets. He looked contemptuously at the frayed couch, and laid out his blankets in front of the brick fireplace.

  She closed her bedroom door on him and sat cross-legged on her bed, peeling the silvery duct tape from her cell phone. Brigitte would tell her to use magic on it, tell her she was foolish not to.

  Riga ripped a length of tape from the roll.

  Last year, it would have been easy to enchant the phone, to bring the two pieces together. Enchantments had been her specialty, and she could make inanimate objects dance, fly. But that magician was gone.

  She dropped the roll of tape upon the polyester comforter.

  Tonight, the breakdown of her magical abilities didn’t bother her as much; she had bigger worries. She still had magic, felt its pulse inside her. And though she didn’t always know how to focus it, she sensed the answers were close. All she had to do was turn the corner, and they’d appear.

  She eyed the two pieces of the phone upon the bed, the strips of tape.

  Still...

  Using magic to call broken pieces together was simple – had been simple, child’s play.

  She took the SIM card out of the back of her phone, and placed it on the rickety end table.

  Breathe. Clear your mind.

  She imagined the two pieces fitting seamlessly together, saw the flow of energy between them. And when she felt her blood hum, she called energy from the above and below, attaching it to a word.

  “Pariter.”

  The magic surged through her, and the two pieces flew together.

  She gaped at the whole phone.

  Marveling, she picked it up, inserted the SIM card, tested the power. It worked. She’d actually done it.

  She pressed the sides of the phone to close.

  They didn’t budge.

  Frowning, she pushed harder. “Close, damn you.”

  She held it beneath the tarnished lamp on the end table, and squinted at the join.

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  The damn thing was welded solid.

  The next morning, she and Thor drove to the Sheriff’s station. King had been unusually helpful – suspiciously so – and she wondered if it would extend to a surprise visit. Apparently, it would. A uniformed officer showed her into the Sheriff’s office.

  He looked up from a file, its papers spread across his scarred desk, their edges folding against a sculpture of a cowboy on a rearing horse. King grunted, waving her toward a cracked, faux-leather chair.

  “Thanks for stopping by, Miss Hayworth. I had a few more questions for you about the Washington case. Ah, you can close the door behind you, Travis.”

  So, she wasn’t entirely welcome. With Donovan on the wrong side of the law, the Sheriff needed an excuse in front of his men to see her.

  The door shut with a snick.

  She sat, rolling the chair closer to the space heater, puckering the southwestern style rug. “I hear Martin’s missing.”

  He adjusted the photo on the other corner of his desk. Its back was to Riga, but she knew it was a picture of the Sheriff’s smiling family. She had seen it before.

  “Running, more like it. We’ve got an APB out on him. And we found that hoodie in his bag at the cabin. There was oil on one of the sleeves. We’ve sent it to forensics to try to match it to the oil in Ms. Washington’s Jaguar, but it will be weeks before we get the results back.”

  Riga nodded. Life was not like the crime scene shows on TV. Real
forensics departments were strapped for cash, manpower, and technology.

  “I actually came by because I wanted to know if you’d had time to track down that rental car seen outside June’s house.”

  “Yeah, we found it. And don’t look so surprised.”

  He opened a desk drawer and extracted a file. “It was rented in Donovan Mosse’s name from the Reno airport, and returned the same day. The signature’s the same as on all those fake receipts to the IRS for the money missing from the casino.”

  “Donovan was in Atlantic City that day at a conference.” She lurched forward in the chair. “Wait—what? You said the signature was the same one as those on the receipts. You think they’re a forgery.”

  “If so, they’re good ones. The feds have their expert and so do we. One thinks it’s his signature, the other disagrees.”

  Riga digested that.

  She stood. “Thank you, Sheriff. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  “I’m always happy to receive tips from concerned citizens,” he said as she opened the door. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.”

  Thor’s SUV behind her, Riga drove to Sal’s cabin, parking on the street beside an empty field of snow. She stepped out and slung her bag over her shoulder, unbuttoned her pea coat. The late morning sun was hot, sparkling off a snow-covered field broken only by the tracks of cross-country skis. A Mini Cooper whooshed past on the wet pavement, its ski rack full, and she flattened herself against her car to give it room.

  A police cruiser sat in Sal’s driveway, forcing her to squeeze between it and the high snow bank to get by. Ash’s blue SUV was in the driveway as well. Riga wasn’t sure if she should be worried or happy for Sal, then decided it was none of her business. Pasting on a smile, she trotted up the steps to the front door, her feet clunking on the wooden steps.

  Before she had a chance to knock, a deputy opened the door.

  She lowered her fist. “I’m Riga Hayworth, here to see Sal.”

  He nodded brusquely. “I know who you are. She said you’d be coming.”

  She followed the rattle of plates to the kitchen, and stopped, gaping. Sal leaned against the counter, watching Ash doing dishes at the sink.