1 Death Warmed Over

by Kent Holloway

  “Yeah. Instead of arresting her, the cops Baker Acted her,” Ceci explained.

  “Baker Act?”

  “It’s where Florida law enforcement can forcibly hospitalize someone who’s a threat to themselves or others,” Becca told him. “It’s limited but can be very effective against suicidal or mentally deranged people.”

  Oh, how I’d love to use that against you right now, Mr. Mot.

  “Anyway, the cops, feeling she definitely fit the bill, sent her to University Medical Center,” Ceci sniffed. “The hospital held her overnight for observation. That was as long as they could hold her without a court order. After a while, she calmed down and was allowed to go home. That’s when she called me. But she wouldn’t talk about it with me at all. Said she was just too humiliated about the whole thing. I just drove her home and she went inside and locked everything up.”

  “Okay, getting back to this Santero who supposedly cursed Ms. Alvarez.” Silas, who’d finally taken a seat in a reading chair across from her, leaned forward. “You don’t happen to know his name, do you?”

  Ceci’s eyes widened. “Oh, uh…look, I don’t want to cause any trouble for him.”

  “Why not?” Becca asked. “Looks like he’s a good suspect in your friend’s death. Why wouldn’t you want to give us his name?”

  “Because that dude scares me. He scares a lot of people. Santeria isn’t the only thing he’s into.”

  “I promise, Ms. Palmer. He won’t know where the information came from. We just need his name.”

  The girl eyed them suspiciously for several uncomfortable seconds of hand-wringing. “Jacinto Garcia,” she finally said.

  Becca sat up at the mention of his name. “Garcia? Are you sure?”

  Ceci nodded while keeping her gaze steadily at her own feet.

  “Who’s Jacinto Garcia?” Silas asked. “I mean, besides a death-curse-making evil Santero?”

  “He’s bad news,” was Becca’s only reply.

  7

  THE SUMMER HAVEN CHRONICLER

  WEDNESDAY, 11:24 AM

  Silas looked over at Becca as she drove her cruiser south along State Road A1A. “So, where are we going now? To see this Jacinto guy?” His voice was garbled because of the Warhead slurping around in his mouth.

  She shook her head. “Jacinto Garcia is a member of Los Cuernos del Diablo, a local gang with ties to a Colombian drug cartel. He’s listed as a person of interest in several unsolved homicides, not to mention a slew of drug charges.” She flicked on her blinkers and turned left down a narrow, unmarked road. “Before we go stirring up trouble with him, I need to do some research.”

  “Los Cuernos del Diablo,” Silas repeated. “The Devil’s Horns?”

  She nodded.

  “Sounds soft and snuggly.”

  Becca smiled, then a moment later, she turned into the parking lot of a small single-story brick office with a larger building added to the back constructed of corrugated metal. The sign on the pane-glass window read The Summer Haven Chronicler in fancy, Old-English style letters.

  She parked the car and the two of them got out and walked into the newspaper’s front office. An elderly woman, in a purple and flower-print dress, typed away on an old fashioned electric typewriter behind a long countertop, that acted as a front desk to the office. A chrome bell rested in front of her, but from the spectral fronds of cobwebs covering it, it looked like it hadn’t been rung in a while.

  “Apparently, our intrepid journalist isn’t a fan of modern technology,” Silas whispered as they sidled up to the front desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Blakely is a bit of a technophobe,” the woman said, not looking up from her work. The sound of heavy machinery rumbling in the back of the building made hearing the slight old woman difficult. “If you ask him about it, he’ll lament about the fall of real journalism in our country and the assault the Internet has made against traditional media.” She finally looked up at him from behind her bifocals. “It gets rather tedious, so don’t mention it to him unless you’ve got a few hours to kill.”

  “Point taken and appreciated.” He cast that ice-melting grin at her, but she appeared just as solid as when they’d entered the door.

  “Ms…” Becca glanced at the name plate on the woman’s desk. “…Hamilton, I’m Chief Cole.”

  “Oh, I’m aware of who you are, Chief. We ran a story on your swearing-in ceremony. It was all very exciting.” Her eyes darkened. “Though I’m still so sorry about your father’s passing, dear. He was such a good man. This town misses him terribly.”

  “Thank you,” Becca said as she opened up her notebook and glanced down absently at it. She always got uncomfortable when her dad was brought up by anyone from town. “Ms. Hamilton, we’re here to speak with Mr. Blakely…”

  “About Andrea’s death…yes, I’ve been expecting you.”

  “You have?”

  “Of course. Where else would you come? After all, it was Spenser Blakely who broke the story about that horrid curse on that sweet girl. He’s been trying to open up the eyes of the Summer Haven community to this weird cult since he first heard about it from Andrea.”

  “Cult?” Silas asked.

  “Santeria. It’s like Voodoo, but different. Just as evil though…if not more.”

  He let out a frustrated groan. “Ms. Hamilton, I can assure you…some of my closest colleagues are involved with Voodoo. One or two dabble here and there in Santeria. These religions—their customs and rituals—may seem bizarre to a Westerner such as yourself, but they’re far from evil. In fact, the Kongonese and Yoruba communities from which these religions originated would have found the Romanesque customs of the early colonists who enslaved them most bizarre indeed. It’s a matter of perspective, really.”

  The old woman’s mouth went slack as she glared at him behind suspicious eyes.

  “Forgive my companion, Ms. Hamilton,” Becca interrupted. “He’s from out of town.”

  “Ah! That makes sense,” she said, still keeping one eye fixed directly on Silas. “I bet he’s from California. Lots of weirdos in California.”

  “There certainly are.” The chief was smiling. “Now, is Mr. Blakely here now?”

  “Of course. Of course.” She stood, walked over to an aisle between four cluttered desks, and pointed toward a large green door. “He’s back in the print shop. Working on a late edition for this afternoon to break the news of Andrea’s death.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Hamilton,” Becca said before taking a step toward the backdoor.

  But Silas stopped mid-step and turned to the old woman. “A late edition?”

  Ms. Hamilton nodded politely, but Becca could tell she wasn’t a big fan of the tall tanned man in the jet-black suit. The old woman was probably a good judge of character.

  “That seems kind of expensive. Especially for a small newspaper like the Chronicler.”

  “It is,” she answered, going back to her desk and sitting down behind her typewriter. “But Andrea was family. Mr. Blakely feels he owes it to her to get her story out there.”

  “Of course, it doesn’t hurt to sell papers either, I imagine. What with an evil ‘cult’ being Blakely’s chief suspect and all, eh?”

  She scowled at him before returning to her typing without another word.

  “Come on, Prince Charming,” Becca said. “Before you get us thrown out of here because of your utter lack of tact.”

  At the rate he was going, Silas Mot was going to drive away any and all potential witnesses with his wild, unyielding personality. Not to mention his insane delusions. Fortunately, he’d not mentioned that to anyone but her, but she could only imagine what people would say if they discovered his ridiculous claims.

  No one would talk to me about this, or any other case, if they ever found out. It’d be career suicide.

  Setting her doubts aside, she motioned Silas to follow as she walked to the back of the building and stepped through the door into the larger metal building behind the newspaper’s main office
. The sound of the printer inside the print shop was near deafening and Becca had to concentrate in order to tune the mechanical grinding out to search for Spenser Blakely.

  As far as she could remember, she’d only met the man twice in her life. The first time was when she was fifteen years old and her high school softball team had won the state championship. She, and the rest of her teammates, had had their picture taken by Blakely’s late wife, Daphne, while he had interviewed her about her game-winning homerun when their bus had returned home.

  The second time she’d met him was during her swearing-in ceremony to become the chief of police. He’d been very polite, offering his condolences over the loss of her father, then proceeded to grill her over how she planned on cleaning up her dad’s dirty little police department. Of course, there’d never been any accusations that her father’s administration had been corrupt. Nor had any new evidence of corruption come to light after his death. But that wasn’t going to stop the struggling newspaper man from trying to sell copies with any scandal he could churn up.

  It was one of the reasons Becca had refused to pay any attention to his little gossip rag since returning home last year.

  A tap on her shoulder brought her out of her reverie and she turned to see Silas pointing to their left and saying something. With the sound of the printer rumbling off the late edition, she couldn’t hear what he said, but the meaning was clear: they should look on the other side of the machinery. With a nod, she walked in that direction, rounded the corner of the massive printer taking up most of the room, and practically bowled poor Spenser Blakely down when they ran into each other.

  The journalist was a short, round man, in his early fifties. His thinning gray hair swirled around like down feathers in a light breeze, and he had a thick Burt Reynolds mustache with flecks of gray sprouting here and there like flakes of dandruff that would never fall away.

  After a moment of being startled, the man placed a hand over his chest and gave a short drowned-out laugh, before holding up a finger to indicate that she should hold on for a minute. He strode over to the far wall, opened up a metal box mounted there, and flipped a large switch that shut down the running press.

  “Ah!” he said, removing the pair of sound-suppressing earphones from his head, and turning back to his guests. “That’s better.” He walked over to Becca, hand extended. She shook it politely, then introduced the reporter to Silas Mot.

  “He’s assisting with the investigation involving the death of Andrea Alvarez,” she told him up front, hoping to extinguish any curiosity he might develop for the strange man. “An old colleague of mine, who just offered to lend a hand.”

  “I see.” Blakely looked Silas up and down, then turned his attention back to Becca. “So, what can I do for you, Chief Cole? I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time. I need to get this afternoon edition of the paper printed and out to our subscribers as soon as possible. News this important needs to be provided as soon as possible, I think. Not every day Summer Haven sees a murder as grisly as poor Andrea’s.”

  Newspaper sales, Becca thought. It’s the only thing the man cares about. He could give two flips about the death of an innocent woman.

  “I’d like to ask you about the article you wrote recently, about Jacinto Garcia and the Santeria practitioners who’ve recently moved here.”

  “Just a second,” Silas interrupted. “How do you know her death was ‘grisly’?”

  “Huh?”

  “Just then…you said it’s not every day your town ‘sees a murder as grisly’ as Ms. Alvarez’s.” Silas cocked his head. “Funny. There’s been no details of her death released to the public. The autopsy’s not even been conducted. So how do you know whether it was grisly or not?”

  “Well, I…”

  Silas grinned his infuriating grin. “Yes?”

  “It’s just that…I mean…” Spenser Blakely fidgeted in his spot until Silas laughed.

  “I’m just messing with you, Spense.” He clapped Blakely on the shoulder. “Of course, every murder in a small town like this would be ‘grisly’, right?”

  “Oh, yes.” The newspaper man cleared his throat. “Precisely what I meant. Yes.”

  Becca’s eyes narrowed at her new partner, wishing she had heat vision, before she returned to the question she’d asked earlier. “Anyway, Mr. Blakely, about that article you wrote concerning Andrea’s curse and the Santeria group around here…”

  Blakely reached up, as if to adjust his tie, then remembered he wasn’t wearing one and stuck his hands in his pockets instead. “Ah, well, I wish you had taken the feature more seriously back when I wrote it,” he said with a sniff. He was still looking at Silas with derision. “Maybe Andrea would still be alive today if you had.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Blakely. But at the time, I had no reason for concern.” She offered him a polite nod of understanding. “Curses aren’t really prosecutable, I’m afraid.” The reporter opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off before he could protest. “And last I heard, religion is protected in this country. There’s nothing illegal about Santeria and therefore, nothing I could do about it.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Mr. Blakely, I’ll be sure to read your editorial on the subject later. Right now, I just need you to answer my very specific questions.” Her face grew stern. “We can either do that amicably right here and let you get back to your work, or we can talk about this at the station. With the latter option, I’m not sure how long it might take. You could be there for hours.”

  The man’s mustache twitched. He glanced from Becca to Silas, then back to the detective and sniffed again.

  “Fine,” he said. “But in my opinion, the rotten apple hasn’t fallen too far from the proverbial tree.”

  She ignored the comment.

  “Could we talk somewhere a little more private, sir?” Silas asked. His face had taken on the sincerest of expressions, like the faux concern of a funeral director consoling a grief-stricken loved one.

  He shrugged. “My office, I suppose.” He began making his way toward the door and waved for them to follow.

  8

  Blakely’s office was more lavish than the rest of the building, with its polished hardwood floor and cherry-wood bookshelves, filled with leather-bound tomes, built into the northern wall. A matching desk, neat and tidy—and oddly, no computer—sat facing east with a large picture window looking out at the ocean. The only signs of modern technology in the whole office was a security monitor capturing images of the building’s exterior in high resolution infrared.

  On the southern wall, hung a collection of wooden masks—they looked African, maybe some Asian, to Becca. A wooden display case sat underneath them and was filled with an assortment of spearheads, knives, colorful beads, and other trinkets of African origins.

  The journalist gestured to two chairs on the other side of the desk. “Please, take a seat.” He then walked over to the wet bar behind his desk and poured himself a two-fingered glass of brandy. He turned to look at them, his cheeks flushed, as he pulled out an orange pill bottle from his pants’ pocket. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little agitated.” He held up the bottle for them to see. “Lorazepam’s about the only thing that gets me through the day lately.”

  He popped one of the pills and drowned it in the amber liquid. He then walked over to his desk and sat down, looking at his two guests with nervous eyes.

  “Perfectly understandable.” Becca said, although it really wasn’t. Drinking brandy and taking anti-anxiety meds before noon was something she would never quite understand. Still, for etiquette’s sake, she sat in the proffered seat, then nodded over to the masks and display case. “That’s an interesting collection you have there.”

  “Huh?” He looked in the direction she’d indicated, then beamed. “Oh, yes. It’s my pride and joy. Something I started collecting with my late wife—may she rest in peace—twenty years ago on our first trip to the Congo.” Blakely paused, as if reminiscing. “We wen
t back every year after. At least, until Daphne got sick, that is.”

  Becca offered an understanding nod.

  “Well, I won’t keep you from your work any longer than I have to, Mr. Blakely. But as you know, we’re following some leads on Andrea Alvarez’s death and I thought you might have some insight.”

  “I most certainly do. As we were saying, I have no doubt that Jacinto Garcia—known as Omo Sango by his followers—killed her.”

  “With a death curse.” She couldn’t believe she’d even uttered the sentence.

  “Oh, make no mistake, Chief Cole, the dark magic practiced by followers of the Yoruba people is real. I’ve become all too familiar with it during my travels.” He pointed toward the masks on his wall. “Santeria. Vodun. Palo Mayombe. They all originated in the Congo hundreds of years ago by the Yoruba people. I’ve seen things on my little excursions that would boggle your mind.”

  “But you seem to revere this culture,” Silas finally spoke up. “You’re a collector of their artifacts, after all. Yet, you seem to have great disdain for their belief systems. So much that you would write a scathing article about them in your paper.”

  “It’s all well and good that they practice these dark religions in their own country,” Blakely responded. “But when they practice here…in my own backyard…and threaten people I care for, well, I can’t abide that at all.”

  “So, tell me,” Becca said, “what do you know of this curse? Why did Andrea get targeted by Garcia?”

  The reporter shrugged. “She didn’t rightly know. She simply returned home from work one day to find a bilongo at her doorstep.”

  “A bilongo?”

  He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small leather pouch cinched with a drawstring. Opening the bag, he dumped its contents onto his desk. Becca saw what appeared to be a small doll wrapped in seven ribbons of various colors.

  “This is a bilongo. It means ‘working’,” Blakely explained.