The Hoodoo Detective (18 page)

She nodded. “You're right. Thanks. It's a better use of our time if they run the background checks while we talk to the suspects.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Dirk. He knew one of the victims, and he kept his mouth shut about it. I want to know why.”

“Any idea where he might be?”

“Most likely with the
Mean Streets
team.” She tapped her phone and handed it to him. A red dot blinked on a map of New Orleans. “I had Brigitte put a tracker on their van.”

“You brought a tracker to New Orleans?”

Her cheeks warmed. “It's a new toy.”

“And useful. Is it legal?”

She threaded her arm through his. “A question we only have to worry about if we get caught.”

The
Mean Streets
van was parked behind a line of police cars, their lights flashing. Circling the block, Donovan found a space in front of a two-story villa overgrown with vines.

Trailed by their protection detail, they walked to the crime scene. Yellow tape roped off a white, double-gallery house with black trim. The two-story was raised on brick piers and set well back from the street, surrounded by a green lawn and a simple iron fence. Its covered galleries were framed by columns.

Riga leaned against the
Mean Streets
van and crossed her arms. Cops hurrying by glanced at them, but didn't shoo them away.

“More of your cloaking?” Donovan asked. “The cops are letting us get close.”

“We're behind the police tape, and as far as I know, I'm still an honorary part of the
Mean Streets
team.” But they hadn't called her to this crime. Because it wasn't an occult murder?

Closing her eyes, she extended her senses toward the house. Dark magic coiled from it, stinking of rotting garbage. Electricity surged through her nerve endings, and she flinched. “Another murder by dark magic.”

Donovan's brows lowered into a slash.

Two uniformed men wheeled out a stretcher with a black body bag atop it. The stretcher hit a raised piece of walk. Swearing, one of the men rammed it over the break. The stretcher toppled, the bag and its contents thudding to the ground. The body slipped from the unzipped bag, an arm spilling out.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Donovan said. “Who are these jokers?”

Zipping the bag, the men righted the stretcher and heaved the body onto it. Riga rubbed her brow, suddenly glad she wasn’t a part of this crime scene.

They loaded the body into the coroner’s truck, slammed the doors.

Donovan shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

Thirty minutes later, Dirk and his crew emerged from the house.

Donovan straightened off the van.

“Let me handle Dirk,” Riga said quickly. “My authority is low enough as it is.”

Muttering beneath his breath, Donovan subsided.

Lounging against the van, she caught his gaze. Dirk's steps slowed.

Riga's smile was brittle. “Hi, Dirk. What's going on?”

“Can't really talk about it.” He reached for the passenger side door.

“There are a lot of things you've neglected to mention, like your relationship to victim number three, Muriel Erickson.”

Dirk froze, dropped his hand.

“So the police don't know about it,” she said flatly.

“Maybe we should go somewhere more private,” Donovan said.

Dirk grimaced. “Hold on.” He went to speak to the cameraman, his voice too low for Riga to hear.

The cameraman looked at her, eyes widening. Dropping his gaze, he nodded.

Dirk returned to Riga and Donovan, crossed his arms over his chest. “Where do you want to go?”

“There's a restaurant and bar not far from here,” Donovan said.

“Lead the way.”

They walked along the buckled sidewalk, passing tourists snapping photos of the gates to an old, high-walled cemetery.

“That's Lafayette Cemetery Number Two,” Dirk said.

“We don't need a travelogue,” Donovan growled.

He shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

It was well past lunch, and the restaurant was quiet. They settled themselves around a table in the bar area and ordered drinks.

“I guess you want to know why I didn't call you about the crime scene,” Dirk said.

“That is odd, since you asked Sam for me to stay.” Riga's fingers drummed the tablecloth. “But I'm more interested in the crime scene. What happened?”

“Same weird occult shit. This time the victim was shot in the head. A guy named Rodney Pinkerton.”

“Was Rodney a practicing occultist?”

“Looks that way. We found books of magic and wands and that funny knife.... What did you call it?”

“An athame,” Riga said.

“Yeah. That. You were right about the occult connection between the victims. The cops went back to Turotte's and found a skull and other stuff. They think it's some sort of breakthrough.”

“So I'm no longer needed,” Riga said.

“I thought you didn't care about the show?” Dirk said.

“I care about the murders.”

“Why didn't you mention you knew one of the victims?” Donovan asked.

Dirk spread his hands. “Why would I? I've got nothing to do with this. I didn't know Muriel was into the occult.”

The waitress placed a whiskey before Donovan, set Dirk up with a beer. Riga had iced tea. Perhaps it was the heat, but alcohol tasted strange to her lately. The bodyguards, at a separate table, drank mineral water.

“Tell us about Muriel,” Donovan said.

Dirk ran his hand through his hair, glinting with moisture. “She helped me make connections when I first moved to New Orleans. But.... She didn't have a good vibe, so I left.”

“Good vibe?” Riga snorted.

“I believe in following my instincts.”

Donovan gazed into his whiskey. “What did your instincts tell you about Muriel?”

“She was a little, ah....” His gaze slid to Riga. “Kinky. Don't get me wrong. I'm all live and let live. But she had a stone cold crazy streak, you know?”

“No.” Riga sipped her tea. It tasted soapy. She put it down.

Dirk leaned forward. “She was one of those, what do you call 'em, nihilists.”

Riga raised a brow. “You’ve been reading the dictionary.”

“Oh, you’re funny. I mean no one was real to her, just pawns on a chess board. If she wasn't dead herself, I'd figure her for the killer. She'd probably get a kick out of that sort of thing.”

“We'd hoped for more concrete information,” Donovan said. “But since you can't provide it, we’ll go to the police station and you can tell them about Muriel.”

Riga gulped her glass of ice water. It tasted metallic, and she wrinkled her nose. She couldn't wait to get back to Tahoe, where the water was pure.

“Fine,” Dirk said. “Orgies. Are you happy?”

Riga choked on her water.

Donovan smacked her on the back. “You attended?”

“Hell, no. When I realized what was going on, I left. Getting caught would have been too risky for my image.”

Riga coughed into a napkin, her throat burning. “I noticed a cameraman went inside the house with you today.”

“Yeah?” Dirk's eyes narrowed.

“I want to see that video.”

“Are you kidding? Do you know what we had to go through to get a cameraman inside? I'm not even sure if we can use the footage – the D.A.'s office has to sign off on everything.”

Donovan leaned back in his chair. “Withholding evidence in a murder investigation.... How would that play with your fans?”

“And who did you pay off to get your cameras inside?” Riga asked.

Dirk stiffened. “I don't pay.”

“So there was some sort of quid pro quo, like with Muriel,” Riga said. “That won't do much for your image.”

“This is blackmail.”

“Stop whining.” Riga turned her glass. “You're getting off easy.”

“Fine. I'll get you the footage.”

“Thanks.” Donovan pulled out a card from his breast pocket and handed it to Dirk. “Here's where we're staying. We'll expect that tape within the next eight hours.”

“Fine.”

“In the meantime,” Riga said, “what do you know about Rodney Pinkerton?”

“The latest victim? Another trustafarian. Not sure where his family made their money, but he's never had to work a day in his life. He's on the boards of several charities.”

“Married? Any family?”

“No. I guess it's true, money doesn't buy love.”

“Work on that one,” Riga said. “It's almost a one-liner.”

“I heard someone blew up your car.”

Riga nodded.

Dirk's lips quirked. “Sounds like you bombed.”

“Still no news about Pen?” Riga stepped aside for an early Bourbon Street reveler, and her heel caught in a gap in the brick sidewalk. The sun had set. Ribbons of purple clouds trailed over the French Quarter. Techno music boomed, police barricades turning Bourbon Street into a pedestrian party.

They passed a stripper in a sequined skirt that barely covered her assets, leaning against the wall of a strip bar. Heat radiated from the pavement, steaming the street with the stench of horse manure and vomit.

Donovan tucked the phone into the pocket of his black slacks. “Nothing yet.”

“I should be surprised and disgusted by Dirk or the
Mean Streets
crew or whoever paying off the local cops to get their cameras inside that house. But all I feel is depressed.”

“Cheer up. If you get arrested here, now we know how I'll get you off.”

In spite of herself, she smiled. “I've no intention of getting arrested.”

“Glad to hear it. It would put a kink in my plans for the night.”

“Mr. Mosse,” Ash said from behind them.

Donovan stopped, turned. “Problem?”

“We're being followed. They picked us up at the Farmer's Market, when you were shopping for pralines.”

Annoyed, she adjusted the collar of her blouse, damp with sweat. Riga hadn't sensed a thing. No prickling at the back of her neck, no feeling of being watched. But now she imagined it, two blades of heat penetrating her back. Her chest tightened.

Donovan didn't look around. “What does he look like?”

“Looks like Marek. He's got a woman with him.”

“I don't see them,” Riga said, trying not to look like she was looking.

“They're talking to a bouncer outside a bar. It’s about a block down, across the street.”

The couple's back was to her, the woman's blond hair trailing long and loose along the back of her little black dress.

Marek turned, meeting her gaze. A slow smile crept across his face. He said something to the woman, and the two faded into the bar.

“I still can't see them.” Donovan jerked his cuff, his jaw tightening.

“They went into that bar on the corner.” Ash pointed down the road.

Grimacing, Donovan growled low in his throat. “Let’s go.”

Raucous music and laughter poured from the open doors of the low, brick building with flaking plaster and faded shutters. Marek and the blonde stood at the bar. The bartender nodded, and the vampire drifted across the slanting wood floors to a darkened corner near an unlit fireplace.

Donovan leaned an elbow on the bar and ordered an obituary. “Riga?”

“I'll try a sazerac.” There had to be some drink in this city that wouldn’t wrinkle her nose.

“Where are they?” Donovan asked, his words clipped.

“Around the corner of the room,” Riga said. “You can't see them from here.”

He paid for their drinks, and Riga led him to the table.

“Marek,” she said. “What a surprise.” She glanced at Donovan, and he shook his head. She tapped an empty chair.

The vampire's gaze flicked to Donovan and settled on Riga. “May I introduce my... sister, Adelaide?”

His companion nodded, her chilly blue gaze never leaving Donovan. Her skin was flawless as a porcelain doll's. “Enchanted.” She extended her hand, as if to be kissed.

Donovan drew out his chair.

Adelaide paled, her lips tightening.

Riga probed for traces of magic, but felt nothing from the vampires, not even the pull of death. It was as if Marek and Adelaide didn't exist.

Adelaide’s look was arctic. “Mrs. Mosse.”

“Please, call me Riga.”

“I see you've taken extra precautions since the car bomb,” Marek said, nodding toward the two bodyguards at the table nearby. “Who do the police think was responsible? A business associate?”

“It remains a mystery,” Riga said.

“You've certainly stirred things up in New Orleans,” Adelaide said.

“Oh?” Riga asked.

Adelaide's smile didn't reach her eyes. “Clearly not all the interest has been healthy.”

Donovan tossed back his drink. “Riga?”

“Sorry.” Her face heated. She needed to do a better job keeping him in the conversation.

“Have you learned more about these murders?” Marek asked.

“About the murders?” Riga repeated for Donovan's benefit. “Both killer and victims appear to have been necromancers.”

Marek leaned back in his chair. “That surprises me.”

“Why are you surprised?” Riga asked.

Fidgeting, Donovan stared into the cold fireplace.

“New Orleans is a gathering point for my kind. We don't take kindly to necromancers.”

“I see,” Riga said. “Necromancers work death magic, and since vampires are undead, they have power over you.”

“It's why your aunt's relationship with our world was so unusual. Livinia was an extraordinary woman.”

“If it makes you feel better, the victims don't seem to have been very good necromancers.” Riga sipped her Sazerac. Making a face, she laid it on the table. Awful.

Adelaide leaned forward. “What is wrong with your husband? Is he deaf and blind, or merely foolish?” She reached for him.

Marek lunged forward, gripping her wrist.

Hissing, she yanked back.

The two bodyguards stood, moved toward them.

Marek released her, leaving white marks on her pale arm.

“What's wrong?” Donovan asked, his head whipping around.

“I apologize on behalf of my sister.” Marek rose. “If you will excuse us?” The two drifted out of the bar.

The bodyguards subsided at their table.

“What's going on?” Donovan said.

“They've left,” Riga said. “Adelaide — Marek's friend — tried to touch you, but Marek grabbed her wrist before she could.”