“We're being watched,” Riga murmured. “Black kid. Blue jeans, loose white t-shirt, short sleeves. Thin, with round glasses.”
“Where?” Ash said.
“Underneath the oak tree, in front of the pink house on the corner.”
Ash swore. “Where did he come from?”
“Ash,” Donovan said. “You circle around. We'll flush him out, move him toward you.”
Ash slipped around the van.
Wolfe leaned out of the van door. “You two coming?”
“Go on without us.” Riga took Donovan's hand, and they strolled up the sidewalk.
“Do you sense anything from our watcher?” Donovan asked.
“He's a practitioner, but not a very good one. I shouldn't have been able to sense his cloak.”
He halted, pulling her into a kiss. It should have meant little, a stall so Ash could get into position. But her knees trembled, her stomach swooping. They broke apart.
“Just giving Ash time to work his way around,” Donovan said, breathing heavily.
“I like the way you think.” Blood thrummed in her veins.
Donovan ran his fingers along her jaw. Cupping the back of her head, he leaned close, his breath tickling her neck. “Is he still there?”
“He's looking away. I think we've embarrassed him.”
Ash moved around the corner of the house.
“Ash is nearly in place,” Riga said. “Let's go.”
They ambled closer. The young man backed away from the sidewalk, hovering at the edge of the oak's shade. The windows in the house behind him were dark, the neighborhood still.
“I think it's time we chat,” Donovan said to him.
The man turned and sprinted for the house.
Ash was a dark blur. He plowed into the man, lifting him off his feet in a football tackle that dropped him to the lawn. Ash grasped his arm and shoulder, rolling him to his stomach.
He lifted his head off the lawn, glaring. “This is assault.” His cadence was slow, southern.
“This is a citizen's arrest,” Riga said. “You left your fingerprints all over the windowpane at Harold Howdini's house.” She was guessing, but he hadn't been wearing gloves.
“What?” He blinked.
“Yeah,” Riga said, “I don't believe that's his real name either. The hoodoo hit man.”
“We don't need to make a citizen's arrest,” Donovan said. “Isn't Dirk a deputy?”
Wolfe and Angus emerged from the van and pointed in their direction.
“You're right.” Riga snapped her fingers. “Now, we can go down to the police station, and you can explain yourself to the cops. Or you can explain yourself to us.”
Wolfe and Angus jogged toward them, the camera jostling on Wolfe's shoulder. Dirk swung out of the van and followed.
“Fine.” The man gasped. “Just get him off me.”
Donovan nodded, and Ash loosened his grip.
“Who are you?” Riga asked.
He rolled over and sat up. “Cunningham. Pete Cunningham. And you're Riga Hayworth.”
“How do you know me?”
His gaze flicked to the van. “It's not exactly a secret.”
“Hey.” Dirk trotted up to the group. “What's going on?”
“We ran into a friend of Riga’s,” Donovan said. “Dirk, meet Pete. Pete, Dirk.”
Pete's eyes widened. “You're Dirk Steele. The real Dirk Steele. I don't believe it!”
Dirk grinned. “Believe it, kid. So are we going, or what?”
Riga glanced toward the van. “Got room for one more? Pete and I need to do some catching up.”
“Sure. But let's get going before my crew melts.” Dirk strode toward the van.
They followed the actor, Ash keeping close to Pete's side.
“Ever been on a TV shoot?” Dirk asked him.
“No.”
“All right.”
The driver started the van, and Dirk swiveled in his chair to face Riga. “We're out of the loop with the cops. As I see it, we're on our own with this investigation.”
“We?” she asked.
“Sure. You're the PI. I'm the heat. We need each other, baby.”
Donovan snorted.
The actor slapped him on the knee. “No offense, man. So what's next?”
“Next,” Riga said, “you pore over the background information you have on the victims and find the connection.” She already knew the connection, but she wanted him out of her hair.
“We know the connection,” Dirk said. “They were all occultists.”
“That's a connection,” Riga said. “But did they know each other socially? How did the killer find them? New Orleans is packed with magical practitioners – just look at all the Voodoo and witchcraft shops in the French Quarter. Why these five?”
“Huh. What do you think?” he asked his field producer. “Research could show my intellectual side.”
They argued the merits for the rest of the journey — should he wear glasses to appear more thoughtful? Or was it too far outside Dirk's brand?
At their hotel, Riga and Donovan piled out. Ash clambered out of the van, keeping a hand on Pete's shoulder.
“We'll let you know when we need you,” Dirk said, slamming the door behind them.
“That is so cool,” Pete said.
“It's something,” Riga said.
Walking through the lobby, the men flanked Pete. A uniformed police officer stood at the front desk. The clerk pointed at Donovan, and the cop beelined for them.
Paling, Pete rolled his shoulders. “You said you wouldn't bring in the cops.”
“We haven't,” Donovan said. “Play it cool.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Mosse?” The cop tipped his hat. He was big, beefy, his cheeks reddened by the sun.
“Can we help you?” Donovan asked.
“I hope so. I’m Sergeant Smith. Mind if we sit down?” He tilted his head toward a grouping of chairs in the lobby.
Donovan nodded, and they followed the cop to the chairs.
“What's going on?” Donovan lowered himself into a curving chair.
“There's been an accident,” the cop said, “and you may be witnesses. This morning you were at Moon Walk, the boardwalk along the Mississippi?”
“Yes,” Donovan said, expressionless.
“And you spoke with Miss June Mahe? Did you notice anything unusual?”
“No, I didn't. Riga?”
She shook her head. “No. What's this about?”
“Miss Mahe wrapped her rental car around a tree,” Smith said.
Riga went cold. “Is she okay?”
“I'm afraid she didn't make it. Her employer suggested she might have been intoxicated, said she was behaving bizarrely. He suggested we speak to you two.”
Riga gripped the arm of the chair. It wasn't possible.
The Old Man, that bastard, had sent the cops to them to let them know. “Won't a tox screen tell you if she was drunk?”
“Yes,” he said, “but that will take weeks. Real policework isn't like those CSI shows you see on T.V. These things take time. Are you sure you didn't notice anything?”
“No.” Riga rubbed her hand across her cheek. “She seemed competent. I have a hard time believing she was drunk.”
“Well.” He stared hard at them. “It's the Big Easy, the Vegas of the south.”
“Her employer was sharp with her,” Donovan said. “There seemed to be some tension between them.”
“That wouldn’t account for the accident,” Smith said. “Mind if I get your contact information?” He took down their information and departed.
“I need a drink.” Donovan rose.
“Who's this Mahe lady?” Pete asked.
“Upstairs.” Ash hauled him out of his chair, and they took the elevator to their suite.
Inside the living area, Riga sat on the blue-striped sofa, the dog at her feet. She motioned Pete to the wingchair across from her. Afternoon sun streamed through the balcony doors, slanting acr
oss Pete's face.
Donovan went to the bar.
“Why were you trying to break into the hoodoo hit man's house?” Riga asked.
The kid stiffened. “Who said I was?”
“We saw you. Cut the crap.”
Ash whistled, tossed Riga a wallet.
Pete lurched forward in his seat, and the dog sat up. “Hey!” He cut a nervous glance at Oz.
She opened the wallet, pulled out his driver's license. “You really are Pete Cunningham. At least you didn't lie about that.”
“I haven't lied about anything.”
“You're a magical practitioner,” Riga said.
“Can I get you a drink, Pete?” Donovan asked.
“I'll have a beer.”
She squinted at the date on his license. “He'll have a soda or water.” He was barely older than Pen.
“What is this? Good cop/bad cop?”
She tapped her fingers on the arm of the couch. “You're connected to a series of murders. If I don't get some answers, the cops are the next people you'll be talking to.”
“Fine,” he said. “I'll have a coke. And I'm no magician. That was my Dad.”
“Was?”
“He's dead.”
“I'm sorry,” Riga said.
Oz turned a soulful gaze on Riga. She ruffled his fur.
“Yeah. Well. That sort of thing went with the territory. That's what he used to say, at least.”
“He was killed?”
“Turotte ran him down right in front of our house, took out a mailbox, and swerved off.”
What a piece of work. The ghost had told them Turotte had killed her by driving his car into a swamp. Had he been drunk when he’d hit Pete’s father as well? If it hadn’t been for the other murders, she’d think his upside-down hanging a simple act of revenge.
“And he wasn't prosecuted?” Riga asked.
Pete just looked at her. “He did it. I saw him. Okay?”
“Where and when did this happen?” Donovan handed him a can of soda, Riga a bottle of water.
“Six months ago, in Natchez.”
“Is that why you were at Turotte's house? For revenge?”
“No.”
“You must know Turotte's dead by now,” Donovan said. “You're going to have to give us some answers.”
“He took his head.” Pete took a deep pull from the can, and slammed it on the arm of his chair, glaring.
Slowly, Riga put down the bottle. “My God.”
“Who took whose head?” Donovan asked.
“Turotte. After my dad was buried, someone dug him up and took his head. I know it was that bastard Turotte.”
“None of that explains why you tried to break into Howdini's home,” Riga said.
He tugged at the collar of his white tee. “Because I couldn't find it at Turotte's. So I figured, since they're both into black magic and were friends, Howdini might have taken it. My Dad won't rest in peace until I get it back.” Pete looked away. “Don't ask me how I know.”
Donovan handed Riga his computer tablet.
She glanced at the screen. A newspaper article about the murder of Peter Cunningham Sr. Headline: GRAVE DESECRATION IN NATCHEZ.
She looked up. “How do you know Turotte and Howdini are connected?” Riga asked.
“I was following Turotte.”
“What did you see?” Donovan asked.
“I saw Turotte with the hit man.”
That tracked with what the police had found – that Turotte had paid the hit man. Her eyes widened. “Wait. You knew he was a hit man?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, I was following him. I overheard Turotte hiring Howdini. He talked about a bet, some sort of game. Turotte said he couldn't afford to lose. His neck was on the line if Howdini failed. They talked about the hit, mentioned your name.”
Riga started. “What about me?”
“Nothing. I just heard your name.”
She thought about the pattern – one attempt on her life, and then a murdered dark magician. “What else?”
“I saw one of Turotte’s ceremonies through his window. This town is filled with crappy magicians. And that chick you work with was one of them.”
Riga jerked off the couch, the blood draining from her face. There was only one woman on her team: Pen. “The chick?”
“The one who looks like a fashion model. Old like you. She and Turotte killed a chicken together.”
“The PR consultant,” Donovan said.
Knees weakening, she sank back down. How could she have suspected her own niece? “I should have known her name was a fake. This woman, what exactly did you see?”
“She and Turotte in spooky black robes. You know, the usual B.S. Black candles and chicken blood.”
“How do you know it's B.S.?” Riga asked.
“I know when it's real. I know power. My Dad had it. This wasn't real.” He took another swallow of his soda. “What now?”
“We won't force you to go to the police,” Donovan said, “but I strongly suggest you do. They searched the homes of all the murder victims. If there were human remains inside, the police will have them.”
“That's it?”
“That's it.”
He looked about nervously, as if worried they might change their mind. Then he bolted for the door.
Riga rose and the dog with her. “We need to follow him.”
“No,” Ash said. “I'll do it.”
“Ash—”
“You know I'd be coming with you two anyway. And when it comes to a tail, three is definitely a crowd.” Ash slipped out the door.
Riga grabbed the hotel notepad near the phone and laid Pete's driver's license beside it.
“You palmed his license?” Donovan asked. “So many hidden talents.”
The corners of her mouth slanted upward. She copied the information from his driver's license, and tore off a sheet, handing it to Donovan. “Another background check for your PI firm.”
“Our PI firm,” Donovan said absently. “I didn't get the sense Pete was lying, but we can't take chances.”
Riga pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Sam. “And I want to know how a local necromancer landed a job as my P.R. consultant.”
Sam picked up. “Hi, Riga. How’s New Orleans?”
“Mean Streets got thrown off the case by the FBI. We're pursuing our own angle.”
Sam sighed. “Yeah. Dirk's a little obsessed with this one. He's got a lot of pull, but I'm not sure how far he'll be able to take it.”
“Obsessed?” Walking to the balcony door, she picked up her water and took a sip, staring at the rooftops.
“It's a big case. I think he has delusions of cracking it. It would be a big score for the network. But the way the D.A. has things knotted up, it's unlikely we could air anything until after the trial, and who knows when or if that will happen?”
“Sam, how did you come to recommend Jenny Wade as a consultant?” Walking to the dog’s water bowl in the corner, she dumped the rest of her bottle into it. Oz sniffed and lapped it up.
“Why? Is she giving you problems?”
“No. I'd just like to know a bit more about her. How did you get her involved?”
“It's no big deal. I knew her professionally. When she heard I was in town, she suggested we meet up for drinks. We got to talking about the show, you, and she came up with some good suggestions. It made sense to bring her in.”
“Did you suggest it, or did she?”
“I... Oh.” There was a long pause.
“Sam?”
He chuckled. “Jenny's a smooth one. Now that I think about it, I guess she got me to suggest it.”
“Okay. Thanks, Sam. How's L.A.?”
They chatted a bit more, and Riga hung up.
“So?” Donovan asked.
“It sounds like Jenny manipulated Sam into inviting her in.”
“We need to talk to her,” Donovan said.
“Agreed.” Riga rummaged through her purse for Jenny'
s business card and dialed. No one answered, no voice mail.
Donovan checked his watch. “It's working hours. Let's check out her office.”
They drove to her office, Oz and the bodyguards in tow.
It was closed.
Riga hung her head. “I know I'm going to regret this.”
She called Dirk. “Do you know where Jenny Wade lives?”
Chapter 23
Jenny's home was an Eastlake-style townhouse. Gray and white, with a gabled roof and gingerbread trim, its two stories towered over the houses next door.
Donovan knocked on the white-painted front door. It swung open.
A clock ticked somewhere in the house. The air was cool, stale. A side table in the entryway lay on its side, shards of porcelain and flowers and water spread across the hardwood floor.
Bracing herself, Riga reached out with her senses. But no flood of dark magic assaulted her, just a gentle, seductive tug forward, past the winding staircase that curved to the second floor.
She caught Donovan's eye, and nodded in that direction.
Motioning to the bodyguards, he moved forward, panther-like.
She could feel the house was empty, the bodyguards unnecessary. The bodyguards were new, she didn't know them, and she felt a surge of resentment.
In the living room, cushions were slashed open, guts of fluff spilling onto the oriental carpet. The tug was stronger here, catching beneath her solar plexus, a longing.
Donovan looked to her, a question in his eyes.
Reaching into her bag she pulled out gloves, snapped them on, tossed him a pair. Crossing to a carved, wood china cabinet, she knelt and swung open the lower doors. Inside lay a grimoire, bottles of herbs, candles, an altar cloth, a skull. She ran one hand lightly over the top of the objects. Their pull was sweet, drug-like. Riga yanked her hand back.
“So she is a practitioner,” Donovan said.
“In the other houses,” Riga said, “I was so overwhelmed by the dark magic of the attack that I couldn't latch on to anything in particular. Here, I was led straight to these objects. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t magical.”
“You thought there were two people involved in the murders. Perhaps the second isn't a practitioner?”
“Maybe.” Dropping her defenses, she opened herself fully. The dark objects leapt to the forefront of her senses, and something else, above her. “There's something upstairs.”
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