The Hoodoo Detective (17 page)

If anyone deserved death, it was the Old Man. But she didn’t want to be the one to deal it.

Riga picked up the phone, ordered fruit, juice, coffee, and beignets.

“And bacon and eggs,” Donovan hollered from the next room.

“And bacon and eggs, poached,” Riga said into the phone. “Oh, and pain perdu. And extra bacon, crispy.” She hung up, then dialed the concierge and requested the hotel dog walker.

“Aside from eating,” Brigitte said, “what are you going to do today?”

“Interview suspects.”

“You are wasting time.”

“But you won't be. Brigitte, I've got an assignment for you.”

After thirty minutes trying to wheedle information out of Muriel Erickson's assistant, Riga began to think Brigitte was right. Riga and Donovan stood in Muriel's home office, watching Shenaya dolefully shift manila files from a filing cabinet into a cardboard box.

Donovan sat against the wooden desk, legs crossed. “No one is universally loved. Someone killed Muriel. You must have some thoughts on the matter.”

Shenaya blotted her broad face with a tissue. “Sorry. No.”

“Business associates then?”

“Like I told the police, I can't think of a single reason why someone would kill her.”

Riga flicked the polished leaf of a spider plant. “She wasn't, for example, oh, I don't know, a member of a secret society of black magicians?”

Files slipped from Shenaya's grasp, slid across the whey-colored carpet. She gaped. “I'll be... How did you know?”

Donovan straightened. “She... What?”

“I always thought that woman was a vampire, the way she slept all morning, then would crawl in here wrapped like a mummy and wearing dark glasses. She was always out all night. That's why they cut her head off, wasn't it? So she wouldn't rise again?”

Riga frowned. “According to lore, that's one way to kill a vampire. But her body didn't crumble to dust, so no, she probably wasn't vampiric.”

“Or a werewolf? Because on new moons, when the moon is completely dark, she was never around. Werewolves are a part of Louisiana history, you know. Everyone talks about vampires and voodoo, but we've got werewolves too.”

“Never around on new moons?” Riga asked. “How do you know?”

“I knew never to schedule an event for her on a new moon. She said she had a standing appointment on those nights.”

“I believe werewolves turn during the full moon,” Donovan knelt and picked up the files, “not the new moon.”

“Well, that makes it even stranger.” Shenaya took the folders, and stuffed them into a box. “Whoever heard of having a standing appointment on a new moon?”

Riga handed the woman a business card. “If you think of anything, please call us. And thanks for your time.”

Saying goodbyes, they exited the house. Two members of their new personal protection team waited on the tree-lined sidewalk.

“The new moon business is odd,” Donovan said. “What do you think?”

“That moon phase is ripe for necromancy. We know three of the victims socialized. Maybe they practiced magic together too.”

“I hate to say this, but it may be time to consult your aunts. They must know how groups of necromancers operate. They've been in this game longer.”

Riga scowled. “And that's exactly how they treat it – like a game.”

“Perhaps they have to. They remind me of cops joking at a crime scene to give themselves distance.”

Startled, she said, “If you're feeling empathy for my aunts, you're a better person than I.”

“I wouldn't go as far as empathy. I'm well aware what they're capable of. On a different subject, I've been thinking about this hoodoo hit man. How thoroughly were you able to search his house when you were there with
Mean Streets
?”

“Not very. I'd like to go back.”

“Let's go.”

They parked several blocks away from the hit man’s house. Hand-in-hand, they strolled past Victorian mansions and gardens scented with roses and fringe trees, greenish white flowers dripping from their branches.

Ash paced behind them. “You're seriously going to break into a place in broad daylight?”

Pulling in her energies, Riga cast a cloaking spell over the three. “I don't plan on breaking anything.”

“It’s not legal. You might be better if you waited in the car,” Donovan said. They'd switched to an SUV, and Donovan insisted on driving.

“I can't protect you from the car.”

“We'll be fine,” Riga said.

Ash snorted.

“There it is.” Riga pointed to the ombre-painted Victorian, its porch overflowing with potted plants.

Donovan paused, his hand on the iron gate, and whistled. “Not a bad line of work if he could afford that place.”

“He said I was worth a quarter million.”

“An offensively low price,” Donovan said.

“That's what I thought,” Riga said.

Donovan swung open the gate, holding it for her, then brushed his palm off on his slacks. The dust left a streak on the black fabric.

“Hold it.” Ash strode in front of them and stopped, cocking his head. “I hear someone.”

“Where?” Donovan asked in a low voice.

Ash pointed to the side of the house. A high brick wall crawling with ivy screened the house from its neighbors. The bodyguard jogged across the yard, peering around the corner of the house.

There was a sound of metal scraping on wood, and a dull thunk.

Donovan lengthened his strides, catching up with the bodyguard, leaving Riga behind. The men rounded the house. Ash shouted.

Riga broke into a run, fearful of losing sight of Donovan. She turned the corner, brushing past a potted palm.

A slim, black man scrambled over a brick wall. Ash vaulted after him, dropping out of sight.

Donovan paused, head tilted, then took off down the other side of the house.

Turning on her heel, Riga raced back the way she'd come, meeting Donovan at the front gate.

He blasted through it, coming to a halt in the middle of the street, his chest heaving. A figure grew smaller in the distance. Ash appeared at Riga's side.

She jumped. “Augh! Where did you come from?”

“I thought it might have been a trick to draw me away, so I let him go. We shouldn't have left the hotel without more protection.”

“More?” Riga said. “How many bodyguards do we need? I can't conduct an investigation surrounded by staff.”

A window scraped open above them, and a tousled, feminine head popped out. “Everything all right down there?”

Riga waved. “We thought we saw someone breaking in.”

“Land sakes, I'll call the police.” The woman pulled back, disappeared.

Riga exhaled slowly. And now there was no way they'd get into the hoodoo hit man's house. Her cloaking spell hadn't survived a loud chase (not that she'd expected it would), and the cops were on their way. Cops she didn't want to explain herself to.

Donovan glanced at her. “Let's get out of here.”

They ambled back to the black rental SUV.

“I think I recognized him,” she said. “He looked like the same guy outside Turotte's house when I was there with the TV crews.”

Ash retrieved a mirror on an extendable metal pole and checked under the cars for bombs. He nodded, and Donovan handed her into the car.

“We'll catch him,” Donovan said.

“How? We can't stake out the house.” She snapped on the passenger side seatbelt.

Donovan and Ash jockeyed for the driver's seat. Donovan won. Grimacing, Ash got into the back.

“Technically,” Donovan said, “we could if we use that private investigation agency.”

He started the car.

In spite of the bomb check, the space between her shoulder blades tightened.

“This isn't my favorite stakeout.” Adjusting his sunglasses, Donovan took a swig of his whiskey.

An overhead fan stirred Riga's hair. “It's not a stakeout. It's multitasking.” Phone to her ear, she watched the Old Man's hotel across the street.

She'd been calling “collectors” she knew – people who collected cursed and haunted objects. Jordan Marks's collection of occult objects had been extensive, and he'd gotten it from somewhere. So far she hadn't found his supplier, but at least now there would be people in the wings, ready to scoop up the objects and cleanse them before they fell into the wrong hands.

But the one conversation she wanted to have eluded her. Pen still wasn't returning her calls.

“We're in a bar,” Riga said. “There's food. Drink. A bathroom. If this were a stakeout, it would be primo.”

Ash and another member of their security detail sat at a nearby table, sipping mineral water.

“It's exposed,” Donovan said. “It may be easy to watch the Old Man's hotel, but it's also easy for someone to watch you.” After a long moment, he said, “But I knew you weren't a shrinking violet when I married you.”

“Brigitte was right about one thing. The last few days have been all about me, me, me. You never told me what happened in Macau.”

“Nothing happened. Macau was boring without you. No high speed car chases. No fisticuffs.”

“Fisticuffs? And you're complaining about my stakeout?”

“Also, man cannot live on Crazy Cat videos alone.”

Riga laughed, relieved the video was receding to a joke. “Seriously. What happened in Macau?”

“The negotiations went well. I was just wrapping things up when you called. And by the way, New Orleans hasn't been about just you. It's been about us.”

“Donovan...”

The Old Man's nurse emerged from the hotel. Squinting, she shielded her eyes with her broad hand, and strode down the sidewalk. Her blue nurse's shirt and slacks swished loosely about her.

“That's his nurse,” Riga said. “Let's go.”

They trailed her to a pharmacy on the edge of the French Quarter, Ash and the other bodyguard close behind. Out of her peripheral vision, she watched the nurse at the pharmacist's counter. Riga tried on a pair of reading glasses.

“Mm. I like,” Donovan said. “The sexy librarian look.”

“Shh!”

“That's what I'm talking about.”

The nurse paid and moved away from the counter.

Riga whirled, bumping into her. “Oh! I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” The nurse frowned. “Don't I know you?”

“I'm Riga Hayworth. And this is my husband, Donovan Mosse. I visited your patient a few evenings ago.”

“Of course! I don't think we were properly introduced. I'm June Mahe.” She shook their hands, engulfing Riga's. Her grip was strong, warm. “The Old Man's said so much about you.” June flushed. “Sorry. That was disrespectful. Somehow I've gotten in the habit of thinking of him that way.”

“I do too.” Riga laughed. “Have you worked for him long?”

“A month. This trip to New Orleans came up, and since I've never been here before, I was happy to come along. This city seems to have done him a world of good.”

“And is it just you?” Donovan asked. “I can't imagine doing your job twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

“It's not so hard. Since we've arrived, he's been sleeping like the dead, and that means I get to sleep. You have no idea what it's like when you have to wake up every hour to attend someone... or maybe you do? Do you have children?”

Riga's lungs squeezed, dull heaviness pressing upon them. “No.” She smiled brightly.

“Not yet.” Donovan took her hand, and Riga felt worse. She was failing both of them.

“Babies are louder,” June said, “but they're easier to manage. More portable.”

“Caring for an adult must be challenging,” Riga said. “Do you get time off?”

“A local company spells me so I get weekends off. But I should be getting back. It was nice seeing you both.” She turned to leave.

Centering herself, Riga reached for the in-between. The energy was there and not there, cool, powerful. She flicked it forward, and the nurse's paper bag tore. Pill bottles spilled out, ricocheting across the stained linoleum.

Riga knelt for one, and gave the second a mental nudge, rolling it toward Donovan's polished, black shoes.

He picked it up, glancing at it, and handed it to June. “Here you go.”

“Thank you!” She took Riga's proffered bottle, jamming it in her purse. “And now I really should go.” But she hesitated. “He talks about you, you know. I think it would mean a lot to him if you visited again.”

“That’s a good idea,” Riga said.

“He likes to have breakfast on Moon Walk – beignets and coffee and watching the river go by. We're usually there around seven.” The nurse nodded and hurried off.

They watched her leave, then Donovan bent his head to his phone. “I presume you wanted me to get the name of the drug.”

Riga dug her phone out of her satchel and ran a quick Internet search for Levodopa, the name on the bottle she'd grabbed. “Mine is used for Parkinsons patients. Yours?”

“Same.”

“He's thorough, though I'd expect no less.”

“Thorough?”

“The drugs, the wheelchair, the nurse – they all make him appear too feeble to commit murder.”

He looked at her sideways. “I agree that his appearance here is too coincidental. But it is possible he's ill.” Hand on her arm, he steered her outside.

The heat hit her like a wave. “Less than six months ago, he kicked my metaphysical butt. There aren't many people who could pull off the level of magic I felt at the murder scenes. He’s one.”

“Your aunts are two more.” He stepped off the sidewalk, letting a middle-aged couple dressed as pirates swagger past.

“Do you really think they're capable of that kind of violence?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“But?”

“But your aunts were out of your life for a long time. You only learned they were necromancers recently. There may be a lot about them we don't know.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, not liking that he might be right. “He's in New Orleans for a reason.”

They passed a zydeco band playing on the sidewalk. Donovan tossed some bills in their metal tip bucket.

“I suggest we send June's name to that investigative firm, let them run a background check. And I think it's time we had them doing a check on the murder victims. The morning paper had an article on the murders – the request won’t violate your confidentiality agreement.”