The Hoodoo Detective (14 page)

“An imagination that can physically manifest.” But was that why Donovan couldn’t see them? Because he saw the truth of their non-existence?

His lips twisted with distaste.

“I'd better check in with Wolfe,” Riga dialed, put the phone to her ear. “Maybe Pen's called him. Then let’s go to the hit man’s house. I need to learn more about him.”

Wolfe picked up. “I still can't get in touch with Pen. She must know I ratted her out.”

“It was the right thing to do, Wolfe.”

“You need to get back here,” he said. “The cops are looking for you. There's been another murder.”

The narrow road was blocked with police cars, lights flashing. Live oaks shrouded the neighborhood, just outside the Garden District.

Their limo driver maneuvered beside the
Mean Streets
van. Ash stepped out, scanning the street, and the driver opened the door for Riga.

She slid out of the car, straightened, and was eye level with Dirk's chest.

His lip curled. “A limo? I didn’t know your show had the budget.”

Donovan exited and rested his elbows on the car's roof.

“Donovan Mosse, meet Dirk Steele.”

Dirk stepped backward, onto the sidewalk, and bumped into his own cameraman. Wordlessly, the cameraman adjusted his lens.

“Where's the
Encounters
crew?” Riga asked.

“Don't know,” Dirk said, “but crime waits for no man.” He nodded to Donovan. “Mosse, nice to meet you.”

“Steele.” Donovan walked around the car, shook Dirk's hand. “I'm a fan. What's going on?”

“Another murder. Looks like we've got a serial killer.”

Detective Long clomped up to the group, glowering. “The FBI will be involved soon.” Dark circles of sweat stained the armpits of his blazer.

“No doubt the extra resources will be helpful,” Donovan said.

“
Mphf
.” Long pursed his lips. “You ready to do your thing, Hayworth? This is another bad one.”

“How bad?” She shifted into the shade of a magnolia, her stomach twisting. There were already too many memories of blood and violence in her head.

“Bad.” The detective glanced at Donovan. “Who's this?”

“My husband, Donovan Mosse.”

“I'm afraid our confidentiality agreement doesn't cover him. You okay with that?”

“Of course.” She was just fine with violating the agreement and telling Donovan everything later, thank you very much.

“This way.” Long turned and walked toward a house, its yard crawling with law enforcement.

Glancing at Donovan apologetically, she followed. Weaving past clusters of uniformed policemen, she craned her neck for her own crew. Long lifted a band of yellow police tape, and she and Dirk ducked beneath it.

“Dirk, I'm not comfortable going in without the
Encounters
team.”

He shrugged. “We can't bring cameras inside anyway. Don't worry, my guy will get everything he can outside.”

Uneasy, Riga nodded. Sam wouldn't be happy she'd gone inside before he arrived. But she was at the crime scene on sufferance, as a police consultant, and she didn't want to jeopardize that by insisting they wait for her crew.

The house was a neat one-story, long and narrow, with white-painted trim and shutters. It wasn't quite a shotgun house, with no door in the front. Or perhaps it once had been shotgun style and the house remodeled for a side entry. A spear-like row of topiaries lined the front of the house, foxglove filling the spaces between the bushes.

“Wait here,” the detective said to Dirk's cameraman.

They walked to an iron gate at the side of the house, and Long paused, pulling extra gloves from the inside pocket of his blazer. He handed them to Riga and Dirk.

“And don't—”

“Touch anything.” Riga pulled her hair back into a ponytail and knotted it. She slipped on the gloves. “What's inside?”

“Another decapitation.”

“Like the last?”

“No.” He met her gaze, his brown eyes somber. “I'd rather not say anything else, just get your impressions.”

She nodded and followed him up the short flight of steps to a set of iron-paned, glass double doors. The sun glittered off them, blinding.

Long opened one door onto a narrow, white hallway with sisal carpeting. Closed doors extended down one side.

“This way.” The detective strode down the white corridor.

Riga shivered in the air conditioning. They passed an alcove with a charcoal-colored, headless statue. Three strings of gray glass squares dangled along one wall. The monochrome scheme was striking, but the hall felt like a tunnel to purgatory.

The hallway opened to a studio-style room, open kitchen on one side, black and white dining and living room on the other. Dark blood splattered the taupe carpet, the white sofas, the eggshell-colored curtains. A dining table had been shoved aside, cockeyed, to make room for the horror on the carpet. Another circle, this time made of gray dust – goofer dust? Another headless body. A woman wearing black yoga pants and a matching jacket with a white stripe up the side.

Gorge rising, Riga focused on the symbols around the circle, the lines crisscrossing its diameter.

“What's black, white and red all over?” Dirk muttered.

Cops moved around the room, taking notes, snapping photos, speaking in low voices.

“Who was she?” Riga asked.

“Muriel Erickson. Local socialite. Ran some sort of PR firm.”

“PR?” Riga asked sharply. “Which one?”

Long flipped through his notes. “Elán. Why?”

“Nothing.” Riga shook her head. “I recently met someone who's a PR consultant, that's all. Not Muriel, thank God.”

“A woman this time,” Dirk said. “A break in the pattern?”

“The sigils represent the same demon called in the prior murders.” Riga's voice cracked.

She cleared her throat, looked everywhere but at the corpse. “Where's the head?”

“That's another break in the pattern,” Long said. “In the bathtub. Come take a look.”

Riga trailed behind them, her feet dragging.

Detective Short emerged from a room off the hallway.

She halted, glad for an excuse to delay the crime scene's finale. “Find anything interesting?”

“I'm not sure,” the detective said. “Want to take a look?”

Wanting had little to do with it, but she brushed past him into a bedroom. White walls. A narrow carpet along one side with a pattern of silvery disks. A large abstract painting, white background with yellow splatters of paint. The bed was covered in a silky, dark gray spread, piled with neatly arranged pillows. The bed faced an entertainment unit, a flat-screen TV in the center. Surrounding the TV were niches filled with books and odd objects.

Riga moved closer.

Labeled, antique-looking jars. A decorative knife angled crossways in the small niche beside a black-glass chalice. A human skull.

She picked up one of the jars. Its label read: Goofer Dust.

“Goofer dust, that's voodoo, isn't it?” Short asked.

“Hoodoo. But that may not mean she's a hoodoo practitioner. Magical workers often take things from different traditions and make them their own.” Riga did that herself, making up her own form of magic, borrowing and modifying concepts where it felt right.

She ran one gloved finger along the spines of books on the shelves and slid one out. It was another commercial grimoire, slightly better quality than the one she'd found at Turotte's.

Riga flipped through it, her lips pressed tight. “She wasn't a hoodoo practitioner, not purely at least. This is a necromancer's grimoire, a spell book for death magic. The first victim who was hanged… Did you find evidence he was a magical practitioner?”

“No,” Short said. “But we weren't looking for it. I'll go back today.”

A weight lifted from Riga's chest. The detective understood. And this time he'd find the hidden cache of necromantic objects, the skull. “What about Jordan Marks? Did you find any magical paraphernalia at his house?”

“Some books. A skull. He was into magic, I guess.”

“That's the connection. They were all involved in black magic... assuming you find something at Turotte's, I mean.”

Short gazed at her through narrowed eyes. “Yeah.”

There was a retching sound. Bile rose in Riga's throat in response.

She and the detective hurried from the room.

Dirk staggered into the hallway, his face gray. “Her hair...” He straightened, shook his head.

Riga didn't want to see what had made Dirk's limbs shake, sweat to break out on his forehead. She forced her way past him.

Detective Long shifted from a doorway.

Riga's arm brushed his sleeve as she entered the bathroom, and the human touch broke her focus, made her stomach quiver. White and black checked tiles gleamed, the only spot of color a small palm plant in one corner.

She edged toward the bathtub. The water inside was pink and something... She took a breath, forcing herself to look. A woman's head floated in the tub, her hair spreading in the water, swaying, hypnotic.

Riga stumbled from the room.

“Why do it?” Long put a light hand on her arm, stopping Riga's flight. “Why put her head in the bathtub?”

“I don't know.” Riga rubbed her mouth. “You might want to test the water.”

“For what?”

“Salt. Whatever turns up. The killer put it there for a reason.”

“Now you sound like a profiler,” Short said.

She grimaced. “Which I'm not. Sorry. I'll try to keep those opinions to myself.”

“S'all right,” Long said, “especially since I happen to agree. The killer's telling us something, taunting us. Damned if I know what it's about though.”

“I can't tell you anything more about the scene in the living area. The circle is like the others.”

“The difference is the head.”

“Yeah. I'll see if I can find anything on that for you.”

“Thanks. And don't leave town.”

Riga hesitated and moved on. Don't leave town? If she was a suspect, they wouldn't have invited her to view the crime scene. But it was a curious thing to say, and disturbing.

Sam and Wolfe stood on the sidewalk, outside the crime scene tape.

The field producer's normally bland face was thunderous, his freckles standing out against pink skin. “You went in without us.”

“Things moved quickly.”

“Dammit, Riga.”

“I'm sorry. Dirk's cameraman was there. He got video of us going inside. But they wouldn't allow cameras in the house.”

“I know that. But Dirk's camera is on Dirk. We're here for you.” He ran a hand through his sandy hair. “Look, I've been talking it over with L.A. This is going on too long. Even with our reduced crew, the numbers aren't working. They're giving us one more day. They figure we've got enough footage of you to insert into the
Mean Streets
coverage of the murders.”

“I understand. It's more than I expected. Thanks, Sam.”

He stared at his loafers. “It's an interesting case. I think we could do more with the occult angle. But we've got a budget. Now, let's talk about what you found inside.”

Riga nodded. The
Encounters
team might be going home. But she wouldn't be. Not yet.

In the limo, Riga gripped Donovan's hand.

“Bad?” he asked.

“Another decapitation.” The divider was up, and the intercom was off. Ash sat up front, giving them privacy. “The killer put her head in the bathtub and filled it with water.” Throat tightening, she looked out the window, trying to blot out the image.

“Why put it in water?”

“I don't know. I suggested they test the water for salt. Salt and water can block magical energies, but I honestly don't see why the killer would have bothered with it at that point. The head seemed... discarded. And from a necromantic point of view, I don't know why they wouldn't use the head in their ceremony like they did before. There have been minor variations in all the killings – different materials used to form the circles, for example. But the demon called is always the same. The victims were all involved in necromancy. Has the PI firm you hired reported back?”

“No word on Pen. The Old Man didn't go anywhere last night.”

But all the victims had been necromancers. The Old Man had to be part of the killings. “He could have given them the slip. A good cloaking spell would have done it.”

Donovan quirked a brow. “I thought you said cloaks didn't work if someone was actively looking for you.”

“But if he was walking, in a disguise, they might not see him. They'd be looking for someone in a wheelchair. A cloak would work.” She needed someone magical watching him, who'd be open to catching the cloak. That or set up her own twenty-four hour surveillance.

“You really think he's faking it?”

“He was fine the last time I saw him.” Her stomach growled.

Donovan smiled. “Lunch?”

“I'm not sure I can eat.” The thought of muffaletta or jambalaya or anything mashed and red turned her stomach.

He squeezed her hand. “Drinks then. I know just the place.” He pressed the intercom button and gave the driver a Mediterranean-sounding name.

“I know where it is, sir.”

Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of a restaurant in the business district. The limo deposited them on the sidewalk and glided off.

“This place makes a mean Obituary,” Donovan said, leading her up the steps, “though we'll have to try one at the Absinthe House later. I thought you’d like some light dishes – hummus and baba ganoush and falafel.”

“It's perfect.”

And it was. They ordered plates of tangy baba ganoush, tabouleh, kebbeh, hummus and sambusek.

The cheese inside the sambusek pastries was scalding hot, raising a blister on the roof of her mouth. Riga took a gulp of her Obituary cocktail and made a face. Normally, she liked licorice, but the alcohol was too much, and her stomach revolted. She leaned her head back, examining the painted grapevines on the white ceiling.

Ash sat at a nearby table, facing the door, drinking a mineral water.

“Three dead necromancers and a hoodoo hit man in New Orleans. How does Howdini tie into the other murders, if at all?” Donovan fished the olive out of his cocktail glass.