A door banged open and she leapt away from the cell.
Sheriff King stood framed in the doorway. “Time’s up.”
She nodded. “You’ll hear from me soon,” she said to Donovan.
“I know,” he said. “Riga…” He gave her a pleading look. “The casino. Can you…?”
“I’ll talk to your father.”
Donovan’s face fell. “Talking isn’t going to work.”
The Sheriff escorted her to his office.
Donovan’s father waited inside, his tux as neatly pressed as if he’d just stepped into it, rather than having spent the last four hours at the police station. He was examining a Remington sculpture on the Sheriff’s desk – a cowboy on a rearing horse. When they entered, he looked up. “How is he?”
“He’s doing okay,” Riga said.
Mr. Mosse sat down in the chair across from the desk, and crossed one leg over the other. “Sheriff, the photographer may be the obvious suspect, but he has no motive. Something else is going on here.”
King sat down behind the desk. His cracked leather chair creaked beneath his weight. “Mm… What do you think that is?”
“I think if she was poisoned with nicotine, it was awfully fast acting,” Donovan’s father said.
Riga looked at him in surprise. What did he know about the poison?
“Who says it was nicotine?” King asked.
“I heard a bottle of it was discovered on the photographer. Is that why you brought him in?”
King smiled. “That’s not why I wanted to talk to you and Miss Hayworth. There’s the matter of a restraining order against Vasily Gregorovich. We served him this afternoon.” He slid a folded paper across the desk to Riga. “And as I told you, we’re required to serve you as well. You can’t go near him either.”
Riga nodded, swallowed. “Got it.”
The Sheriff folded his hands across his stomach, leaned back in his chair. “And while I hope he doesn’t violate it, nothing would give me greater pleasure than hauling him in – for any reason. What’s Gregorovich’s interest in you? Sexual?”
“That seems to be a part of it,” she said cautiously.
“Tell me about your encounters with him.”
The Sheriff scribbled notes on a yellow pad as she talked. She told him everything, from their first meeting last month to his latest appearance in the bar.
Mr. Mosse put his other foot on the floor with a thunk. “You didn’t tell me about that.”
“Things have been moving quickly,” she said.
“And you’ve made it clear to Gregorovich that you don’t want further contact?” the Sheriff asked.
“Repeatedly.”
He nodded. “This is an emergency restraining order. It’s temporary, which is how we got it so quickly. Then there’ll be a hearing – probably in a few weeks – to determine if a TRO – a temporary restraining order – is warranted. After that, there’ll be another hearing for a more permanent restraining order.”
“Got it. Thanks,” she said. “What do I need to know about Gregorovich?”
He hesitated. She and the Sheriff had a history. She thought there might even be some respect there. But he didn’t give out information easily.
Finally, he said, “He’s got a rap sheet – petty stuff. Rumor is he’s moved on to bigger things, but we haven’t been able to nail him for anything. We’ve been trying for years, but he’s always slipped through the net.”
“And the rumors are organized crime?” she asked. “Human trafficking?”
The Sheriff leaned forward. “Trafficking is a new one. Where did you hear it?”
“Vasily hinted at it to me,” she said. “That’s all.”
Sheriff King picked up the pen, turned it over in his meaty hand. “Interesting. Why would he tell you that?”
“I’m not sure if he was bragging, or trying to scare me. Or goad me.”
“Well, if you see him again, my advice is not to stick around long enough for a conversation, and then call me.” The Sheriff rose from his chair. “Mr. Mosse, you’ve been unusually quiet. Something you want to say?”
He shook his head. “Nothing at all.”
Which was about what that restraining order was worth, she thought: nothing at all.
Chapter 21
“You… traitor,” a feminine voice graveled.
Riga buried her head in the pillow. “Leave me alone, Brigitte.”
“Who’s Brigitte?”
Curtain rings scraped and light flashed across her face. Riga lifted her head, one hand raised against the sun, and was assaulted by the smell of stale cigarettes.
Dora stood beside her bed, fists pressed into the hips of her jeans. Her iron gray hair curled about her ears, as if freshly washed. She wore a plaid blouse and tennis shoes. “Why didn’t you tell me Cam was arrested? And why did Donovan get him a lawyer?”
Riga groaned. “What time is it?”
“Ten.” The newspaper editor crossed her arms. “Since when did you sleep in this late?”
Ten. She’d gotten home at five. That meant five hours of sleep over a forty-eight hour period. She rolled onto her side and lay there, considering. At some point, she’d have to complete the motion, swing her legs out of bed. “How’d you get in here?”
“Your aunt Peregrine let me in. Funny old broad. She says it’s time you get up. I agree.”
“I’m going to have to talk to my aunt about personal space.”
“So what happened last night? And why didn’t you call me? I thought we were friends.”
“I didn’t call you because I didn’t get home until five this morning. Cam didn’t kill Madison.”
“Fantastic.” Dora sat down on the bed, curling one leg beneath her. Riga scooted over, making room. “What have you got?”
“Nothing. Nothing concrete.”
“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”
“Say what?”
“You know I hate it.”
“Hate what?”
“Off the record?”
Riga smiled. Off the record was the reporter’s bane – information they couldn’t actually use. “Off the record, Madison drank and she dropped. But correlation isn’t necessarily causality. Off the record, I’d wonder how long it takes for someone to die of nicotine poisoning.”
“Nicotine? That’s what they’re saying?”
“They’re not saying anything. But that’s why Cam was brought in.”
“Hm… So my murderous photographer may turn out to be wrongfully accused man.” Dora wiggled her foot. “Right. I’ll let the other rags tear Mitchell apart while we take the high road. You’re sure about this?”
Riga ground the palms of her hands into her eyes, gritty with lack of sleep. “Positive.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Help?” Riga’s mental gears, rusty, reluctant, turned. Dora had access to information, had been an ally in the past. “Vasily Gregorovich.”
“The mobster?”
Riga sat up on her elbow, and the duvet slipped to her breasts. Hastily, she grabbed for it. She’d been too tired to slip into pajamas last night. “You know Gregorovich?”
“I know everyone. What do you need?”
“Everything you’ve got on him. He’s been sniffing around the periphery of my investigation. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t blame you.” Dora’s face creased with concern. “Honey, he’s bad news.”
“I need to know what I’m up against.”
“You should have told me about him earlier. I wouldn’t wish that S.O.B. on my worst enemy. Of course I’ll get you what I can.”
“Thanks.” Riga yawned.
Dora rose. “By the way, my colleagues are at your gates.”
“What?”
“The press,” she said, grinning.
“Why? What the hell do they expect? Madison’s ghost to walk up our driveway and perform Hamlet’s soliloquy?” Donovan wasn’t even a B-list celebrity. Until he�
��d been falsely accused of some spectacular crimes weeks ago, his appearances were strictly in the business pages. Was there such thing as a C-list?
“Madison’s murder is a big deal. Really big. The media is looking for angles. Your boyfriend’s unfortunate arrest last month is an angle. Just as a head’s up, the talking heads are already speculating there may be a connection.”
“The person who did it was arrested.”
“Look. Slimy casino owner gets arrested.” Dora held up a hand as Riga began to protest. “That’s the spin, not what I think. Casino owner gets released and someone else takes the fall. A few weeks later, Madison shows up. Madison dies. From an outsider’s perspective, it looks weird.”
“It is weird,” Riga said. “But one’s got nothing to do with another.”
“The majority of the reporters are outside the Sheriff’s office, if it makes you feel better.”
“It doesn’t. Why do you look so happy?”
“You should have seen their faces when I waltzed past.” The editor walked to the bedroom door. “I’ll get on Gregorovich’s trail. You get up, take a shower, drink some coffee.”
The door snicked shut behind the editor. Wearily, Riga threw the covers off, slid her bare feet to the cold wooden floor, and stumbled to the bathroom.
She showered, reveling in the feel of the hot water on her back, and dressed quickly in her standard khaki slacks and white blouse. Standing before the mirror, she knotted a colorful scarf – a gift from Donovan – around her neck. Experimentally, she touched a finger to a dark shadow beneath one eye. In the end, makeup could only do so much, and in her case, it had reached its limit.
Riga went to the window and pushed the curtains wide. Sun sparkled off the snow, the lake, momentarily blinding her. A crow chattered and clicked its beak in a pine tree, drooping with snow. The bird fluttered to the balcony and hopped to the glass, tilted its head. They regarded each other. It pecked the glass once. Twice.
Nervy. “Beat it.”
The bird pecked the glass again.
“You do not know your place in the food chain, buddy.” She smiled at the thought. Eating crow. Hoped she wouldn’t be doing that anytime soon.
The bird cawed, and flapped off.
She sat down at her laptop computer for a bout of Internet research. Nicotine was an interesting drug –deadly, but curable if caught in time. Donovan’s father had been right about that. It could be distilled from cigarettes, so a motivated person with a computer could figure out how to get it.
She searched the names of her guests. There was almost too much on Briian – he’d bounced unrepentantly from one scandal to another. Naked Jacuzzis, drunk driving, drag racing, another man’s wife… She wondered about the photos in Cam’s pocket. Were there others? And did Briian have shame enough for blackmail to work on him?
The country stars’ online lives were fairly clean. Some whispers in chat rooms of drugs and drinking, but nothing splashed across the tabloids, nothing confirmed.
She typed in Rupert Howell’s name and found him easily. News articles about functions at his museum, pictures of him with local big wigs, even the transcript of a lecture he’d given at a university on demonic possession (he debunked it).
And how did this knowledge help her? Howell might be cursing her from afar, aiding and abetting Gregorovich, but her problems were more immediate.
She had to help Donovan.
Riga dug her cell phone out of her leather satchel and called Briian, suggested a late lunch. His voice was hollow, hesitant, but he agreed.
Next she called Cam’s lawyer, and asked if she could see Cam that day. Request denied. Riga hung up and blew out her breath. She wasn’t Cam’s wife, had no good reason to visit, was lucky she’d got in the first time. But she wanted to see Donovan so badly it hurt.
Never mind that. More important she get him out than moon over him in jail.
She found the phone number for Mr. Gupta’s mini-mart, dialed.
“Good morning, this is Sanjay Gupta.”
“Mr. Gupta, this is Riga Hayworth.”
“Miss Hayworth.” His voice chilled. “This is unexpected. What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me what your daughter was doing at my reception last night.”
A pause. “My daughter?”
“At my party. Without an invitation, I might add. Did you send her?” She picked up a cufflink off the bureau, explored its edges with her fingers.
“No. If she attended your party without permission it was not only a gross breach of manners, but also a breach of trust. I did not know of it. I’ll speak with her. It won’t happen again.”
“Good. I need to find Vasily Gregorovich’s fortune teller, and since he sees a lot of her, logic says she’s somewhere in the area. Do you know where I can find her?”
Mr. Gupta sighed. “And giving you this information is my penalty for Afreen’s sin?”
“If it makes you feel better to think of it that way, yes. But we’re on the same side on this one. I want to stop Vasily, and his black lodge.” Stop them, take them down, take them apart.
“So you say.” The sound of fingernails tapping on glass. The counter? “Yes… It may be a good idea for you to see what she’s become. Her name is Barbara Yaganovich.”
“Barb—?” Riga clamped her mouth shut. That was the second time this week she’d heard the mystic’s name. And in Riga’s line of work, there was no such thing as coincidence.
“Yes, Barbara Yaganovich. She lives on the east shore.” He gave her an address, directions. “She has no phone, so finding her may not be easy.”
“You know her then?”
“I’ve… encountered her. I doubt anyone knows her.” He laughed, a dry sound, leaves whispering across pavement. “I wish I could be a fly on the wall for that meeting. Good luck, Miss Hayworth.”
*****
Briian sat, his head turned toward the window. Outside it, the lake glittered, sapphire against the snow. But it was Briian that drew everyone’s eye, and for a moment, Riga understood his star power. He was magnetic. He vibrated with energy. And he was gorgeous – artfully tousled hair, olive skin glowing with youth. Abruptly, Riga felt the full weight of her forty-four years. And then she saw his legs bouncing beneath the table, and his fingers drumming on the white cloth, and the illusion vanished.
Riga slid past the restaurant’s round tables, crowded with rosy-cheeked customers in parkas and colorful ski gear. They shot covert glances at the actor. Is he…? Isn’t that…? How many autographs had he been hit up for this morning?
Briian glanced up as she approached, stood and air-kissed her cheek. “Riga. God. What a night. Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
Riga arched her brow, but said nothing. She’d been the one to arrange the lunch, but if he thought it was his idea… Why not?
She pulled back a chair, and it scraped against the wood floor. “I’m so sorry, Briian.” She sat down. “I know you and Madison were close.”
“I’d asked her to marry me.” He looked down, bunched a cloth napkin in his fist.
A waiter glided to their table, and they ordered drinks: hot tea for Briian, a glass of Cab for Riga. The waiter drifted away.
“I didn’t know that,” she said.
“No one did. We hadn’t announced it yet.”
And Riga wondered if it was true. But why would Briian make it up? She carefully unrolled her napkin, placed it in her lap. “How did you and Madison meet?”
“We played opposite each other in To Die For. Did you see it?”
“Of course,” she lied. “Loved it.”
“Then you were one of the few. It didn’t get very good reviews, though I thought we both gave strong performances.” He shrugged. “Still, if the story’s a dog, there’s only so much an actor can do to carry it.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad – both you and Madison took the parts.”
“The script was great, at first. And then they started changing things mid-s
tream, bringing in other writers to—” he made air quotes – “fix the script.”
A young woman in a pink ski suit approached the table, felt pen clenched in her hand. “Excuse me, are you Briian Garcia?”
He flashed his ivory smile, and the woman blinked rapidly.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Would you sign my sleeve?”
“Sure.” He took her pen, and dashed off an autograph on her arm. Impressive considering the uneven fabric.
“Thanks!” She hesitated, then hurried away.
He turned back to Riga, and the color rose in his cheeks.
She laughed. “You must get that a lot.”
“And a sleeve’s not the weirdest thing I’ve been asked to sign.”
The waiter brought their drinks, took their lunch orders. When he’d left, Riga leaned forward.
“Briian, tell me exactly what you saw last night before Madison collapsed.”
He rolled the mug of tea between his hands. “Cam Mitchell was taking pictures. Madison wanted one – God knows why – and dragged me over. He snapped us. Then one of Donovan’s relatives – I can’t remember her name, he’s got so many – came up to me. We started talking. I wasn’t paying much attention to Mitchell and Madison. When I turned back, he was giving her the champagne. We toasted.”
“Think carefully. He says she took the champagne from him. Did she take it or did he give it to her?”
“What does it matter? She’s dead.” His voice rose. “He killed her.”
Curious heads turned toward their table.
Riga leaned closer, lowering her voice. “If she took it from him, then he may have been the intended victim.”
Briian gave a quick shake of his head. “He had the poison in his pocket, remember?”
“But why do you think Cam wanted to kill her?”
“That photo shoot he did of Madison. He made her look ancient.”
“That sounds like a reason for Madison to want him dead.”
He stared out the window, lines appearing at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. She was furious. And she let everyone know it. After she got through with Mitchell, there weren’t a whole lot of actresses in Hollywood who would let him near them with a lens. This wedding was the first big event Mitchell’s had with a woman as the subject.”
4 The Infernal Detective Page 16