At Risk (2 page)

He hadn’t of course. One thing his father had taught him was honesty. Not necessarily out of moral conviction but because stepping outside the law could get you in bad trouble.

The cops had been called in to scare the shit out of the kid they thought was a thief—including a strip search in Villars’ office.
Rafe hadn’t been concealing the brooch. In fact, Villars had found the piece of jewelry in a drawer of an antique secretary. But Rafe had never gone back there to ask for work again. He switched from hauling furniture to frying chicken at Popeyes. You might burn your hand with splatters of hot grease, but you did get to bring home the biscuits that weren’t sold before closing time—a nice side benefit in a home where dinner might be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

As Rafe stood near the door, Villars looked up to see who had come in. When recognition dawned, the older man’s jaw firmed.

Rafe stayed where he was until Villars had turned around again. Then he wandered over to a table of voodoo paraphernalia, including ritual candles, some small boxes that could have been for jewelry, a life-sized plastic skull, and an ornate silver dagger with scrollwork on the handle. To give himself something else to focus on, he picked up the knife—and knew instantly that he’d made a bad mistake.

The scene around him wavered, and suddenly he was no longer in Eugenia’s restaurant.
Instead, he was standing in the bayou, under the shade of huge cypress trees, hearing the sounds of birds and smelling a mixture of damp vegetation and blood in his nostrils. The knife was in his hand, and he was kneeling over a dead goat lying on an altar, its throat slit and dripping.

He made a strangled sound as the scene sucked him in.
He was supposed to be finding out who was causing trouble for Eugenia, not taking a side trip to another time and place.

But he wasn’t without some control. Before he went any farther into the altered reality, he made a concerted effort to open his hand. His muscles relaxed, and he managed to drop the knife back onto the table.

As soon as he broke the contact, the bayou scene flicked out of existence, and he was back in the restaurant again.

He looked up to see if anyone had noticed his momentary absence and found Eugenia staring at him.
When he glanced away, she crossed to his side, a look of concern on his face.

“Did . . . that thing happen again?” she murmured.

He didn’t have to ask “what.” He knew they were both talking about his paranormal ability.

“Yes,” he admitted.
“What did I look like?”

“Like you were daydreaming.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“I’ve got better control over it than when I was a kid,” he bit out.”

She was one of the few people besides Frank Decorah and the other detectives at the agency who knew about his extrasensory talent—the ability to pick up an object that belonged to someone and go into a time and place where they had been. It was never when the person was doing anything routine, like eating dinner in a nice restaurant or taking a stroll down the street. It was always something sharp and traumatic—or incriminating.

The talent came in handy in his work. In an investigation, he could usually direct the process. But it could also happen at inconvenient times. Like now. Or was the vision somehow connected to the assignment? Was there more going on here than a series of muggings outside Eugenia Beaumont’s restaurant?

“Are you all right?” Eugenia asked.

“Yes.”

He saw her swallow hard as she looked from him to the knife and back again.
“What did you see?”

He didn’t particularly want to discuss it, but he was working for her, and she had the right to the information. “Someone had just sacrificed a goat in the bayou.
On a wooden altar. I guess with this knife.” He gestured toward the dagger.

She shivered.
“Who was it?”

“I don’t know.
It’s always from my point of view. In this case, the person holding the knife.”

Eugenia nodded and hesitated for a moment, ready to hit him with another question.
But she probably saw that he didn’t want to discuss the experience and went over to one of her customers.

At the moment, he was annoyed with himself for not keeping his attention focused on business.
But he grounded himself pretty quickly when the kitchen door opened, and he saw a striking looking, light-skinned African American woman standing regally in a simple white gown and white headdress. She wasn’t tall, but she managed to create that illusion as she commanded the attention of everyone in the room.

It was Calista Lacoste.
She’d become prominent after his time, but he’d researched her in his report on Eugenia’s background. In addition to conducting voodoo services, she had a business in the French Quarter—a shop called Galaxy that sold voodoo paraphernalia and charms—along with tarot cards and books on palm reading and astrology. You could go there for something mild and slip into heavy-duty voodoo.

Six assistants followed her into the dining room. The two men were practically naked in short vests and wide loincloths made of colorful African kente cloth.
The four women were dressed in white shifts. The men carried what he knew were called djembe drums. Primitive looking, they were as much a work of art as musical instruments. The women had tambourines.

A hush fell over the room as the talent spread near the back wall, the men taking their seats on the wooden floor.
In the absolute silence of the room, they began to drum, a primitive rhythm that filled the restaurant.

The female attendants remained on their feet, dancing and shaking their tambourines in time to the drumbeat.

One carried a large birdcage with a live chicken that squawked and clawed at the bars as though it knew it wasn’t going to like the conclusion of the ceremony.

Jesus, what were they planning to do, slit its throat and drip the blood in the bowl sitting on the table beside the knife? Or was the priestess going to fudge the ending to the ceremony?
At least it wasn’t a goat, like he’d seen in the swamp vision.

Rafe stayed out of the way, leaning against the wall, working to keep his expression neutral.
He’d gotten into a lot of tight situations in his life—everything from working security for live-cobra charmers to looking for runaway kids in crack houses—but never anything quite like this.

As Calista swayed farther into the room, obviously conscious that all eyes were on her, Rafe scanned the audience, judging their reactions.
The priestess’s gaze flicked to Martin Villars, and for a moment their eyes locked. Was there something between them, something personal? Or was she just checking out a potential patron?

Rafe studied the audience again, then came back to Calista as she moved to the rhythm of the drums and tambourines.
The sexual element of the performance was unmistakable. Maybe the women didn’t feel it, but he’d bet every man in the room was responding to her.

When she turned to face the patrons, the music and the dancing came to an abrupt stop.
For a moment there was complete silence before she raised her arms above her head. A smile flickered on her lips as she saw that she had everyone’s rapt attention.

“I am pleased to see so many of you here tonight.”

Rafe switched his attention back to the audience—judging their reactions. Some of them seemed to be grooving on what they’d already seen. Others looked apprehensive, and some were more embarrassed than anything else. The middle-aged guy who’d been one of the last to arrive looked like he was thinking about making a run for the door. When his wife put a restraining hand on his arm and whispered to him, he settled back in his chair.

The drumbeat started again, and the dancers circled the priestess as she raised her voice. “Voodoo is an old and honorable religion born in Africa but encompassing many traditions.
There is power here, if you open yourself to what may be. Do not dismiss what is strange to you. Let yourself merge your soul with the great collective consciousness.”

The background rhythm became faster and more insistent, and the priestess moved toward the audience, lifting her hands again.

“Join us. On your feet! Become part of our celebration of life.”

As she spoke, she reached for the hand of the guy who’d been embarrassed.

He tried to protest, but his wife urged him onto the floor, and he stumbled into the open area where he stood frozen for a moment, looking uncertain.

As the priestess whispered something in his ear, he began to sway awkwardly to the rhythm of the primitive music.
The wife got up and joined him, along with some of the others.

The moves looked so out of character for the majority of the participants, that Rafe had to bite his lip to keep from grinning.
Yet at the same time, he picked up on a kind of unsettling vibration in the air. It was like when he’d touched the knife. Well, not exactly. He wasn’t transported anywhere, but he could imagine that they were in a clearing in the bayou, not a French Quarter restaurant. But it was more than that. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

Rafe glanced over at Eugenia, who had taken a position on the far side of the refreshment table.
Probably a good move if you didn’t want to get chicken blood on your clothing.

As he watched, the priestess moved to the birdcage.
Opening the door, she reached for the fowl and held it high. And strangely, it had stopped protesting.

Everybody’s attention, including Rafe’s, was focused on the priestess, so that a noise from the other side of the floor took a moment to register.

As Rafe’s head swung away from the main event, he saw one of the men in the audience clutch his throat with one hand and claw the air with the other.

Sweat soaked his white dress shirt, and a film of perspiration beaded his forehead.

It was Martin Villars. He made a strangled sound, looking wildly around, then grabbed for a chair to steady himself. Instead he and the chair tipped over, both landing on the floor at the same time.

Chapter Two

The drums and tambourines went instantly still, leaving an eerie silence in the room.

Eugenia’s mouth went dry as she watched the scene around her turn from ceremony to chaos.
She tried to weave her way toward Martin Villars, watching as his wife screamed and went down on her knees, hovering over him.

Rafe broke the stillness as he shoved his way toward the fallen man.

“Move back. He needs air.”

From the corner of her eye, Eugenia saw that Calista had dropped the chicken she’d been holding and that the suddenly unattended bird was flapping around the room, squawking and looking to make its escape.

Weaving her way through the crowd, Eugenia crossed to Rafe who was kneeling beside Villars. The older man lay with his eyes closed. He didn’t appear to be breathing, and his skin was pasty.

Calista came down beside the stricken man. “Can I help?

“Do you know CPR,” Rafe asked.

“No.
I was offering help from the loa.”

He snorted, then spared Eugenia a quick look.
“Call an ambulance.”

He was already doing chest compressions as he gave the orders.

Ordering herself to steadiness, she gave Rafe a tight nod, then scrambled to her feet. Using the phone at the hostess station, she called 911.

“What is the nature of your emergency?”

“We have a restaurant guest who’s lost consciousness—under unusual circumstances.”

“You suspect foul play?”

“I . . . I don’t know. We were having a voodoo ceremony,” she blurted.

After putting down the phone, she looked across the room at Villars, praying that something had changed. But he lay unmoving as Rafe leaned over him, expertly performing chest compressions, singing “Stayin’ Alive” under his breath to keep the rhythm.

When a loud squawking noise to her right distracted her, she saw that one of the drummers had cornered the chicken near the refreshment table. Calista came over and helped him get the bird back into the cage.

Everybody else—including Villars’ wife—were silently watching Rafe work on the stricken man.
Holly was twisting the ornate antique ring she wore. Crossing to the older woman, Eugenia laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Let Mr. Gascon take care of him. He’s with a detective agency, and he knows what he’s doing.”

Holly nodded numbly and allowed herself to be led a few feet away, where she plopped into a chair, reached for a glass of water, and took a couple of quick swallows.

Eugenia turned to the rest of the patrons.

“Let’s all sit down.”

There were murmurs around the room as her guests complied. But Calista had drawn apart from the others, her gaze fixed in the distance as though her mind had gone somewhere else—something like when Rafe had had his out-of-body experience before the ceremony. Maybe she was willing herself away. Eugenia wished she had the luxury of doing something similar, but she had to stay in charge.

An eternity passed before she heard the sound of a siren in the distance.
Finally the paramedics rushed into the room. Rafe gave them a brief description of what had happened, then got out of the way. Crossing to Eugenia, he cupped his hand around her arm.

“You did good—getting the onlookers calmed down.”

His touch was light and his voice was low, but she was grateful for the contact.

“I needed to be useful,” she answered, moistening her dry lips enough to speak.
She didn’t look directly at Rafe because she was thinking how wonderful it would feel to have his arms around her right now, even when she knew she shouldn’t be letting her thoughts drift in that direction. He’d walked away from her a long time ago, and he was reassuring her now because he was just doing his job, not because there was anything personal between them.

She dragged in a steadying breath and let it out. “What about Martin. Villars?”

“I think he’s not going to make it,” Rafe answered.

“Did the paramedics say what happened?”

“No.”

A death in her restaurant was all she needed after the damn muggings, but that thought was far too self-serving.
Before she could dredge up something to say, Rafe started running across the dining room, dodging tables and knocking over a chair. She saw him leap through the door, into the kitchen. When he emerged, he had a firm hold on one of the drummers. The guy’s eyes darted from side to side, as though searching for an escape route.

Like the chicken, Eugenia thought.

“Sit down,” Rafe ordered.

“I ain’t got nothin’ to do wid this,” the man muttered, looking at Eugenia like he thought she was going to come to his rescue.

“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Rafe said.

The man snorted.

“I’d like to leave,” a voice called from the crowd. It was the woman who had wanted to meet a real-life zombie.

“Sorry,” Rafe answered. “Everybody stays until we find out what happened.”

“Who are you to give me orders,” the guy he’d dragged back into the dining room protested

“I’m restaurant security and can make a citizen’s arrest if I have to. Sit down.”

The man gave him a threatening look, but he stayed put.

Rafe kept his eye on the would-be escapee as he stroked a hand down Eugenia’s back.
“Hang in there.”

“I’m trying.
Someone just died in my restaurant, and I can’t help feeling responsible,” she blurted.

His gaze narrowed.
“What are you saying, exactly?”

She flapped her arm in frustration. “Only that he came here for Calista’s ceremony.
And it was obviously too much for him.”

“It was his choice to be here. He could have had a heart attack for all we know.
Or an embolism. The same thing could have happened to him at home.”

“I guess so.”

Rafe looked like he was going to say more, but a loud sobbing sound from nearby caught their attention. Holly was coming in the front door, her eyes wet with tears.

Eugenia quickly went to her, and Rafe was right behind.

“I’m so sorry,” Eugenia began.

“It’s not your fault.” She looked outside. “Those men wouldn’t let me go to the hospital with Martin.”

Eugenia went to the hostess station and took a tissue from the box inside, which she handed to Holly.

The woman wiped her eyes.
“Thank you.”

Rafe stepped closer.
“Is there someone who could take you?”

She turned toward Eugenia.
“Can I call my friend, Sylvia?”

“Of course.”

She returned to her table, retrieved her purse and pulled out her cell phone. Eugenia led her to a quiet corner to make the call and waited to make sure that the friend could come.

When she turned back, Rafe was speaking to the other guests.
“I know this has been a disturbing event, and I want to thank you all for your cooperation. We may need to ask some questions later. Please write down your name, address and telephone number.”

“What if we don’t live in the city?” one of the tourists asked.

“Put the name of your hotel.”

“But I’m supposed to leave tomorrow.”

“I believe that will still be okay, but you’ll have to check with the police.”

Another tourist raised his voice.
“You can’t keep us here if we had nothing to do with what happened.”

Rafe turned toward him, his own voice firm.
“You can leave as soon as I get your information.” He turned to Eugenia. “Do you have some paper?”

She produced a sheet from behind the podium, and he handed it to the man next to him.
“Write down your name and address; then pass the sheet around the room.”

oOo

When the man began to write, Eugenia breathed out a little sigh, grateful for Rafe’s presence. If he hadn’t been there to keep a firm hand on the situation, the restaurant probably would have emptied out, and there would be no way to contact the out-of-town guests.

She looked around to see how everyone was doing. Jillian Hargrave, who had been at a table for one, was now sitting with Gertie and Martha, probably because she didn’t want to be alone in this suddenly disturbing situation.

Eugenia walked over to the three women. It looked like the events of the past few minutes had bonded them together.

“I’m so sorry this happened,” she murmured.

“It’s not your fault, dear,” Gertie assured her.

“I wish I could offer you something to eat, but under the circumstances, I don’t think I can.”

“That’s perfectly understandable,” Martha said.

Eugenia looked at Jillian whose face had turned paper-white. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes, I didn’t expect . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“We’ve all had a shock.
Can I get you some water?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Eugenia went into the kitchen and brought an unopened bottle of spring water and three glasses to the table.

“Thank you so much,” Jillian said as she twisted the top off the bottle and poured water into the glass, then took a gulp.

Eugenia nodded and looked around to see Rafe running his cell phone over the names and addresses of the patrons, photographing the information.

He had just put his phone away when the door opened and another man wearing an expensive pin-striped suit stepped into the room.
She heard Rafe swear under his breath as the newcomer strode over to him.

oOo

Oh shit
. The cherry on top of the sundae, Rafe thought. The police. And not just any cop, but Gordon Cumberland. From the way he was dressed, it looked like he’d graduated from patrol officer to the detective squad.

His gaze flicked around the room, spotted Rafe and stopped. For a moment he looked confused. Then a look of recognition bloomed on his narrow face. He had been the cop who had come to the antique shop when Villars had called to accuse Rafe of stealing the brooch.

After that, the guy had kept tabs on him. He was a hard-ass who thought all juvenile delinquents should be locked up, and it didn’t help that Rafe had been involved in a couple of minor incidents that had drawn the cop’s notice. Like when he and a kid from a rival school had gotten into a fight after a football game. Cumberland had been the cop who showed up—again. Rafe had the feeling that the history they had together wasn’t going to make the next few hours any easier.

“I want to know exactly what happened here,” Cumberland said.

Eugenia stepped forward. “I’m Eugenia Beaumont, the restaurant owner.”

Cumberland gave her a long look.
“As in the high-society Beaumonts?”

She took a quick breath.
“If you want to put it that way; but how is that relevant? And why are you here?”

“I heard the emergency call and checked with the hospital.
The man is dead.”

Eugenia sucked in a quick breath.
Cumberland kept his gaze on her for a few moments before turning to Rafe. “What are you doing here?”

“I work for Decorah Security.
We were hired to keep an eye on Chez Eugenia.”

“Why?”

“There have been a series of muggings in the area.”

“That’s police business.”

“The police haven’t found out who’s doing it,” Eugenia interjected.

Cumberland must have realized he was getting way off topic.
Turning back to Rafe, he said, “Since you’re on security detail, why don’t you tell me what happened here?”

The way he said it implied that Rafe was making up the assignment, or maybe Eugenia had hired him for show to make it look like she was protecting her customers. Ignoring the tone of the man’s voice, he said, “As you heard over the radio, a voodoo ceremony was being held here, and one of the participants had some kind of attack and died.”

Cumberland turned to look at Calista and the men and women she’d brought with her who were all clustered at one side of the dining room. “What kind of ceremony?”

“We were asking the aid of the loa.”

“The voodoo gods?”

“Yes.”

“In an upscale restaurant?”

“The gods are welcome here.”

Cumberland snorted, then inspected the chicken in the cage. “What’s that for?”

“Part of the ceremony.”

He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe what he’d walked into.

“Do you still want a summary of the events?” Rafe asked.

“Yeah.”

He began filling the detective in. At the conclusion of the statement, Cumberland looked around at the assemblage. “We’ll continue this down at the station house.”

oOo

“The detective is ready for you.”

Eugenia stood up and followed a uniformed officer down the hall at the North Rampart Street police station. When she stepped through the doorway into what looked like a grubby nine-by-nine-foot room, Cumberland gave her a long, considering look; and she had to stifle the impulse to smooth her wrinkled dress.