The Hoodoo Detective (7 page)

Riga's shoulders jerked in shock. Someday she'd be able to hear the phrase “old man” and not feel she was under attack. But not today.

He looked at her, head tilted, eyes squinting. His hair was gray, tight against his head. “And I see you brought a friend.”

“Grandpère, this is Riga Hayworth.”

Riga extended her hand. “Hello.”

His palm was calloused, rough and cool in hers. “Riga?” His laugh became a cough. “You one of those Rita Hayworth impersonators or something?”

“No. My parents chose the name before I was born – a bad pun. Nature did the rest.”

“Or the good Lord.”

“Then He's got some sense of humor,” Riga said.

“That He does. That He does. You look just like her though. Except the eyes. There's something different there.”

Hannah tapped her sandaled foot. “It's a little hot to talk dead movie stars.”

“Rita wasn't just any movie star.” He closed his eyes. “She was a goddess.”

“Riga has a question about hoodoo.”

His lashes flew open. They were gray and long. “A question you couldn't answer?”

“A man approached me saying he was a hoodoo hit man,” Riga said. “And later when I got to my hotel, I found crossing marks beneath my bed.”

“A quincunx pattern,” Hannah said.

He turned back to the bricks, picked one up, tossed it aside. “You ladies don't mind if I keep working while I think on this? I want to get this pile shifted before lunch.”

“Sure,” Riga said.

“What did you do with it?” he asked.

“With the goofer dust?” Riga asked. “Took a picture. Swept it up, cleaned the floor with salt water.”

“That will purify the room, but you should purify yourself too. Light some white candles. Take a bath in hyssop herb.”

“And the hit man?”

“A hoodoo hit man? You asking if I know one, or if one could really exist?”

“Both,” Riga said.

“Most folks 'round here think hoodoo's trash, darkness. But it's got its spiritual side too.”

“I think all magic has a spiritual element,” Riga said.

“But hoodoo practitioners work with both hands,” he said. “You know what that means?”

Riga nodded. “Dark and light magic.”

“There are lots of forces we don't understand,” he said. “Powerful forces. Forces of the mind. Of the heart.”

“So it's possible,” Riga said. “Have you ever heard of this hit man? He was white, mid-thirties to early forties.”

His movements paused. “Was?”

“He's dead now, murdered.”

“If he's the one who crossed you, sounds like someone did you a favor.”

“And if he's a hit man, someone hired him. The job's not done.”

He dropped a brick into the pile. Wiping his hands on his pants, he turned to her. “New Orleans is a psychic port, and we get all sorts of visitors. Not all are friendly. Some you see coming. Some you don't. My advice to you is to leave this place. Get back to your home territory, your power place. Where you're strong.”

“I don't think I can.”

“You can do whatever you want,” he said. “You've got power too. I can feel it. So can Marie. She's watching, but she ain't taking sides. Not yet. She likes to win. She'll wait and see which way the wind's blowing.”

“You make it sound like there's more going on.” Riga shifted, restless. She'd met magical practitioners before who'd spoken in circles and riddles. They usually did it because they were hiding something.

“Conjure is powerful,” he said. “It brings out what's in your heart. You got darkness there, that's what comes. You need to take care.”

“I’d like to believe most people are good,” Riga said.

He laughed.

“Yeah,” she said. “I want to believe it, but don’t.” Most people had black spots on their souls, a darkness kept from seeping out only by the constraints of society. She counted herself among those black-spotted people.

He turned to Hannah. “You going to your mother's house for Sunday dinner? You missed the last one.”

“I'll be there.” She kissed his cheek. “And get in the shade before you have a heart attack, you old fool.”

He picked up a brick and chucked it into the pile.

“Come on,” Hannah said.

“Thanks,” Riga said.

He nodded, and they walked away.

“You need to make it right with your ancestors, girl,” he shouted.

Hannah flipped her hand, dismissive. “Old fool!”

They left the cemetery and headed back into the French Quarter. Its streets were quiet, the smart tourists staying cool indoors. “You get what you wanted, chère?”

“He was a little vague.”

Hannah snorted. “That's spirit,” she said in a rough voice, imitating him. “It don't just come out and say so. You gotta listen with your heart, girl.”

Riga shot her a quick glance, sensing impatience beneath the affection. “Make it right with your ancestors?”

“He was talking to me. And about him. Old family business.”

“Then he's really your grandfather? I thought it was just a nickname.”

She chuckled. “Hoodoo runs in my blood on both sides. Cajun through my dad. Haiti through my mom and the old man. I didn't ask for it. Sometimes, I'm not sure if it's a gift or a curse.”

Riga nodded. She knew all about blood.

They had a quick gumbo lunch in the French Quarter, dining beneath lazily spinning fans. Afterward, Riga drove back to the hotel. She should have gone directly to the crew's work room, but that would entail work. Riga headed upstairs and booted up her computer.

Franklin Turotte was easy to find. Not only was he all over the society pages, he had his own gossip blog. The most recent entry was dated the day before his death.

One achieves freedom when one realizes life has no meaning. And one best achieves this realization after a glass of absinthe and a night with Miss P...

Riga made a face. Ouch. Turotte's murder wouldn't be lacking for potential suspects. No society figure went unscathed. A traitor's hanging for a traitor to high society? She shook her head. Too drastic. She continued her search, turning up articles on a fatal car crash he'd been involved in. His passenger, Terry Thorton, was killed when they drove into the bayou. Drunk driving was hinted at, but he was never charged. The “accident” was five years old.

Riga sighed. She needed to interview the people pilloried in Turotte's articles but hadn't the time for real, face-to-face interviews. Not with so many suspects. She winnowed it down to Turotte's most abused victims and tracked down their phone numbers. One eye on the digital clock by the bed, she made calls.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Jameson, this is Riga Hayworth with the
Peninsula Times
. I was hoping to get a comment from you about Franklin Turotte's death.” Riga
had
done some writing for that newspaper, once upon a time. It wasn't a complete lie.

The people she called were all too eager to give her quotes, opening up about their relationship with Turotte. And though their judgments on the man bordered on vicious, she sensed they'd enjoyed being a part of his columns.

No publicity is bad publicity, indeed.

Finally, when she couldn't put it off any longer, Riga took the elevator down to the work room. Sam, Angus, and John Wolfe sat in front of a computer monitor, howling with laughter.

“Play it again, Sam,” Angus said and laughed harder, his broad face pinking with mirth.

Riga bammed the door shut behind her. “Let me guess. You found a good kitten video online? I know we didn't get any footage that funny.”

Sam coughed, wiped his eye. “You're not far off.”

“They're calling it Crazy Cat,” Wolfe said.

“Fascinating.” Riga checked her watch, not budging from her post by the door. “So what's next?”

Sam smoothed his face. “Actually, I think you should see this. It's going viral.”

“You want me to watch a cat video.”

“It's not a cat video, exactly.” Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “It's, um, you.”

“What?” Riga strode to them.

Angus rose and offered her his seat. She waved him down, bracing to see a shot Wolfe had caught of her half-dressed or something equally demeaning.

“It's footage from the hotel security camera.” Sam pressed play.

“There was a security...” Riga trailed off.

The video was grainy black and white. She stood in the corner in front of Pen's door, texting. Her attacker appeared, shoved her, slammed her against the wall.

The blood drained from her face. She braced her hand on the table, and it wobbled beneath her weight. Living the fight had been bad. Seeing it made her pulse beat faster, her stomach knot.

On the video, her shoulders hunched to her ears, her hands came up, rabbit-like. She scratched her attacker's face, quick, brutal strokes. Then the screen split. A replay, Riga slashing on the right, a cat beating at a dog's face on the left. Another replay, this time in slow motion. And then it was one screen again and Riga kicked her attacker between his legs. He doubled over. Knee to the face. Fire extinguisher to the head, and she was on top of him.

“That's not funny,” she said.

“Twenty five thousand hits and counting say it is,” Wolfe said. “And the video was only posted this morning.”

“How did it go up at all? Did the hotel release this? Did you?”

“Of course we didn't. And the hotel is clueless.” Sam's voice was soothing, as if talking to an animal or small child. “But like it or not, the video is out. You can't take it back.”

“Why not?”

“This isn't actually a bad thing,” Sam said. “You come off looking pretty good.”

“That's not the point!”

“Look, you were clearly the victim, and you turned the tables on your attacker. People love that. And the crazy cat thing, that's more a critique of the man who attacked you than it is of you.”

She tensed, her body warming. “Also not the point. That's a video of me. I didn't give anyone permission to post it online. And it sure wasn't funny when that monster attacked.”

“Riga—”

“Oh, forget it.” She needed to shut up before she lost her temper. “So are we done with
Mean Streets
? Can we finish up our own show?”

“Ah, no. I got a call from the
Mean Streets
field producer. They want us to meet them at your hoodoo hit man's house in forty minutes.”

Riga gripped the iron fence surrounding the hoodoo hit man's house, an ocher-colored two-story with white trim. Gazing at the bald patches in the lawn, she ran her hand along the fence’s pineapple finials. They were warm to the touch, dusty, their bars casting slanting shadows in the afternoon sun. A lattice-work of green-tinged wrought iron surrounded the home’s porches, overflowing with potted ferns and palms.

She couldn’t quite believe the police had invited her here. She’d found the body. The cops shouldn't want her anywhere near his house. Now she had a name at least – Harold Howdini. It had to be an alias.

“Can you check your sound?” Angus pressed a headphone to his ear.

Riga felt for the box clipped to the back of her belt and pressed a button. “How's this?”

He gave her the thumbs up.

The
Mean Streets
van screeched to a halt on the street, men spilling out, cameras at the ready. The cops’ sedan pulled in behind them.

Riga's phone rang. Turning from Dirk, swaggering up the cracked sidewalk, she pressed the phone to her ear.

“It's Ash. I'm here. Where are you?”

She gave him the address. “I'm with the film crew. Crews.” And she hadn't told them Ash would be coming. She rubbed her palm on the thigh of her slacks. Sam would be okay with it.

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes.” Ash hung up.

“Ash is on his way,” she told Sam.

He raised his eyebrows. Ash had been on their first shoot, at Lake Tahoe, and they knew each other.

Long tossed his jacket in the car and walked to them, rolling up the cuffs of his white shirt. He angled his head toward the
Mean Streets
camera. “This is where our vic from the restaurant – or your hoodoo hit man – lived.”

Dirk nodded. “And now we get to see whether your theory pans out, if there's any sign of the occult at his place.”

“
If
he kept anything at his house.” The dark, dead eyes of the windows seemed to stare, and she shivered. She'd checked the property values in the Garden District and guessed this one was worth a couple million. Whatever the man had done, it had paid well.

“If there's nothing inside...” Dirk gave the camera a steely gaze. “You've hit a dead end.”

“How long have you been waiting to use that one?” Riga asked.

Sam bit back a smile.

Shaking her head, she followed the
Mean Streets
crew to the porch, waiting while the cops unlocked the front door.

Detective Long swung it open. “A team has already been through here once, but be sure not to touch anything. Not without gloves at least. And I don't suppose you've got any.”

Digging in her bag, Riga snapped on a pair. “
Semper paritus
.”

She brushed past the detective into the entryway. A chandelier dangled from the high ceiling. Dust motes spiraled in the light streaming through the narrow windows beside the door, rimmed with pale green trim.

The
Mean Streets
cameraman jostled past, walking backward, and Dirk came to stand next to her.

“Nice place,” Dirk said. “Too bad our vic can’t enjoy it.”

“Let's see what he did enjoy.” She walked through an archway into a sitting room. The room had the feel of an open house, immaculate and unlived-in. Wing chairs and sofas in inoffensive pastels angled towards each other atop a matching pseudo-oriental rug. No photos on the side table – just a row of antique, green bottles with heavy, rounded bases. No cabinets for storage. Before she'd married Donovan, de-haunting homes for sale had been her bread and butter. This one looked staged.

She walked into the dining room. Clean plates were centered upon rose and green placemats on a mahogany table. “Are you sure someone lived here?”

Detective Short appeared at her elbow and flipped open a notepad. “A bachelor. Lived alone. Probably didn't use these rooms much.”