Returning her attention to the task at hand, she pulled on the center desk drawer and found it locked. Undeterred, she reached into her breast pocket and withdrew two paperclips she immediately bent into picks and set to work unlocking the drawer. Within fifteen seconds, she heard a satisfying click and pulled it open.
Silas was now bent over the display case, eyeing the contents even more carefully.
“Would you give that a rest and look somewhere else?”
He offered a response, something akin to, “Grmph” and continued his examination. She decided her best retort would be to ignore him and look through the desk drawer she’d just opened. If her memory served, this was the drawer Blakely had opened to retrieve the bilongo doll that had been used to frighten Andrea.
She shuffled through the debris inside—little more than an assortment of pens, notepads, and paperclips—then pushed the drawer closed with a groan. She had no idea what she was looking for. Even though they now had a method for Andrea Alvarez’s murder, they still had no clue as to motive. No physical evidence at either the dump scene or the victim’s home other than the medications dumped in her trash. Without anything more to go on, searching for evidence within Blakely’s office was a hopeless cause. Any object in here could be potential evidence. Nothing in here might be evidence as well. In all her years investigating murders, this might be the first time she’d been truly stumped.
“Aha!” Silas shouted, craning his head to beam at her. “We’ve got him.”
She got up from the warped chair and strode over to the display case. “What are you talking about? Both knives are there.”
He shook his head. “No, no. No. That’s where you’re wrong. Two knives are there, not both knives.”
“Huh?”
Maybe it was from the lack of sleep, but the man wasn’t making any sense.
He pointed to the knife on the left. “Take a closer look.”
She leaned forward, examining the weapon as best she could. It was long, about nine inches, and curved in a serpentine pattern toward the middle. The handle was wooden, wrapped from top to bottom in red and black beads. A single short-stemmed feather hung by a red piece of twine at the hilt.
“Okay, what am I looking at?” She looked at the other knife. They looked pretty much the same to her.
He pointed emphatically to the metal blade.
It had a chrome finish and was scarred by nicks and scratches along its surface from wear. The other blade was similar, with many of the same signs of wear as the first.
“I repeat my question,” she said, looking up at his gleaming smile.
He ran a gloved finger along the side of the blade. “These nicks and scratches? They’re artificial.”
“What do you mean artificial?”
“I mean they didn’t get there from regular use. He’s spent some time aging the knife. Dragging it behind his car maybe. Or throwing it against the wall. Something like that. To make it look older than it really is.”
Her nose crinkled. “That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “Not at all. Look at the other one. See how the scratches here seem a little more faded than these?” He pointed to two different sections of the blade with two distinct sets of wear. “And look here…a little oxidation can be seen in this groove here. That’s because these blemishes happened over time. Different incidents occurring throughout the knife’s existence.” Silas changed focus back to the first knife. “But the blemishes on this one…they’re all pretty even. They’re all about the same age. And there’s not the slightest trace of rust on it. This is a newer knife.”
Becca shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe one was used more than the other.”
But he wasn’t done. “Then there’s the blood.”
“Blood?”
“He pointed at the second knife’s blade. “It’s been cleaned, of course, but see the slight discoloration along the ridge here? That’s from dried blood—presumably from animal sacrifices practiced by followers of Santeria. There’s no signs of blood on the other knife.”
“Like I said, one knife could have been used more often.”
“True. But how much you want to bet that the knife we found in Ms. Alvarez’s back match one of the knives in her apartment and the other one we found in her apartment matches the older one here much better than its current mate?”
Now that was something she hadn’t thought of. Forensics could show which blades belong to which set.
“So, you’re thinking Blakely killed her, then used one of her own knives to stab her in the back?” she asked. “That would make it seem like a crime of opportunity. But that doesn’t add up. We know she didn’t die from the stab wound. She died from a myocardial infarction caused by an interaction with the medication—both prescribed and switched, as well as the cheese and alcohol. It was almost the perfect murder. We might not have suspected a thing if not for the knife in her back. If he went to all that trouble to plan the perfect murder, why screw it up with a stab wound?”
She shook her head. The more they figured out about this case, the more confusing it became. Nothing was adding up, which usually meant they were missing a major piece of the puzzle.
“I don’t have all the answers,” Silas said. “But I’m pretty confident about the knives. Blakely used one of hers and replaced it with one of his.”
“Then replaced his missing one with a newer one? Why not leave the newer one in Andrea’s place if he was going to go to all that trouble?”
“He probably figured the knives in her apartment would be scrutinized pretty close. He wanted to make sure the one he replaced was authentic. These knives, as far as anyone knows, are just souvenirs. Props, more than anything. So why would anyone pay close attention to them?”
Just then, Officer Gilmour appeared at the door. “Chief, we found something. You really need to see this.”
34
Officer Gilmour led them into the print shop, around the giant press and to the southeast wall where Robinson stood, guarding a door to what looked like a storage closet. When the officer saw them approach, he opened the door and Becca saw the closet was bigger than she’d imagined—nearly eight by ten feet and cluttered with an assortment of ritualistic bric-a-brac, artifacts, and black magic paraphernalia.
“Dear Lord,” she hissed as she approached the door.
“Hardly,” Silas said, poking his head through the door for a better look.
The room was painted black, from ceiling to floor, and contained a blood red pentagram painted on the wall directly across from them. In the center of the room sat an iron cauldron, filled with numerous sticks of assorted sizes and what looked to be a handful of human bones.
“What the heck is that?” she asked.
“An n’ganga,” Silas answered. “A kind of altar for those who practice Palo Mayombe—Santoria’s much darker cousin.” He visibly blushed when he looked at her. “They kind of have a thing for…well, me.” He pointed to the bones in the cauldron. “Chances are, you’ve had some recent grave robberies in nearby cemeteries. Those bones probably came from one of the graves.”
Her head swiveled as she took in more of the room. A small table stood in the far-right corner. A statue of some kind of saint, painted in vibrant colors, stood on the table and was surrounded by jars of pennies, a bottle of whiskey, and pipe tobacco.
“Are all these…these things part of the same religious disciplines?” she asked. “It looks too eclectic for some reason.”
“It is.” Silas stepped cautiously into the room and made a full three-hundred and sixty-degree turn. “I see representations of neo-paganism in here. Wicca.” He pointed to the table with the saint statue on it. “Vodun. Palo Mayombe. Santeria. And a few things I don’t recognize at all.”
“What do you suppose it all means?”
He looked at her. His face was grim. “He’s covering all his bases. He’s trying to amass as much power as he can by dabbling in as man
y magico-religious practices as possible.”
“To what end?”
“Only thing I can think of…he’s trying to gain enough power to control something of immense power.”
“Like the Hand?”
Silas glanced at the two officers standing at the door with a suspicious eye, then noticed their short-sleeved uniforms. No tattoos. He returned his gaze back to the room. “Possibly. Most of these religious practices originated within the same part of the world…the same culture. Their syncretic malleability is a matter of historic record. It’s not unreasonable that Blakely’s been trying to combine them to create some kind of mega-discipline and I can’t see why anyone would try it unless they needed an exceptional amount of power.”
“You’re talking about this stuff like it’s real. Like magic is real.”
He shook his head. “It’s not. It’s all an illusion. A twisted game some of the nastier groups from the spiritual realm play on mortals. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t some of those same spiritual beings that would love to see someone as bitter and dark as Blakely get control over the realm of Death.” He sighed. “I’ve got a lot of enemies, Becca. A lot of ambitious beings vying for my spot on the food chain.”
“Like your wife.”
He pinched at the bridge of his nose. “My ex-wife. Ex. And yes. Exactly like her. Only, there are beings out there far worse.”
“Chief?” Officer Robinson interrupted. “Did Gilmour tell you about the other thing we found?”
Becca glanced at her two officers and shook her head. “No, but if it’s anything like this, I’m not sure how much I want to know.”
Robinson’s brow creased, but he waved for them to follow. They were led back to the farthest corner of the print shop, leaving Gilmour to stand guard at the newspaper man’s magical inner sanctum. When the officer finally stopped, he pointed to three large plastic containers that were advertised on the labels to contain five gallons of black ink each.
She looked at the officer, waiting for him to explain the significance of the containers. Instead, he just nodded to them nervously. His eyes round with worry.
Impatient, Silas stepped forward, took hold of one of the containers’ lids, and lifted it away. But the thick liquid inside was anything but black. Instead, it was a swirl of deep reds and darker maroons and filled nearly three-fourths of the way to the top.
“Blood?” she asked.
Silas nodded. He sniffed the air.
“Same as the blood on Ms. Alvarez if I’m not mistaken. It has the same smell anyway.”
She struggled to keep from smiling. They’d found Blakely’s connection to Andrea’s murder. Once forensics analyzed the blood, they could definitively link him to the body found on the beach. That was good news and the source of her strong desire to celebrate. On the other hand, as she stared down into the oily crimson pool in the container, she wanted nothing more than to go home, curl up in bed, and hide under the covers. In all her years as a homicide detective, she’d never seen anything as dark or scary as the things she’d seen on this case.
Gangbangers killing each other, she could understand. Wives killing their cheating husbands? Sure, why not. But this? Ritualistic magic? Trying to amass some mystical power? That room with its pentagrams and cauldrons filled with bones? It was beyond her limits to understand and that scared her more than anything. If Rebecca Cole was anything, it was rational, and there was nothing rational at all about Andrea Alvarez’s murder.
Silas closed the lid on the container and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
She nodded and pulled her gaze away from the ink containers. When she did, she noticed a set of filing cabinets sitting a few feet away next to a work bench with an assortment of tools and two large plastic tackle boxes.
She stepped over to the file cabinet. “Wonder what’s in here?” It seemed strange to have them out here instead of in the administrative portion of the building. She examined the cabinets. Each drawer was marked with a strange symbol just above the thumb lever. “Any idea what these mean?”
Silas shook his head.
She opened the top drawer to discover a large row of manila folders, each labeled with a person’s last name ranging from the letters A through C. She pulled the first folder out and opened it to find a handful of small Ziploc bags containing an assortment of hair strands, fingernail clippings, buttons, cigarette butts, and other oddities.
“What in the world…?” She slid the folder back in and randomly selected another name: Buchner. Like the first folder she’d examined, this also had an equally as diverse supply of garbage sealed in plastic baggies. “What is this stuff?”
Silas stepped forward, thumbed through the folders until he paused. He slid out one more folder and handed it to Becca. It was labeled ‘Alvarez’. Her throat went dry as she looked at the name, then she opened it. The folder was empty.
“Wait. What does this mean?”
“Do you recognize any of the names in this cabinet, Becca?”
She scanned the labels, her mind concentrating on each name.
“Wait.” She pulled out another file which contained more hairs and personal items inside. “These are all names of residents in Summer Haven.” She opened another drawer and found the same in each folder. She gasped when her eyes drifted to a folder marked ‘Mot’. She pulled it out, but found it empty as well. She looked up at Silas, confused. “I don’t understand.”
He gave her a sad smile, then closed the drawer currently opened and returned to the first. “You missed one in here,” he said, riffling down the line of folders until he found the one labeled ‘Cole’. Her heart was hammering inside her chest as he withdrew it and opened it in front of her. She wasn’t entirely certain whether she was relieved or terrified to find it empty too. “I think I know what’s going on here…and Blakely’s connection to Elaine Shepherd.”
Silas laid the folder on top of the cabinet and walked over to the work bench with Becca close on his heels. He then grabbed the first tackle box nearest to him, pulled it forward, and opened it. Inside, they found two small drawstring bags. He withdrew one, opened it, and emptied the contents onto the bench.
It was a doll, dressed in all black and wrapped in multi-colored ribbons.
“Th-that’s you?”
He nodded. “A bilongo of me, yes.” He emptied the second bag, which contained another doll in blue with a yellow star painted on its torso. “And that’s you. Spenser Blakely has attempted to do a working on us, Chief Cole.” He nodded over to the file cabinets. “That appears to be a collection of personal items from every citizen in Summer Haven. Items necessary to place within these dolls to create a connection with their intended target. He’s probably been collecting these things for years, hoping it could come in handy sometime in the future for his political aspirations.” He paused, taking a closer look at the black-clad doll. “I’m not entirely sure what he used from me, since my body isn’t likely to shed any hair or skin cells, but all it takes is something closely connected with the individual.”
He held out a hand to her. “Pocket knife?”
She looked down at his hand, unable to comprehend what she was hearing.
“Becca, do you have a pocket knife?”
Officer Robinson stepped forward. “I do.” He dropped his knife in Silas’ hand, who turned to his own personal bilongo and sliced it open. The doll was filled mostly with sand, pebbles, and a few items Becca couldn’t readily identify. Then she heard something inside it crinkle. “Ah, so that’s what he used.” Silas reached two thin fingers inside the doll and pulled out a clear plastic candy wrapper. “Warheads,” he said with a smile.
“I still don’t understand,” Becca said. “So, he tried to hex us. How does this connect to Elaine Shepherd?”
His smile broadened. “Because, dear Becca, when Jacinto Garcia refused her request to curse Andrea, she turned to the only other person she knew who might be able to do it.”
Becca’s eye
s widened and she returned her partner’s smile. “Of course,” she said, finally seeing the pieces fall into place. “Spenser Blakely. He put the curse on his own girlfriend.” Curious, she reached for the second tackle box and opened it. A third pouch was hidden underneath a plastic tray. She pulled the bag out, opened it, and dumped the doll inside onto the bench. It was nondescript with no clothing, hair, or facial features. The only identifying mark on the doll at all was a photo cut from a magazine page of a car that was pinned to the doll’s chest. “And it looks like he’s going after Andrea’s ex now.”
35
SAND DOLLAR MOTEL
FRIDAY, 12:03 PM
Becca and Silas left the newspaper’s office and began making their way to James Andrews’ residence after calling his dealership and being told he’d taken a sick day. She’d sent Sergeant Tanner on to Blakely’s house with the search warrant, trusting him to look for anything there that might link the journalist to Andrea’s death.
At the moment, she and Silas were both pretty quiet as she navigated the back streets of Summer Haven. Their discoveries at The Chronicler had been more exciting than she had expected, and the case seemed to be finally coming together, which was why she supposed neither of them were in much of a mood to talk. They didn’t want to jinx anything with words.
“HQ to Unit 101,” Becca’s radio squawked to life, jarring both the car’s occupants from their thoughts.
She pulled the transmitter from its mount and brought it to her lips. “Go ahead, Linda.”
“Um, we just got a kind of weird call from the Sand Dollar Motel.” Silas seemed to tense at the news. “The whole place is kind of freaking out about a strange man running around the complex, hiding in shrubs, and peeking in windows.” Becca gave her companion a sideways glance. “Just wondering if you wanted me to send a unit or to just let the sheriff’s office handle this one since our guys are already stretched to the limit.”
1 Death Warmed Over Page 19