Voodoo, Lies, and Murder (18 page)

She took the card and tucked it into her bag. "You know, it's not as bad as you think." She waved a hand up the street. "I've got no qualifications. I ran away from home when I was fifteen. At least doing this I can earn more money than working in a supermarket checkout. And Diamond's okay most of the time, if you play by his rules. There are a lot worse pimps out there." She shrugged.

I stared into her eyes and her gaze slid away from mine. "If you keep telling yourself that, maybe one day you'll really believe it. My offer's there if you want it, Cassie. You can call anytime."

She gave me a sad smile. "Thanks. I'd better get back to work." She walked to the lamppost. "Let me know if you find anything out about Emily."

"I will."

I was just walking back down the street when I saw a big guy in a black puffer jacket and black baseball cap approach one of the girls farther along. He whispered something in her ear.

She shook her head, eyes wide with fear. "I've given you all the money I made last night, I swear."

He turned to look at me as I walked past.

"Hey!" he called out behind me.

I stopped walking and swung around to face him. The girl took the opportunity to scarper. This must be Diamond Dozen.

He walked toward me. In the light, I saw he had a round face, protruding eyes, a big, bulbous nose, and thick lips. Think Shrek, only not quite as green or cute.

"You must be Diamond Dozen." I tried not to laugh at the name but I couldn't help it, a tiny bit just slipped out. I caught a potent whiff of some very cheap and nasty eighties aftershave, like he'd just poured a whole bottle of Brut over his head. "Nice name. Very
Miami Vice
."

"Yeah, well, it's actually Sylvester." He shrugged. "My mum was a big fan of the Rocky films, but 'Diamond' sounds more cool."

That was debatable. "I don't think I've ever heard the name Actually Sylvester before. It suits you, though. Say hi to Tweety Pie for me." I started to walk away.

"Huh?" He looked confused. "Who are you, anyway?" Diamond said, taking in my outfit, his eyes lingering on my boobs.

Yuck!

"You're not one of my girls. What are you doing on my piece of material?"

I frowned. "What?"

"My piece of material. My patch." His gaze flickered to my boobs again.

Ew. Totally gross. "Oh! Right, your patch. Well, I got lost."

He walked around me, looking me up and down. "Nice ass."

I cringed inwardly. "Yeah, my ass is actually a stunt ass for Jennifer Lopez." I gave him my sweetest smile.

His eyes narrowed. "Are you mockering me?"

"Huh?"

"Are you mockering me?" he repeated.

"You mean mocking you?"

He glared at me. "That's what I said."

"Of course I'm not mocking you. I'm pretty sure you don't need me for that." I grinned.

"Don't pastasize me."

"Is that even a word?"

"Of course it's a word." He snorted in disbelief.

"What does it mean, then?" I challenged him with my eyes.

"Speaking to me like I'm stupid." He puffed his chest out, or maybe it was his jacket, it was hard to tell.

"Oh, you mean, patronize?" Hey, this was fun.

"Yeah." He lifted his chin up, gazing at me down the end of his nose. "Are you pastasizing me?"

"Er…no. I'm definitely not pastasizing you. Next question?" I tilted my head.

"Who's your pimple?"

I bit my lip to stop myself bursting into laughter. "My pimp?"

He huffed out a loud breath as if he were talking to a stupid child. "That's what I
said
!"

"Oh, that's weird, because I could've sworn you asked who my pimple was."

"No, I didn't." His face inched closer to mine.

He could definitely do with a nasal hair trimmer. I thought about suggesting it to him, but he probably wouldn't have a clue what I was on about. Instead, I thought I'd keep it simple. "You did."

"Didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Did."

"Did NOT."

My eyes glazed over and I felt myself going into a coma. I could see this conversation going on all night. "Whatever." I shrugged and did an exaggerated yawn.

"So who is he?" he asked.

"Who is who?" I said.

"Your pimple!" His voice rose a few octaves with impatience.

"I don't have a pimple. Clearasil works wonders for acne." I peered closer to his face, examining a few blackheads on his chin. "You should try it sometime." Was that cruel of me? Oh, what the hell, he was a halfwit who preyed on vulnerable women so he totally deserved it. Actually, maybe
fuckwit
was a better description.

He drew his face back from mine, rubbing his chin. "Are you trying to insulate me?"

I glanced at his puffer jacket. "Nah, that's what the jacket's for."

"What are you talking about?" He frowned.

"That depends. What are you talking about? Did you swallow a dictionary backwards, or something?"

"Look, I'm not some kind of oxymoron you can talk to with no respect, you know."

Okay, that time I did let out a small chuckle. I couldn't help myself. "No, you're definitely not an oxymoron. A moron, yes, but an oxymoron, no."

He stared at me, trying to work out in his plankton-sized brain whether I was taking the piss. "Good, because I don't let anyone call me an oxymoron."

"I'm so glad. Anyway, now we've cleared up that little misunderstanding, I'll be off."

"Well, don't come back on my piece of material unless you want to elbow grease for me."

"Pardon?"

"Elbow grease for me. Work for me." He threw his arms around in the air for emphasis like I was an idiot.

"Didn't Emily Jacobs
elbow grease
for you? Now she's disappeared. You wouldn't happen to know what happened to her, would you?"

He actually looked upset. His shoulders slouched and the corners of his mouth turned downwards. "I don't know what happened to her. I try and project all my girls."

"You mean protect them?"

"That's what I SAID!" he shouted. "What's wrong with you? Don't you understand English?"

"That depends on who's speaking it."

He ignored my comment. "If you find Emily, tell her it isn't good ettycott not to let me know where she is."

"Will do. Anyway, it's been great fun talking to you. Maybe next time we can sit down and do a crossword together." I gave him a beaming smile and walked back to my car.

One thing was for sure, Diamond was telling the truth. I was certain he didn't have a clue what happened to Emily. Come to think of it, he probably didn't have a clue about a lot of things.

When I got back to my car, there was something resting on the windscreen. A small package wrapped in newspaper and tied with a piece of string.

I unwrapped the paper and immediately wished I hadn't.

Inside the paper were two voodoo dolls dressed as a bride and groom. The dolls had been made by putting two wooden sticks together to form a cross that made a body and arms. Straw had been wrapped around the cross, and what looked like doll's clothes had been placed over the makeshift couple. They had black buttons for eyes and a circular black piece of material sewn where the mouths should be, which made it look like they were frozen in a scream. The bride had crazy, curly hair that shot out at all angles, with one side of it shorter than the other. The groom had a black pin sticking through his head. The bride had a pin sticking through her heart.

Yikes!

I wrapped the dolls back in the paper and threw them on the rear seat so I wouldn't have to look at them on the drive home. Even though I wasn't looking (okay, I did peek in the rearview mirror a couple of times to make sure they weren't coming to life to axe me to death like Chucky), I couldn't stop thinking about them.

Why was it always me that got the crap presents? Why couldn't people send me nice things like Belgian chocolates? Damn, I wasn't supposed to be thinking about chocolate either. Okay, why couldn't I get a Molten Brown luxury gift set, or a new bottle of Light Blue Perfume by Dolce & Gabbana, or a new pair of UGGs that didn't smell like cat's wee?

Okay, so it didn't take an expert to realize that a pin sticking out of the groom's head wasn't a good thing. But what did it mean exactly? If we got married, would Brad drink too much on our wedding night and wake up with a hangover? Somehow, I doubted it meant something as simple as that. And what about a pin through the bride's heart? Did that mean I'd have a heart attack from eating too much junk food, or would my heart be broken by Brad?

I turned on the radio to try and take my mind off the dolls. A rapper was singing about lying dead in the arms of his enemy.

No, no, no! I don't want to hear about death and dying!

I turned the radio off so hard the button nearly popped out.

* * *

"The hair on the bride is a pretty good likeness of yours," Brad said as he examined the dolls when I got home.

I glanced at the wild hair that looked like Medusa on a windy day. "Look at how one side of her hair is shorter than the other. How did she know that? She wasn't even at the house."

"Hacker said she'd know we'd been there."

"Yes, but logically, that's just not possible, is it?"

"Who said life was logical?"

Brad was right. If Marie knew about my hair, she must have some seriously freaky powers. "Omigod, what do you think the pins mean?" I glanced up sharply. "What if you've been cursed so you get a brain tumor or something? What if I have a heart attack or she's cursed our relationship?"

Brad enveloped me in his muscular arms, gently stroking my back. "Nothing's going to happen. And anyway, I thought you didn't believe in it."

"I don't, although I can't get over the fact she knew about my hair, which means that she's got some kind of all-seeing eye, and maybe this black magic voodoo curse stuff really does work. And, just in case something horrible does happen, maybe we shouldn't get married after all. What if getting married triggers off some kind of hex she's put on us?" I nodded at the dolls again. "I mean, she's made the dolls to look like a bride and groom."

"Nice try." He pulled back, gazing into my eyes. "There is no hex. They're just dolls made by a crazy woman. And I'm never going to leave you again. I learned my lesson the last time, and that wasn't even strictly my fault."

I opened my mouth, biting back the urge to disagree. Strictly speaking, that
was
true. It wasn't his fault he'd been sent on an SAS mission to protect innocent people. It was, however, his fault that he hadn't contacted me for months and I didn't have a clue whether he was alive or dead, or whether he just left because he didn't love me anymore. And that hurt. It hurt big time. I could still remember my heart cracking into a million pieces as I waited for news about what had happened to him, and I just didn't know if I could go through all that pain again.

He pressed a finger to my lips. "You can't put it off forever, so stop making excuses. I love you more than anything. You feel the same way. My SAS days are behind me now so I'm definitely not going anywhere. Let's just make it official." He gave me a penetrating stare, like he could read my mind and knew I was about to make excuses again.

And before I could say anything else, he smothered my mouth in a pretty sexy kiss with a nice bit of tongue acrobatics.

When we resurfaced for air, he said forcefully, "Okay, that's it."

A sudden panic made my heart clench. What did he mean? Was he going to finish with me because I wouldn't commit to getting married? "What's it?"

"I'm not going to say another thing about the wedding. I'm here when you want to go ahead with it, but I'm not mentioning it again. Ever."

I gave him a questioning look. When Brad wanted something, he never let it go. For him to just give up on getting married was weird. Unless…unless he was having second thoughts, too.

"Are you having second thoughts?" I asked, biting the inside of my cheek as I waited with trepidation for an answer.

He grinned. "Nope."

Well, something was up. "Ah, I know." I nodded. "You're trying a bit of reverse psychology on me, aren't you? Trying to act like you're not bothered when really you are, so I'll definitely set the date." I grinned back at him.

He gave me a noncommittal shrug.

"Sneaky!" I wagged a finger at him. And, strangely, it started having the desired effect. Woman logic again!

Before I could question him further, he changed the subject in another sneaky maneuver to make it seem like he wasn't bothered. "According to Cassie, Andrew Scott referred Emily to the Holbrook Clinic for a termination. He probably did the same with all the other missing girls who went for a consultation, but judging by what it said on their website, it doesn't seem like the kind of treatment they'd offer to non-paying prostitutes. I hope Hacker manages to find out something soon. God knows how many more women who were sent there have disappeared." He paused for a minute and I imagined the cogs in his brain turning. "Do you think Diamond Dozen's got anything to do with it?"

"No, not unless he was going to confuse someone to death. He's too much of an idiot to be involved in something this big."

* * *

That night I dreamed Brad and I were on our honeymoon. It started off great. We'd just boarded the plane and we were staring in each other's eyes, all loved up. The air stewardess wheeled her trolley down the aisle to serve us champagne, and as she approached I saw it was Chantal. I called out to her as loud as I could, but no words would come out of my mouth. Then the plane started bouncing through the air as we hit a patch of turbulence, and things started falling out of the overhead lockers. A laptop fell down and banged me on the arm. A sticker on the front of it read
Liza's Laptop.
I was just about to get out of my seat and grab it when the plane nosedived, crash landing on a beach in Haiti. Then I was being dragged from the plane by Marie and Andrew. Marie was wearing a gorgeous Umberto Fandango wedding dress and had white makeup smeared all over her face, with black circles around her eyes and mouth, making her look like a skull (note to self: Don't attempt that kind of makeup on my wedding day. It wasn't very flattering). Andrew wore a red cloak and a goat's skull over his face. They tied me up to some palm trees on the beach and Andrew had his foot pressed onto my head so I couldn't move at all. Marie slid a machete from underneath her wedding dress. It glinted at me as the sunlight hit the shiny metal surface. She swung it above her head, and as the machete was just about to slice through me, I woke up, gasping for breath and bathed in sweat.