4 The Infernal Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  They tramped inside, knocking the snow from their boots.

  “I don’t get it,” Cesar said. “Why the extra security? Why do you think Gregorovich is a threat?”

  “He’s become obsessed with me.” She trailed her hand across the keys to the grand piano as they walked past. A note plinked, discord.

  “Why? Why you?”

  “How should I know?”

  He dropped heavily onto one of the leather couches. “Come on. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing.”

  His voice hardened. “You hired me to protect you. I can’t do that if you’re keeping things from me.”

  “Cesar…”

  “Fine.” He rose. “I’m outta here. Get yourself another patsy.”

  “Wait.”

  Slowly, he lowered himself back onto the couch. “I’m listening,” he said, wary.

  “I broke into Vasily’s lawyer’s office last night, and took a computer file.”

  “Give it back.”

  “I can’t.” She paced before the stone fireplace. “I had to melt the safe door off and the heat damaged it. The file’s useless.”

  “Give it back anyway. Once Gregorovich knows it’s worthless, you’re off the hook.”

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “It’s leverage as long as he doesn’t know it’s worthless.”

  “Are you out of your mind? There’s no leverage if you’re dead.”

  “He won’t kill me.”

  “And you know this how?”

  She hesitated. “It’s because of what I am. And because there’s something about me that not even he’s sure of yet. But he wants to be.”

  “Riga—”

  “I’ve made my decision. This discussion is over.” She stomped from the room.

  Cesar followed her back to the guard room. They shut the door quietly behind them. The guard looked up, his face lined with hope.

  “So?” Ash said. “You talk her out of it?”

  Cesar shook his head, a quick negative.

  “What have you decided, Thomas?” Riga asked. “Can you keep your mouth shut? Go on as if nothing’s happened? As if we haven’t discovered the bugs? Haven’t had this conversation?”

  He swallowed. “And you won’t prosecute?”

  “Not if you keep up your end. But next week, you should start job hunting. And don’t expect a reference.”

  Some of the tension in the guard’s face released. “That’s fair.”

  “It’s better than you deserve,” Cesar snarled.

  She and Cesar left the room, and he closed the door behind him.

  “Watch him,” she said in a low voice.

  “What are you going to do?”

  She walked into the foyer, stopping before the Christmas tree. Its lights cast a mellow glow on the stone floor.

  “Head back to the casino,” she said. “I told Terry I’d meet her there for dinner.”

  He zipped up his jacket. “I’ll take you there.”

  “Someone needs to watch Thomas, make sure he doesn’t call Gregorovich.”

  “Ash can do it,” he said. “Where are you going for dinner?”

  “We’ll dine at the casino.”

  “And afterward?”

  “I’ll sleep at the penthouse tonight.”

  “Good. Better security there. Don’t go anywhere without an escort.”

  “I didn’t hire you as a bodyguard.”

  “Yeah, well, I may as well drive you to the casino. You should be safe there.”

  She hitched her bag on her shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “Congratulations, by the way.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “On the wedding,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if I should get you a gift or not.”

  “Help me get Vasily. That’s all I need.”

  Chapter 31

  Riga’s satchel hung heavy on her shoulder, as she walked into the penthouse. The guard outside the elevator door nodded at her, and she plastered on a smile of recognition.

  Extra security. Good. On the drive over Cesar’s buddy had called him, reported in – the penthouse was free of listening devices. Riga would have been happier to have Cesar still with her, but he’d awkwardly declined the invitation, saying she’d be safe in the penthouse. The casino was a fortress at the best of times, prepared for robbers and cheats. Tonight, she’d spotted twice the armed manpower than usual. Donovan’s father was taking the threat seriously.

  Peregrine stepped out of the study, teetering to a halt beside the totem pole. She grinned broadly. “The password. We got in. And just wait to see what we’ve found.”

  Riga put her hand to her heart. “Something good?”

  “Better. Something bad. I’ll let Dot explain it.” She turned and walked toward the kitchen. “She’s the financial expert.”

  “Really?” She followed her aunt into the kitchen.

  “Don’t sound so surprised.” Dot sat at a stool by the counter, her black dress cascading past her knees, a waterfall of ink.

  Riga pulled up a chair and sat beside her. “What did you find?”

  “His books.” Dot took a sip from her mug. “Records. Income. Properties. We checked the addresses – the Internet is a marvelous thing. Houses of prostitution, farms—”

  “Farms?”

  “He doesn’t own them, just ships the people he’s trafficked there to work, collects a cut of the income. Judging from his take, I doubt the workers are paid – more profitable if they’re worked as slaves.”

  Riga braced her elbow on the counter, rubbed her forehead. “God.”

  “It’s incredible how much money he’s making on people – it’s become the bulk of his operation. We found some names, a Mexican drug cartel, so it looks like he’s into that as well. But the drugs are chump change compared to selling people.”

  She had him. Riga’s muscles went slack with relief. She had him.

  “You’ve got your information.” Peregrine cocked her head. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Get it to someone who can use it,” Riga said. “Where’s the computer drive?”

  Silently, Peregrine led Riga to the study, disconnected the drive from the computer. She put it in Riga’s palm. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Riga put the drive in her leather bag. “Even if I don’t, it’s too late now. I’m committed. How’s Dot coming with that spell?”

  “We need three necro—”

  “You’ve got two.” Riga checked her watch. “I told Terry I’d meet her at seven. We do the spell at midnight, when the veil is thinnest.”

  “If we wait until tomorrow, we’ll be better prepared.”

  “No. We need to do it before Gregorovich has a chance to mobilize his team. We do the spell tonight.”

  “I’ll tell Dot.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be back soon.” Riga went to Donovan’s bedroom, knocked.

  “Come in,” Donovan’s father said.

  She swung the high door open and walked inside.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, boots off, wiggling his toes in his black socks. His tie was loosened, and he held a file folder in his hands. Mr. Mosse rose. “Riga. What’s going on?”

  She slid back a painting of a cowboy on a rearing horse, and punched in the code for the safe behind it. “I just wanted to keep this secure. What are you working on?”

  “Going over the financial reports. I had my sec—assistant print them for me. I just can’t get used to reading on a computer screen.”

  She smiled. “Times have changed. You’ve adapted well, all things considered.”

  “I may have.” He tossed the file on the bed. “But I’m not so sure about the casino. The Tahoe property hasn’t been doing well for years.”

  She put the drive inside a metal drawer, and closed the safe. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters! I built this hotel. This is my legacy.”

&n
bsp; “No.” She slid the painting shut, and turned to him. “Donovan is your legacy. The casino is just a building.”

  “It’s not that simple. Donovan needs this business to survive.”

  “Is that why you’ve stuck around all these years? Because of the casino?”

  His eyes darkened. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

  “You built something amazing. And Donovan loves it – as part of his heritage and because he loves the business, the action, the drama. And he’ll turn this casino around. But he doesn’t need it. What comes first for Donovan is family, not the casino. That’s really all he needs, and honestly, I’m not even sure he needs that. He’s a smart, strong, honorable man. No matter what happens, he’ll be okay. And so will you.”

  “You don’t understand what it’s like to build a business.”

  “I had one once. A real business with employees and expense reports. Closing it hurt. But it was just a business, a thing, a means to an end. You aren’t this casino, and neither is Donovan. You’re both much more important.”

  “You sound like my wife.”

  “Thanks. She was a smart lady.”

  “Smart and tough and soft all at the same time.”

  “You miss her.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then I think it’s time we got you two back together. We’re going to do the spell tonight, here, at midnight.”

  “Then that’s where I’ll be waiting.”

  *****

  The casino seemed unnaturally warm, and she walked down the hallway to Terry’s room carrying her pea coat in the crook of her arm, wondering why she’d brought it at all. They’d be eating in the hotel. But the coat was an odd comfort, as was the weight of the leather satchel over her shoulder.

  Her teeth had a sandy texture. Had she brushed them that morning? Dimly, she tried to remember. With Donovan gone she felt lost, disoriented.

  Tonight’s magic had to work.

  She stopped before a door. Scratched her head. Was Terry’s room number oh-five or oh-seven? There was too much going on. Her brain could only handle so much information and then facts began to bleed out. She should have just written down the room number.

  The door popped open and a white-haired woman in jeans and a blue lamė blouse took a step back, her eyes widening with surprise, then narrowing. “Oh, it’s you again!”

  Riga stumbled for a name, realized she’d never gotten one. It was the woman in the red-kimono, who’d complained about the shouting, the thin walls. And something else… “Again… You said we were fighting again.”

  The woman’s chin jutted forward. “What are you talking about?”

  “The last time we met, you complained about the noise from our fighting, that it hadn’t been the first time you’d heard arguing from our room. What did you hear the first time?”

  “You should know, you were the one doing the yelling.”

  Riga dug in her bag, pulled out her wallet. She flipped it open to her private investigator’s license. “Actually, I wasn’t. I’m a private investigator. I was on a case – it has to do with the people in the room next door.”

  The woman grabbed the wallet, studied the license. She handed it back. “The guy who was arrested for killing Madison Henna, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Do you remember what you heard us – them – arguing about the first time?”

  “The woman – who I thought was you,” she regarded Riga narrowly, “was yelling about a divorce.”

  “He was going to divorce her?”

  She snorted. “Other way around. She said she’d wasted eight years of her life and wasn’t going to be his broodmare. Called him some pretty nasty names.”

  “What?”

  She lowered her eyelids. “I really couldn’t say.”

  “I really wish you would.”

  “It starts with an f and ends with a t, and in British English refers to a bundle of sticks.”

  “Riiight.” Riga rubbed the back of her neck. “She said he was gay?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, he said he didn’t want one. They could stay together and she could raise the child, he’d support her. Sounded like a good deal to me.” The woman stepped back and shut the door.

  Riga blew out her breath, and walked to Terry’s door.

  She raised her hand, hesitated.

  Terry and Cam had spent eight years trying to get pregnant. Once she did, if he’d told her he was gay, or she’d discovered the truth…

  It was a motive for murder. Terry could have managed the attack on Cameron in Riga’s bedroom – struck him from behind, then put the bag over his head to smother him, finish the job. And Terry had been nearby when Madison had been poisoned, could have slipped the poison into Cam’s drink, and put the empty bottle into his pocket.

  Motive, possibly. Opportunity, definitely.

  Means? How had she gotten the nicotine?

  Terry’s door opened. Hand steady, extended, holding a Glock. “These walls really are thin. Come in, Riga. Slowly.”

  Riga raised her hands chest-level, and walked inside. For every step she took, Terry moved backward, keeping her distance, out of range. The writer’s corduroy pants made zipping sounds with each step, and Riga suppressed a wild urge to laugh.

  “What’s going on, Terry?”

  “I think you know.”

  Riga’s world was the barrel of the gun. She forced herself to expand it, look at Terry, at her hand, her arms, the long hair cascading down her shoulders, the point just above her eyes. If Terry let her guard down, let Riga get closer, she might be able to take the gun away.

  “Not too close,” Terry said. “Your niece told me you know how to take guns away.”

  Riga pressed her lips together. Dammit, Pen. They were going to have a talk about what information stayed in the family. If Riga got out of this alive.

  Beads of sweat formed above Riga’s lip. “Okay. Let’s work through this. You killed – tried to kill, Cam. Twice. But Madison got in the way the second time.”

  “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

  Riga kept her voice steady, low. “What you’ve been through? Madison’s in a morgue.”

  Terry’s hand shook. “That was an accident. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “I know. It was that witch, Barbara’s fault. She’s a gardener. She gave you the nicotine. She really can see the future, you know. She knew what would happen.”

  The writer’s mouth fell open, making an ‘o.’ “How did you know?”

  “She told me you talked about aphids. Old school gardeners used nicotine to kill them. And giving you the nicotine, knowing or suspecting what you really wanted it for, is the sort of thing she’d do. Is it true? Is Cam gay?” Riga asked conversationally, tamping down the rage building inside her. This woman was not going to snuff her out.

  “Eight years.” Terry’s voice quivered. “I stayed with him for eight years when I could have been with someone else who really loved me. And then once I got pregnant, once he’d gotten what he wanted, he tells me he’d been having flings, picking up men in bars, that he cared about me, but he doesn’t love me that way. I was just a uterus to him, a baby maker.”

  Keep her talking. “You wanted a baby, too.”

  “And do you know what the best part was? He told me we could stay married, and I could stay home and raise the baby, be his live-in maid and nanny. How would you have felt?” A tear trembled on her eyelash.

  “I would have wanted to kill him.” Riga’s voice hardened, her anger bubbling to the surface. “But you don’t kill someone for being a selfish asshole.”

  Terry raised the gun fractionally.

  “So what’s the play here, Terry? You won’t be able to pin my death on Cam. Last I checked, he’s still in jail. And then there’s Barbara. At some point she’ll come up for air. She’ll know what you did, if she doesn’t already. Will you silence her, too?”

  She wav
ed the gun toward the rumpled bed. “Sit down. I need to think. And put your hands on your head, and lace your fingers.”

  Riga did as she was told. Terry wasn’t going to make this easy.

  Terry leaned against the desk, keeping her gun trained on Riga.

  “Don’t make this worse for yourself,” Riga said. “Turn yourself in.”

  Terry’s voice quaked. “Shut up.”

  “A good lawyer could get you off. Pregnancy hormones running amuck—”

  “I said shut up!” Terry worried her bottom lip.

  Riga waited. Calm. She had to stay calm, let go of her fury, her fear. She focused on her breathing. I think, therefore I am. I breathe, therefore I’m still alive.

  A TV came to life in the room next door, a newswoman pronouncing on the latest crisis in the Middle East, her voice flattened by the hotel walls. She segued into another story – a congressman’s dalliance with a prostitute. Riga’s arms ached.

  “Okay.” Terry straightened off the desk. “Okay.” She grabbed her purse off the desk chair and slung it over her shoulder. “Leave your purse. Put your coat on.” Terry grabbed her coat from the back of the chair, draped the coat over her gun arm. “We’re leaving. We’ll take the stairs, go down to the parking lot. If you don’t give me any trouble, I won’t shoot you.”

  “It’s a deal.” Riga paused. “I’m going to look silly walking through the hotel with my hands on my head.”

  “You can put your hands down. Slowly.”

  Riga lowered her hands, shrugged into her pea coat.

  They encountered no one in the hallway. The stairs were empty, their footsteps echoing on the metal steps. A door burst open beneath them and a gaggle of teenage girls darted up the stairs. Terry took a quick step back, her coat hiding the gun. The girls raced past, and Riga pressed against the concrete wall, heart thudding. There’d been an opportunity there, but she’d hesitated, unsure if Terry would open fire, hit one of the girls.

  The door clanged shut above them, and the girls were gone.

  “Keep moving,” Terry said.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they stepped outside, the cold a slap to Riga’s face. Three women stood near the doorway, smoking cigarettes, joking. They glanced at Riga and Terry, and looked away. One of the women made a remark, and the others laughed.