The cab vanished down the street, and Donovan turned to her, arms across his chest. “Jenny’s office?”
“Early morning is the best time for breakins,” Riga said. “Though I may be mixing that up with bank robberies.”
She tucked her arm in his. Lengthening her stride, she hopped over a missing brick in the sidewalk. “But there’s a stop I want to make before we tackle Jenny’s office.”
Turning the corner, she called in the energies, dropping a magical veil over them both.
“Did you just do something?” he asked.
“The cloaking spell.” She shifted her satchel, so that the bag hung at her back. Jenny would keep Pen alive, at least until the next phone call. Riga was racing against an hourglass she couldn't see, and had to force herself not to run down the street.
“You've said that's a fairly basic spell.”
“Yes?”
“Could the person who killed the hoodoo hit man have been cloaked?”
“Possibly. I'd like to think I'd be able to see through it, especially when I was on alert. I did see something at the end of the alley after I discovered the body.”
“Something?”
“It almost looked like one of those Mardi Gras parade figures with the giant heads. It was grotesque, shimmering in the heat.” Ants crawled along her spine at the memory.
They turned another corner. An aproned man emerged from a building, hose in hand. He sprayed the sidewalk.
They sprang out of the way.
Donovan brushed a fleck of water from his black slacks. “What's next? Hannah's shop?”
She stopped in her tracks, turned to him. “How did you know? You've never been there.”
“No, but you're not the only one who’s spent the night running background checks. I recognized this street name.”
“I stand corrected.”
“As long as we stand together.” He ran his hands down her arms. “Do we?”
“How can you even ask? I love you, Donovan. I just can't...” Her throat tightened.
He pulled her against him, and she buried her face against his chest.
“I can barely think straight,” she choked out. “It's all I can do to focus on the next step, the next move on the chessboard. If we don't find her—”
“We will.” He tilted her chin up. “We will get through this.”
She nodded, stepped out of the protective circle of his arms.
They passed a waiter fastening open a restaurant's tall green shutters.
Donovan rubbed the faint, cross-shaped scar on his chin. “I knew you've been tracking the Old Man for months. I should have taken a greater interest.”
“Why? This is my investigation. My fault, from start to finish.”
“I don't know how you figure that.”
Because she'd put Pen in jeopardy. And for that, she’d never forgive herself. “We're here.”
They stopped in front of a darkened window curtained by folds of satiny, purple cloth. Branches painted glittering, forest-green twined in the display, dangling pendants and gris-gris bags and charms.
“No offense to your cloaking spell,” he said, “but I think I'd prefer to tackle this via the rear entrance. Assuming there is one.”
She led him behind the store to an alley just wide enough for a European-sized car. It smelled dank and faintly of garbage.
Donovan surveyed the brick wall, the metal door. “Anyone inside?”
Closing her eyes, she pushed her aura into the store. “No.” Riga channeled the energies, stretched one hand towards the doorknob. She tied the energy to a word and spoke it aloud.
The knob melted, orange-heated metal creeping down the door.
Donovan pushed the door open with his elbow. “You brought gloves?”
“I always bring gloves.” She twisted her satchel around. Pulling out two pairs, she handed one to him.
He snapped them on and stepped inside. “Flashlight?”
She slapped it into his palm.
He clicked it on, and its round beam illuminated rough walls with flaking blue plaster, stacks of boxes, a workbench littered with feathers and jars of herbs and bones.
Donovan examined a chicken claw, his face twisted with distaste. “Someday, you'll have to tell me more about hoodoo.”
“If I ever figure it out, I will.” At the workbench, she picked up a pair of needle-nose pliers. She slipped it in her bag.
His mouth twitched, and he swung the flashlight, illuminating the wall behind her. “What? You don't already have a pair?” His expression shifted. “Riga.”
Muscles tensing, she turned, her gaze following the beam of light. Two initials scratched low into the wall: PH.
Crouching beside it, she ran her finger in the grooves of the initials. White plaster dust coated the tip of her glove. “It's recent. And it's the way Pen writes her initials – a big P and a smaller H, a sort of chemistry joke. She always said she was out of balance.” Riga's voice cracked.
“Can you sense anything magically?”
She centered herself, opening her six senses. Magic surged in, a tidal wave, swamping her. She wobbled, fell.
Donovan caught her, raising her to standing.
“Magic's strong here,” she said. “This was Hannah's workspace, where she made her fetishes, potions and conjure oils. If Pen was here, I can't find a magical trace.”
“If? Those scratched initials look like Pen's work.”
She changed direction mid-stride. “Were Jenny and Hannah partners in crime?”
“That's what the Old Man wants us to think.”
“He's about as trustworthy as Beelzebub.” If he was pointing them toward Jenny and Hannah, it was for his own dark purpose. The Old Man wanted her dead, wanted her to suffer. Helpful wasn't part of his repertoire. “It's too pat. A found matchbook pointing us to Hannah. And now Pen's initials scratched on the wall of Hannah's storeroom. It's like a 1930’s detective movie, though more Abbot and Costello than Sam Spade.”
“And yet you brought us here, to Hannah's shop.” Donovan crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You suspect Hannah's involved. Maybe it's time we talk to her.”
Chapter 29
Beside the window they’d just crawled through, Donovan opened a cupboard in Hannah's galley-style kitchen.
“At least it didn't explode.” Riga brushed off her slacks, her heart thudding unpleasantly. Hannah wasn't at her shop, wasn't at her home.
He grunted, closing the cabinet, and prowled into the narrow hallway. “Stay behind me.”
The apartment was small, cramped, and decorated with swirls of hoodoo symbols painted in bold pinks and blues and oranges on the white walls. A living area, bathroom, and bedroom. Boxes, opened and unopened, littered the floors. Riga lifted the lid on one. “Looks like she's in the middle of a move.”
“In or out?”
“Good question. Out? Her husband had a huge house, but there was little sign of someone else living there. Maybe she’s moving in now that he’s gone.”
“Or getting out of town.”
“I wonder why they didn’t live together. Could they have gotten divorced or separated? Or was it all part of the pretense – that he was a lone-wolf hit man and she an innocent hoodoo practitioner?”
“If I were a hit man, I'd think having a family would be a good disguise.”
“Maybe it was a rocky marriage.”
“At least there are no signs of violence in Hannah’s apartment. Why is it every house I break into seems to contain a body or crime scene?”
“Why else would we break in?” Riga thumbed through a book on voodoo, sending up a puff of dust. Were they wasting time? Was the Old Man's clue a diversion to prevent them from finding Pen? She glanced at the cat clock on the wall, its round, white and black eyes swiveling back and forth.
A smile ghosted his lips. “I suppose your investigations do redirect some of my more criminal impulses. But I don't see any sign Pen was here.”
Sitting in f
ront of a battered metal desk, she flipped on the computer. While it booted up, she rifled through papers, envelopes. The computer dinged. She looked at the screen. “Damn. Password protected.”
“You should come up with a spell to crack computer passwords.”
“Once this is over, I'll work on that.”
“Do you think it's possible?”
“Yes. It's all energy, electrical impulses.”
They swept through the house, opening drawers, rummaging through boxes and closets. The rising sun heated the room, raising trails of sweat on Riga's back, when she admitted defeat. “I've got nothing. You?”
He shook his head. “What next?”
“I've got one more idea before we try Jenny’s office, and then it's desperation hour.”
“Meaning?”
“Magic.”
“Ah.”
“The occultists have been holding ceremonies in local graveyards on – we believe – nights of the new moon.”
“And tonight's a new moon. You think Jenny will take Pen to a cemetery?”
“She's lost half her group to the killer. A blood ritual in one of their sacred haunts makes sense.”
“Your blood, you mean. I won't let it come to that, Riga. And I don't like the idea of you walking into their trap playing the sacrificial lamb, even with back-up.” He looked away, a pulse pounding in his jaw. “But I'd do the same if my family was threatened.” He ran a hand through his raven hair. “All right. We find the site they're planning to use and create our own trap. But even if you're right about a cemetery, there must be a dozen in New Orleans.”
“Help me out the fire escape?”
He grasped her hand.
She edged out the window, feet first. “I've got an informant.”
Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1 was a furnace in the morning sun, each whitewashed crypt, each strip of pavement a pyre, reflecting heat.
Sweat beaded the back of Donovan's neck. “When I die, I'd like a Viking funeral. A blaze of glory into Lake Tahoe. Or the ocean, since they’d never allow a burning boat on the lake. But barring a Viking pyre, bury me somewhere with trees.”
The way her luck was running, Riga thought it highly unlikely she'd be the one dealing with his funeral arrangements. But the old cemetery did have a strangely industrial feel, its only signs of greenery on the opposite side of the high, plastered wall that enclosed the graveyard. The offerings left at certain graves, faded Mardi Gras beads and empty bottles, seemed more trash than gift.
A dull, clunking sound echoed through the crypts.
“This way,” Riga said, following the noise.
Beside the obelisk, a young man swung a pick, breaking up bits of brick and mortar. His blue, denim shirt was open, loose, exposing a white tank. It bagged around his tight jeans.
He let the pick head drop to the ground and leaned on the handle, his chest heaving. “Can I help you?”
“I was looking for an older gentleman, the grandfather of a friend of mine, Hoodoo Hannah?”
He frowned. “He's not here. Had a heart attack on Tuesday afternoon and has been in the hospital ever since.” He shook his head. “He shouldn't have been doing this work at his age. I told him I'd get to it, but he wouldn't listen.”
Riga paled. “Tuesday afternoon? Are you sure?”
“Sure as I'm standing here.” He heaved the pick, splintering a brick.
Head swimming, Riga turned to Donovan. “Let's go.”
“Maybe he knows something,” Donovan said.
“No.” She drew him away. “Donovan, I saw Hannah's grandfather Tuesday night, in the garden beside one of the victim's houses. And later, near the river when the Old Man went into the water.”
“Wait here.” Donovan walked back to the young man. They spoke, and Donovan returned. “He said it happened right after lunch, here at the cemetery. Are you sure it was the same man?”
“Yes! No. He gave me a key...” Something dug into her hip. She reached into the pocket of her slacks, pulled out the skeleton key. “I left this at the hotel.” She stared at the key. “I think I know where we need to go.”
Riga and Donovan stood in the shade of a brick wall, outside the locked garden gate. Two women passed in shorts and tees, discussing brunch plans.
“Are we trespassing?” Donovan asked. “Not that I mind, but I like to know where I stand.”
“I've got a key.” She inserted the skeleton key, cool in her fingers, into the lock.
The iron gate swung open, creaking.
“I think I need to do this alone,” she said.
“What do you expect to find? Hannah's grandfather is in the hospital.” Donovan had called and confirmed it. He'd been unconscious since she'd met him in the cemetery five days ago.
In the distance, a siren wailed.
She laid a hand on his arm. “Someone else is here. Someone with information.” And somehow, she knew he was waiting.
His lips tightened. He nodded. “I'll be right out here.”
Slowly, she walked inside, her sandals padding on the brick walk. Neatly trimmed bushes led her in a straight line to the fountain, and the intersection of three other walks. She stood at the crossroads, alone.
Riga fingered the key. He wasn’t here. “If you didn’t mean for me to come, why did you give me this?”
The fountain splashed in response, and she considered tossing the key in, like a lucky penny.
Something shifted in the air, and her flesh pebbled. Riga cocked her head, listening intently.
The water stilled, frozen in air. She stared, incredulous. The street sounds had fallen silent.
Tentative, she reached out her hand, plucking a drop of water from the air. She squeezed it between her fingers. Like a rubber ball, it snapped back to its original shape when she released it. Her lips parted, and she laughed, marveling at the magic.
“I thought I might be seeing you again.”
She whirled.
Hannah's grandfather — or someone who looked like him — leaned on a shovel in the shade of a tall cypress. But Hannah’s grandfather – the man they’d met in the cemetery – was in the hospital. And this man was no man at all. Her scalp tingled.
“I’d ask who you are, but I think a better question is what are you?”
“Just an old man.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not the old man, the old man at the crossroads?” If she was right, she’d met this archetype before, in another form, as Hermes. In any form, he scared the hell out of her.
“I don't got time to fiddle faddle around.” His chin jut out. “What do you want, girl?”
“To ask you about vandalism in the cemeteries.”
He snorted. “That true?”
“Hannah told me a group of occultists were using the cemeteries for rituals,” Riga said.
“Hannah did? Then why aren't you asking Hannah?”
“She's not at home,” Riga said.
“Course not. She should be at her shop by now.”
“And somehow she's gotten mixed up with the occultists, and a necromancer, a powerful one,” Riga said. “She may be in trouble.”
He stiffened. “Well, now. There's necromancers, and there's necromancers. Lots of folk do death magic. Don't mean it's bad.”
“These necromancers have been getting killed. I suspect you've heard about the murders.”
He twirled the shovel, released it. It spun on its point, scraping the brickwork.
“When Hannah and I came to see you,” Riga said, “and she told you the hoodoo hit man was dead, did you know he was her husband?”
“Course I knew she was married to that good for nothing.” He spat. “Think Hannah and I are going to talk about someone like that in public? His killing was a blessing.”
“The occultists hold their rituals in cemeteries on nights of the new moon.” Riga shifted her weight, eyeing the still-spinning shovel, wondering why he maintained the pretense of humanity. But he was a trickster and traveled his own path. She would play
his game. “Have you any idea where they’ll be tonight?”
“Even if I did know, why should I tell you?”
“Why are you here at all?” she asked. “Why are you pretending to be someone and something you're not?”
“Why do you want to know where those folks are? Sounds like you'd do best to steer clear.”
“Because they have my niece,” Riga said.
“She like you?”
“I think you know the answer to that. She was wearing your charm.”
The shovel hit the ground with a clatter. “What do you want from me?”
“I wanted to speak to Hannah's grandfather, because he knows the cemeteries, has contacts at other cemeteries.” Energy flashed, hot and dangerous, crawling up her spine. She'd broken the rules he'd set, acknowledging he wasn't Hannah's grandfather. Mouth dry, she went on. “They'll hold their ritual tonight, and my niece will be a victim of it. Where will they be?”
He stared at her a long while.
“We need to stop this.” In spite of the heat, Riga rubbed her upper arms. “The occultists have Hannah in their sights. Whatever she's done, she's in over her head.”
He gazed at the fountain. “They won't come to St. Louis Number 1. They never do. Scared of Marie Laveau, I reckon. She sleeps there, and she doesn't suffer fools. Besides, that cemetery is too close to the French Quarter – drunks and drug dealers are always trying to get in, so they've got more patrols. Last new moon, your occultists were at St. Louis Number 2. It's always the old cemeteries they go for. But my guess is they'll try St. Louis Number 3 or Metairie. Number three is nice and quiet.”
“And why Metairie?” Riga asked.
“Because they seem to like that one best. Don't know why, since it's more exposed – doesn't have walls like this one. But they're holding their meetings there every three or four months.”
“Thank you,” Riga said. “Why are you helping me? Why did you give me the key?”
Grunting, he picked up the shovel. “I'm helping him. And that key opens all sorts of doors. You might find it useful.”
“Who are you?” Riga whispered.
The old man vanished. It was an answer.
Chapter 30
The Hoodoo Detective Page 23