The Hoodoo Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  Ash prowled through their penthouse suite, its elegant gold and blue tones glowing in the lamp light. Oz trailed at his heels, sniffing the furniture. When the bodyguard was satisfied, he nodded and left.

  Donovan's arm curled around her, his hands slipping beneath her blouse. They roamed across the soft lines of her back, her belly, exploring. Her body ached for more.

  “How much time do we have before your gargoyle finds us?” he asked.

  “Enough.”

  Chapter 11

  “Must you?” Like a well-satisfied lord, Donovan sprawled on the bed, propped against the pillows, sheets and gold and blue bedding twined around his bare legs. A blue and white fleur-de-lis headboard rose behind him, forming a royal canopy.

  Riga slipped into a hotel robe. “Brigitte will find us. Besides, clothed is the only way I can talk sense around you.” Bracing her knee on the bed, she leaned into him. “I missed you. And I'm sorry my problems cut your trip short.”

  He pulled her closer. “They're our problems.” There was a long pause. “I'm glad you can defend yourself, but I hated watching you do it. That damned video.”

  “I got lucky.” She'd studied martial arts, but there would always be someone stronger, faster, smarter. She rested her cheek against his chest and pushed the tension away, concentrating on the rise and fall of his breath, the steady beat of his heart. Gently, he tilted her head up and claimed her mouth with his own.

  There was a clunk and scrabbling sound from the balcony.

  Sighing, Riga extricated herself. “Later.” She walked into the living area, closing the bedroom door behind her.

  Oz bounded from the couch and came to her.

  “Dinner shortly,” she said. Adjusting her robe, she padded across the carpet, a bronze vine pattern against a fawn-colored background. Riga pulled back the golden curtains and slid open the glass door.

  The gargoyle hopped inside, head swiveling. “Ah. This is much better. Here, I have room to work. What has happened?”

  Oz peeled back his lips in a snarl.

  Brigitte recoiled. “What is that thing?”

  “Oz, meet Brigitte. She’s a friend.”

  Oz sneezed and returned to his seat on the couch, coiling into a circle.

  “A dog? You allow a dog inside but leave me out in the cold?”

  “I told you why I couldn’t let you in the other hotel room, and you’re here now. Leave the dog out of it.”

  Donovan entered the room, a matching robe belted around his waist. Wandering to the dining table, he popped a grape from a silver bowl into his mouth. He picked up the manila file folder on the Old Man. “I'd like to hear this as well,” he said, flipping through it.

  Riga winced. She had almost, sort of, promised Donovan she'd leave that file in Tahoe.

  Pacing in front of the gas fire, Riga told them everything. The dog tracked her with his gaze.

  “The worst of it is,” she finished, “I've been so busy running from one crime scene to the next that I haven't been able to do much actual investigating.”

  Donovan cocked his head. “Intentional, do you think?”

  “I can't imagine whoever's committing these murders is doing it just to keep me busy,” Riga said. “But I do wonder about the sniper at the last crime scene. Either Sam's right, and the killer is just looking for media hype, or he knew I’d be there, and I'm tied into the killings.”

  Brigitte reached behind her head with a talon, and scratched her stony feathers. “Ze latter, of course. From what you have said, this necromancer is killing for power, not publicity. You know it is ze old man. Kill him and be done with it.”

  Donovan sat beside Oz on the couch, stretching his arms along its back. “But she doesn't know. She suspects.”

  “Bah! He is a necromancer. He was at ze restaurant. He as much as admitted his guilt to her.”

  “I wouldn't say that,” Riga said slowly. “But the arrival of a necromancer on the scene, and then the deaths in what are clearly necromantic sacrifices... It can't be a coincidence.”

  “Can't it?” Donovan propped his bare feet on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. “Your aunts are here, and they're necromancers.”

  Riga flipped her hair. “They're not murderers.” But they weren't exactly strong on ethics.

  Donovan and Brigitte stared at her.

  “Come on,” Riga said. “You know they're not. Sure, they may have killed in self-defense, but not like this.”

  “You said the last victim had objects in his house that were cursed,” Donovan said. “That he was likely into the occult. He sounds like exactly the sort of guy they'd go after.”

  “Not like this. The way he was displayed was perverse, sick. And there's a big difference between having an interest in the occult and being a dark magician. The only dark magic I felt at Turotte's and Marks's houses was from their murders.” But she'd had that flash — the vision of a magical ceremony. She pursed her lips. “We all have reason to be wary of my aunts. They've made mistakes. But not... You just have to trust me,” Riga finished weakly.

  “I trust you,” Donovan said. “Not your aunts.”

  “We must remain en garde,” the gargoyle said.

  Riga jammed her hands in the pockets of her robe. “Thanks to Dirk, I've had access to these crime scenes. But Dirk's accusation that I've set these attacks up for publicity resonated with some of the cops. I could be out of the investigation tomorrow.”

  Donovan chuckled. “I doubt that. Have you ever watched Mean Streets?”

  “No. And I know you haven't. You never have time for TV.”

  “I had Ellen research his show while we were flying here. Did you know Mean Streets has never investigated a murder?”

  “Never?”

  He shook his head. “It's all punch-ups and petty crime.”

  “Dirk didn't get me into this investigation. I got him inside.” Riga scrubbed her hand across her face and cursed. “When we met at the hoodoo hit man crime scene, the cop with him told Dirk they were out because it was a homicide. I didn’t even question… What an idiot I've been!”

  “Not an idiot.” Donovan scratched the dog’s head. “But you might be too close to the situation. Especially now that you're getting all the attention.”

  “Not all. Not by a long shot.”

  “Really? Do you mean to tell me that your consultation isn't the focus of the show? And then there's that Crazy Cat video. The local news stations and late night talk shows are playing it. And of course you're better looking than Dirk.”

  “I would not say that,” Brigitte muttered.

  “Mean Streets is in its third season, and the ratings are weak,” Donovan said.

  “But Dirk Steele is a movie star,” Riga said. “I don't know why he even needs Mean Streets.”

  “Exactly.” Donovan folded his arms across his chest. “There are too many wild cards. Dirk, your aunts, the Old Man. I’m getting you out of here.”

  “I’m tied up in this,” Riga said quietly. “You know I can’t leave.”

  He jammed his fists in the pockets of his robe. “If there’s a hit out on you, you’ll be safer with a home field advantage.”

  “The hit man’s murder is connected to the others. The hanging victim was there when Howdini was killed and so was the Old Man. The answers are here, not at home. Donovan, if you have to get back—”

  “Don’t. This isn’t about my schedule.” A vein pulsed in his jaw. “All right. We’ll stay, and so will Ash.”

  “I’m driving Ash crazy. I can’t do what he wants and run an investigation. A bodyguard doesn’t work in this situation.”

  “Maybe not, but he can provide tactical support.”

  Riga grimaced. “I thought that was what you were for.” But a fist closed around her heart. She didn't want to think of something happening to Donovan.

  One corner of his mouth coiled in a smile. “I'm good. Ash is a professional.”

  “I like Ash. But for him to protect me, he'll ha
ve to be with us constantly. There will be times when we'll need to be alone. He'll want me to behave more cautiously than I can in an investigation.”

  “He'll adapt.”

  There was a knock on the door. Oz sat up.

  “I ordered dinner.” Donovan sprang from the sofa. “You haven't eaten, have you?” He opened the door. There were murmured words, things passed back and forth, and Donovan returned with a large wicker basket and a sack of dog food under his arm.

  “That doesn't look like room service,” Riga said.

  “Delivery.”

  Riga wafted to him, lured by the buttery scents drifting from the hamper.

  He handed Riga two dog bowls from inside the hamper, and she fed Oz. His teeth crunched noisily on the dry food.

  Donovan spread the feast upon the table. Oysters poached in absinthe. Turtle soup. Crusty French bread. A California zinfandel.

  Brigitte snorted. “Food! You can think of food at a time like this?”

  “You'd be surprised what I can think of,” Donovan said.

  “I wouldn't be.” Riga tore a hunk of bread free, and spread warm brie across it. “The first crime scene the police took me to – as a consultant, I mean – was a hanging victim. There was a ghost in the house.”

  Oz gazed soulfully at her, his gaze drifting to the brie.

  “And the ghost may have witnessed something,” Donovan said.

  “It's possible. And no cheese for you,” she said to the dog.

  The gargoyle snorted. “And if ze ghost tells you what you already know – that ze Old Man is ze killer – what then? Can you take this ghost to ze police station to testify?”

  “We can't know until we speak with the ghost,” Riga said.

  “If ze ghost will say anything. You know what they are like. And how will you get inside?”

  Riga speared an oyster. “I've got a plan.”

  Cloaked in a veiling spell, Riga and Donovan stood before Franklin Turotte's miniature mansion. Morning sun slanted across the lawn. The window panes stared vacantly, creepers of ivy stretching across the molding like green eyelashes.

  “Why is it so easy to believe this was the scene of a murder?” Donovan asked in a low voice. “The place even looks haunted.”

  “All the houses in this neighborhood do.” She walked around the corner of the house, past potted palms and ferns. Donovan had arranged for the dog to go to an animal daycare center for the day, and she wondered how Oz was getting on, shook her head. Focus.

  She found the kitchen window she'd left cracked open and lifted it. It stuck six inches from the sill.

  “Let me help you with that.” Donovan forced the window and boosted her through it.

  He slithered through and swung onto the tile floor, closing the window behind him.

  The air was thick, and a rivulet of sweat trickled down Riga's back.

  The house creaked. She froze, listening.

  “Just the house settling,” Donovan said.

  Nodding, she opened her bag, pulling out two sets of hospital gloves.

  Donovan took the pair she handed him. “Where did you see the ghost?”

  “Upstairs, where Turotte was hanged.”

  He followed her to the octagonal room and walked into its center, standing upon the inlaid parquet star. The chalk circle still scarred the flooring. Donovan looked up at the hook in the ceiling, shook his head. “Hung from there? It's not much of a drop. His neck wouldn't have broken. He’d have died from slow strangulation. Nasty.”

  “The hanging didn't kill him. He was hung upside down, a traitor's death.” Something pricked the edge of her memory but escaped her.

  In the tall, gilt mirror, Donovan turned slowly. She'd broken the chalk circle, knew it no longer held power. But the sight of him inside the circle and the sigils crawling on the floor raised the hair on her neck.

  She cleared her throat. “I saw the ghost reflected in this mirror. It was just a blur, but it was there.”

  He walked to the far wall, brushing his fingers along the wallpaper. “Here? Did she walk through it?”

  “She must have.”

  “Let's see where she went.”

  He strode through an open doorway, disappearing around the corner.

  “She?” Riga hurried after him, reluctant to let him out of her sight.

  He prowled the sitting room, running his hand along the curved wooden backs of sofas and chairs. “Call it a sixth sense.” He strode from the room.

  She trotted after him, into the foyer. Donovan’s ability to see ghosts was still relatively new, but he’d taken to it with surprising equanimity.

  A translucent woman in a blue wrap dress appeared in the hallway. Her brown hair hung wet about her shoulders. “Well, this is a surprise. Who are all y’all?” she asked in a syrupy drawl.

  “Donovan Mosse.” He smoothed the front of his shirt. “And my wife, Riga. A pleasure.”

  The ghost stepped back, eyes widening. “You can hear me? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a detective,” Riga said.

  “A detective? Fat lot of good that will do. That bastard Turotte got off scot-free for killing me.”

  “He killed you?” Riga recognized the ghost from the photo — Terry Thorton – the young woman who'd died in the crash Turotte had walked away from.

  The ghost stroked her neck, beaded with damp. “Well, in fairness, we were both drunk as skunks. I did get into that car on my own. Never got out.”

  “You're out now,” Riga said.

  “To haunt him, of course. Not that that did me any good. You're the first person to see me.”

  “I can see you,” Donovan said.

  She sidled up to him. “Well, aren't you sweet? Things are looking up. But if you're here to perform some sort of exorcism, forget it. I'm not going until Turotte's as stone cold dead as I am.”

  Riga's shoulders sagged. “Then you don't know.”

  “Know what?” Terry asked.

  “Turotte's dead,” Donovan said. “Killed a few days ago.”

  “Dead?” The ghost clapped her hands together. “Really? But that's marvelous! Who killed him?”

  “We hoped you could tell us,” Donovan said.

  “I imagine just about anybody could have done it. He was awfully snarky.” She stamped her foot. “I can't believe I didn't get to watch him die. Where can a ghost get some justice around here?”

  The air brightened around the apparition, and she faded away.

  “That was unhelpful,” Donovan said.

  “I think she crossed over. That's something, at least.”

  “Mm.”

  “Well, I'm not done yet.” As long as they were here, she might as well check out the house. She'd had little opportunity to conduct a serious search under the watchful gazes of Long and Short.

  She extended her senses, and her stomach rolled. Head spinning, she grasped the back of a sofa and bent, sucking in lungfuls of air.

  “Riga! Are you all right?” Donovan laid a hand against her lower back.

  “Yes.” She gasped. “I tried to do some magical tracking, but all I can feel is the leftover magic from the murder. We'll have to search the house the hard way. Shall we split up?”

  “No,” Donovan said, his voice harsh. His face smoothed. “Where's the fun in that?”

  An hour later, hot, dusty and frustrated, they returned to the sitting room.

  Donovan braced his elbow on the mantel. “Aside from the fact Turotte has expensive tastes, what have we learned?”

  “Nothing.” She'd hoped at least to find some incriminating documents in the man's study. But the room had been used more for reading and leisure than actual work.

  “What else have you learned about Turotte?” Donovan asked.

  “He was considered one of the city's most eligible bachelors, but no girlfriend ever lasted long. He inherited a stake in a local oil drilling company, but was more along the lines of a silent partner. No one seems to expect his death to impact the
firm. The stock price hasn't budged. His main occupation — if you can call it that — was his gossip blog. No heirs. He left his money to an un-named charity.”

  “So that lets out money as a motive.” Donovan ran his gloved thumb along the grooves in the mantel. “And this demon the killer called, you say it grants power?”

  “The desire of dark necromancers everywhere. Both the victims were wealthy and unattached – no family, no heirs, no one to really miss them. It isn't in a necromancer's nature to choose their victims so considerately.”

  “Do you think it means something?” There was a snick, and he jerked away from the fireplace. A panel swung open. “I'll be damned.”

  She went to his side. “How did you know?”

  “I didn't. I must have the magic touch.” He reached inside and pulled out a human skull.

  Riga knelt, her knees pressing into the brickwork around the fireplace. Drawing a flashlight from her bag, she shined it inside the compartment. Black candles, a decorative knife – an athame – a chalice with cavorting human figures, and a black-leather book. She took the latter, opened it, flipped through the pages. “What trash.” She handed him the book.

  “A black magic spell book?”

  “Of sorts. I met the author once. He's an idiot.”

  “So Turotte was a dark magician?”

  “Not a very good one if this book is any guide.” Slowly, she passed her hand over the other objects in the cubby, and felt no tingle of power, no sweet tinge of dark magic.

  “Was Jordan Marks into black magic?” Donovan asked.

  “I don't know. I didn't get a chance to search his home. He had occult objects — real occult objects — but I didn't see any grimoires or books of magic or ritual tools.”

  “But both victims had an interest in the dark side of the occult.”

  Their gazes met.

  “Riga. Your aunts—”

  “No.” She held up a hand to stop his words. “Yes, I believe they could kill. But not like this. They didn't do it.”

  But had they?

  Chapter 12

  Riga and Donovan arrived at the crew's hotel ten minutes late for Sam's morning meeting. Heads turned as they strode down the thickly carpeted hallway to the small conference room. With his chain of casinos, Donovan was a minor celebrity. Riga disliked the attention, but had learned the hard way that cloaking spells and cars didn't mix, and had dropped the veil as soon as they'd left Turotte's home.