The Hoodoo Detective (2 page)

Riga glanced down the alley. The figure had vanished.

Wolfe smiled, one eye glued to the viewfinder. “I figured you were up to something when you busted into the men's room, so I went back for my camera.”

Riga couldn't trust herself to speak. She longed to punch him, to wipe that infuriating grin from his mouth.

“What...?” He turned the camera, panning down the alley. The camera dipped, swayed. “Oh.”

Digging into the pocket of her skorts for her cell phone, she called 9-1-1, hands shaking.

“At least the cops can't say you did it,” he said. “I saw you go into the alley. I've even got it on tape.”

Riga grunted. “Small favors.” Forcing down the fear and shock, her mind registered the scene. The hit man had probably been attacked from behind. But the spatter would have been hard for the killer to completely avoid, and she shuddered in spite of the furnace-like heat rising from the macadam. It cooked the garbage, the blood, the body.

There was something horribly intimate about a knife attack. It was close, personal.

She'd rather face a gun.

The hit man's shirt was ruched up, exposing his weapon, a Walther PPK. He'd never gotten a chance to draw it.

Riga stared at the corpse in the alley, her thoughts freezing, knotted by confusion. She’d gone into the alley expecting a confrontation, and her brain struggled to keep up with the change in circumstances.

The man's eyes were slightly parted, only the whites visible. His skin was tanned, his hands manicured. He was fit, probably six feet. If he wasn't wearing that Hawaiian shirt, she'd have tagged him a metrosexual.

Edging around the body, she stepped in something tacky. Her shoulders stiffened with horror, and then she realized it was only a drying puddle of someone’s drink. Not blood. Thank God, it hadn’t been blood.

She swallowed.
Think!

Step 1: Man tells her he's been hired to kill her and others will die if she doesn't follow him. He appeared drunk, but she hadn't smelled alcohol on his breath.

Step 2: Someone kills the hit man before she gets a chance to take care of him herself.

“I’ll go tell the others,” Wolfe said.

“You’ll wait here. The police won't want us to talk to anybody or even to each other until they interview us.”

Face pale, he gulped, blinked. “But the crew… Sam needs to know.”

“A man's dead. This has nothing to do with the show.” But it had something to do with her, and that question spun her stomach. Riga pressed her back against the cool brick wall, catching a sliver of shade, wishing Donovan were here.

Blue lights flashing, a squad car rolled silently to a stop at the end of the alley.

“Thank God,” Riga muttered.

Two men exited, wavering silhouettes in the heat. One's head was oddly distorted, and she thought of that strange figure earlier. The killer? A random tourist? Or something else?

A van pulled up behind the squad car, and a cameraman jumped out.

“Press?” Wolfe asked.

Riga shook her head. “That would be too quick.”

One of the newcomers swaggered toward them in a bulletproof vest with the word “POLICE” emblazoned across its chest in yellow. Beneath he wore a white t-shirt.

The vest must have been miserably sticky in the New Orleans heat. Why had he bothered?

He ran his hand through his golden hair, lank with sweat. His bronzed skin looked slick and dirty, like he'd just come from a wild bout of sex.

“Oh, wow.” Wolfe raised the camera to his eye.

“What?”

“That's Dirk Steele.”

“Who?”

“Don't you watch movies?
Dark Star Falling
?
Death Trail on the Mobi
?
Heart of a Dragon
?”

“I must have missed those.” The alley felt claustrophobic, and her gaze darted to the exits.

“He was one of Hollywood’s biggest action stars. Now he’s got his own reality show,
Mean Streets
. You should know that, Riga. We’ve got the same production company.”

“
Mean Streets
?”

“He rides along with the beat cops, because that’s where the action is,” Wolfe whispered. “His squad car must have caught the call.”

Riga made a noise in her throat, protective of the crime scene for reasons she couldn’t explain. It shouldn’t be splashed about on reality TV. The murder needed to be investigated properly, understood, respected.

Dirk halted beside the body. Whipping off his sunglasses, he knelt. His brow furrowed, eyes crinkling, and Riga guessed he was her age, maybe younger. He certainly had the Hollywood looks.

A uniformed cop stopped beside him. “We're out. It’s a homicide. Looks like his throat's been cut.”

Relieved, Riga bowed her head, waiting for the actor to move on, to let the real investigating begin.

Dirk looked up, staring past the cop at a space high on the brick wall. He narrowed his eyes, saying nothing.

“What's he doing?” Riga asked beneath her breath, lips barely moving.

“Working the camera,” Wolfe said. “You could learn something.”

Dirk rose, stared into the camera. “Murder,” he intoned. “The unkindest cut of all.”

Riga wrinkled her brow. “Seriously?” she muttered. Even when it came for a hoodoo hit man in a Hawaiian shirt, death deserved respect.

“That's a good one, Dirk,” his cameraman said. “But I got a shadow. Can you shift a bit to the left and do another take?”

The actor obliged, posing, while the police officer walked back to his squad car.

“Uh, you two do realize that man is dead?” Riga asked.

The actor strode to them. “Are you the two who found the body?”

“Yes,” Wolfe said. “I'm a huge fan.”

“What are you doing here?” Riga asked.

“I'm Dirk Steele. Can you tell me what happened?”

“No,” Riga said. “I'll wait for the real cops.”

His jaw clenched. “According to the state of Louisiana, I am a real cop.”

“Then you might want to tell your cameraman to stop messing with the body.”

The cameraman dropped the arm he’d been repositioning. “The angle wasn't right.”

Dirk stepped closer. “Lady, I asked you a question.”

“And since you're an actor pretending to be a cop, I'm ignoring it.” Riga's phone rang, and she dug it from her pocket. Pen's name lit the screen.

“Don't answer that,” Dirk said.

Riga put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Pen. I'm a little busy right now.”

“What's going on? Where are you? I went to look for you in the bathroom, thinking you might have fallen in or something, and you weren't there. Is Wolfe with you?”

“Like I said, busy. I'll explain later. And yes, he's with me. Stay put.” Riga clicked off.

“I'm John Wolfe.” He stuck his hand out, juggling the camera still to his eye. “
Supernatural Encounters
. This is our star, Riga Hayworth. She stepped outside and found him. I was right behind her.”

She elbowed him in the ribs, wishing she had a spell to shut him up.

Dirk raised a brow. “A reality TV show just happens to find a dead body with a camera in tow? You wouldn't have put him there to boost ratings?”

“You've got a cameraman,” Riga said. “Did you kill him?”

“I'm a cop. Finding bodies is my job.”

“If you were a real cop, you wouldn't look so pleased about that.”

“I am a real cop.”

Riga cocked her head. “You can keep saying it, but it won't make it any more true.”

“Did you set this up for ratings?”

“You're delusional. Where are the real police?”

“Maybe you killed him yourself. Or just found the body and brought your cameraman out here to film the discovery.”

“I didn't...” A bead of sweat dripped into her eye, burning, and she rubbed it. Dirk was half right, and the heat and her own lingering fear muddled her.

“Are you sure you didn't? Because with a mouth like yours, it seems like a con job would be...” he whipped toward his camera. “Right up your alley.”

She ground her palm into her eyes, grimacing. “Do you sit up at night researching clichés?”

“No.” He leaned back, his gaze traveling from her sandaled feet to her auburn hair, returning to rest at her breasts. “Last night I was involved in something much more... entertaining.”

“Gagh. Since this is a crime scene, I'm laughing on the inside.”

His nostrils flared. “I don't like your tone.”

Wolfe's camera swiveled toward her.

“And I don't like delusional amateurs contaminating crime—”

A burst of sirens made them both draw back. More squad cars arrived, and some of the tension in Riga's shoulders released. At last, actual detectives.

Waving at Dirk and his cameraman, a uniformed cop strode to the scene. “Thanks for keeping it secure,” he said.

Riga's eyes widened. Secure? “Ah, that cameraman—”

Wolfe stepped hard on her toes. “No one likes a narc,” he hissed.

She bit back a yelp. “They need to know,” she whispered.

“What does it matter what position his arm fell?” Wolfe asked. “The guy's throat was cut. How he died is no mystery.”

Riga crossed her arms. He was probably right. Still, as a licensed private investigator, the scene tampering offended her sensibilities. “Whatever.”

A detective in a sweat-stained suit interviewed Riga. “What brought you out here?” he asked.

She fingered the scrap of paper in her pocket. “I came down the hall to use the ladies room and noticed the back door was open, letting in the heat. So I thought I'd do the restaurant a favor and walked back here to close it. I saw the body and called 9-1-1.” The lie came easily, automatic, and she didn’t miss the irony. She was a stickler with crime scenes, unless her own interests were threatened. Somehow she was connected to this murder. It was personal, and the thought tightened her chest, made her hands clammy.

“Do you recognize him?”

“I don't know him, but he was in the restaurant, drunk it seemed. He came by our table and told us he was a hoodoo hit man.”

The cop smirked. “Right.”

“One of my colleagues redirected him toward the bar. He went down the corridor toward the bathrooms instead.”

Nodding, he asked more questions, took her contact information, let her go.

She returned inside the restaurant. Uniformed cops made the rounds of the tables, notebooks out.

Pen bounced in her chair with excitement. “The cops are here asking for our contacts and whether we went out back or to the restroom. What's going on?”

“Riga did it again,” Wolfe said. “Remember that drunk? She found him dead in the alley.”

Sam got out of his chair so fast it skidded backward, fell over. “What? And you didn't tell us?”

“Couldn't,” Wolfe said. “Crime scene, and I got it on tape. And get this – Dirk Steele's team was there.”

Sam paced between the tables, his movements quick, jerky.

“What—?” Wolfe began.

Sam held up a warning finger, silencing him. Finally, he stopped, looked up. “Idea.” He jogged from the restaurant.

The waitress placed the bill on the table and hurried away.

The crew looked at Riga.

Sighing, she rooted her wallet out of her satchel, slung over the back of her chair.

Her fingers fumbled with the credit card. Death had come, taking her would-be killer. She should feel relieved. But the
why
was a nagging question that pebbled her flesh.

Riga passed her hotel key card over the lock. A green light flashed above the handle, and she walked into her room. Remnants of dark magic hit her, a physical force, sweet and nauseating, sulfurous and rotting. She stepped back, shaking her head in denial.

Someone had done magic in her room.

Stomach roiling, she took in the scene. Over the laminate flooring, a cream-colored sisal carpet was spread beneath a black coffee table. The diamond-patterned bedspread was smooth, matching black and khaki pillows propped jauntily against the sand-colored, faux-leather headboard.

Riga extended her senses. She was alone, but something tugged at her from the queen-sized bed. Wary, she walked to it. Circling the bed, she saw nothing out of place. But dark magic lingered. She ripped back the bedspread, running her hands across the sheets, then pulled those off as well.

Nothing.

Stooping, she pushed the bed aside, wooden frame groaning, and almost stepped in the line of gray dust.

She drew a satisfied breath. “There you are.”

Digging her tactical flashlight from her bag, Riga shined it beneath the bed. More lines of dust marched across the floor, but she couldn't see the entire pattern.

Riga went to the other side of the bed and pulled, so she wouldn't walk through the stuff. Thanks to her recent hoodoo research, she could guess what she was dealing with: goofer dust.

Panting, she gave the bed one last tug and stepped back to view the pattern. The magician had drawn a rectangle, with an X drawn between the four corners, and piles of dust at each intersection. It reminded her of the five of diamonds, and her thoughts went to the tarot cards in her bag. Fives often represented conflict...

Shaking her head, she cut short that line of thought. Sometimes magical traditions overlapped. Sometimes they didn't.

She snapped a picture of the design with her cell phone and called down to reception for a mop and broom.

“We'll send housekeeping,” the desk clerk said.

“No thanks, just the mop and broom.” She didn't want a maid dealing with this. It was dark magic of some sort, dark hoodoo most likely. Riga had hoped the murdered man had called himself a hoodoo hit man because he'd been pretending to be drunk, or because he'd fancied the alliteration. But she couldn't ignore this coincidence. She didn't believe in them.

A maid knocked at her door with the cleaning implements, and there was a small discussion in the hallway as to who would wield them. Passing the woman a twenty, Riga got her way and shut the door. Anger flickered in her belly. Had the spell caster paid a maid off to let him or her inside?

Humming a chant, Riga swept the dust, careful to collect it all and deposit it in the bathroom garbage bin. She tied off the plastic liner, then filled the sink with warm water and added a generous pour of salt – another magical item she never traveled without.