The Hoodoo Detective (22 page)

“What about his friends?” Riga asked. “Anyone who gave you a bad feeling?”

“Oh, I didn't meet his friends. Though there was this one woman who came by yesterday morning. He showed her into his office and shut the door. I could hear they were arguing, but they seemed to part on good enough terms.”

“What did she look like?”

“Tall. Well-dressed. Slim. Straight brown hair. Lips like that actress, Angelina Jolie.”

“Did you see the woman’s car?” Riga asked.

“It was one of those little sports cars. Dark colored, I think.”

“That is very helpful, Mrs. Puccetti.” Dirk laid his empty glass on a coaster and stood. “If we have any more questions, would you mind if we called on you again?”

She stood and smoothed the front of her tunic. “Oh, no.” Her eyelashes fluttered. “I mean, of course I wouldn't mind.”

“Why, thank you,” Dirk said. “That is very kind. Riga? Shall we go?”

Riga's mouth tightened. They'd gotten some good information from the woman. She might know more. But the crew was already packing their gear.

“I don't suppose you can tell us what kind of sports car she was driving?” Riga asked.

“I'm sorry. I'm just not a car person.” She snapped her fingers. “It was a convertible though, with a black top. I've always wanted a convertible. But they're so impractical. What if I roll the car?”

“I'm sure you wouldn't do anything so foolish.” Dirk patted her arm. “Come on, Riga. Let's let this woman get back to her day.”

She hated him. Grinding her teeth, Riga stormed outside.

Donovan straightened off the van. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck. “Get anything?”

“Closer to the time of death,” Dirk said. “Sometime between nine P.M and seven A.M. And he had a visitor the day before he died – a sexy brunette.” He waggled his brows.

“Dirk,” Riga said, “where were you between nine P.M. last night and seven A.M. this morning?”

“You've got to be kidding me,” Dirk said.

“Not a kidder.”

“After drinks with my crew, I went home with a very attractive blonde. We were rudely awakened this morning by a call from my police contact about the recent murder. My crew can verify the blond left my hotel room when I did.”

“And does the blond have a name?”

“Sure, she's... uh...”

“No name, no alibi,” Riga said.

Riga lingered outside the
Mean Streets
van, happy to let the crew step first into that furnace.

Ash handed a video camera to Wolfe in the van. The bodyguard straightened and looked about.

Hair rose on the back of Riga's neck. They were being watched.

Leaning against Donovan as if in an embrace, she closed her eyes. A multicolored net of sparkling energy spread before her. She made out the pattern of streets, houses, living things, and in one corner, a bump, a ripple. Opening her eyes, she expanded her peripheral vision, tightened her arms around Donovan.

In the shade of an oak stood the young man they'd caught breaking into the hoodoo hit man's house. He was magically cloaked, but poorly. And any cloak – even a good one – could be penetrated if you knew what you were looking for.

“Are you doing magic,” Donovan rumbled, “or are you just happy to see me?”

“We're being watched,” Riga murmured. “Black kid. Blue jeans, loose white t-shirt, short sleeves. Thin, with round glasses.”

“Where?” Ash said.

“Underneath the oak tree, in front of the pink house on the corner.”

Ash swore. “Where did he come from?”

“Ash,” Donovan said. “You circle around. We'll flush him out, move him toward you.”

Ash slipped around the van.

Wolfe leaned out of the van door. “You two coming?”

“Go on without us.” Riga took Donovan's hand, and they strolled up the sidewalk.

“Do you sense anything from our watcher?” Donovan asked.

“He's a practitioner, but not a very good one. I shouldn't have been able to sense his cloak.”

He halted, pulling her into a kiss. It should have meant little, a stall so Ash could get into position. But her knees trembled, her stomach swooping. They broke apart.

“Just giving Ash time to work his way around,” Donovan said, breathing heavily.

“I like the way you think.” Blood thrummed in her veins.

Donovan ran his fingers along her jaw. Cupping the back of her head, he leaned close, his breath tickling her neck. “Is he still there?”

“He's looking away. I think we've embarrassed him.”

Ash moved around the corner of the house.

“Ash is nearly in place,” Riga said. “Let's go.”

They ambled closer. The young man backed away from the sidewalk, hovering at the edge of the oak's shade. The windows in the house behind him were dark, the neighborhood still.

“I think it's time we chat,” Donovan said to him.

The man turned and sprinted for the house.

Ash was a dark blur. He plowed into the man, lifting him off his feet in a football tackle that dropped him to the lawn. Ash grasped his arm and shoulder, rolling him to his stomach.

He lifted his head off the lawn, glaring. “This is assault.” His cadence was slow, southern.

“This is a citizen's arrest,” Riga said. “You left your fingerprints all over the windowpane at Harold Howdini's house.” She was guessing, but he hadn't been wearing gloves.

“What?” He blinked.

“Yeah,” Riga said, “I don't believe that's his real name either. The hoodoo hit man.”

“We don't need to make a citizen's arrest,” Donovan said. “Isn't Dirk a deputy?”

Wolfe and Angus emerged from the van and pointed in their direction.

“You're right.” Riga snapped her fingers. “Now, we can go down to the police station, and you can explain yourself to the cops. Or you can explain yourself to us.”

Wolfe and Angus jogged toward them, the camera jostling on Wolfe's shoulder. Dirk swung out of the van and followed.

“Fine.” The man gasped. “Just get him off me.”

Donovan nodded, and Ash loosened his grip.

“Who are you?” Riga asked.

He rolled over and sat up. “Cunningham. Pete Cunningham. And you're Riga Hayworth.”

“How do you know me?”

His gaze flicked to the van. “It's not exactly a secret.”

“Hey.” Dirk trotted up to the group. “What's going on?”

“We ran into a friend of Riga’s,” Donovan said. “Dirk, meet Pete. Pete, Dirk.”

Pete's eyes widened. “You're Dirk Steele. The real Dirk Steele. I don't believe it!”

Dirk grinned. “Believe it, kid. So are we going, or what?”

Riga glanced toward the van. “Got room for one more? Pete and I need to do some catching up.”

“Sure. But let's get going before my crew melts.” Dirk strode toward the van.

They followed the actor, Ash keeping close to Pete's side.

“Ever been on a TV shoot?” Dirk asked him.

“No.”

“All right.”

The driver started the van, and Dirk swiveled in his chair to face Riga. “We're out of the loop with the cops. As I see it, we're on our own with this investigation.”

“We?” she asked.

“Sure. You're the PI. I'm the heat. We need each other, baby.”

Donovan snorted.

The actor slapped him on the knee. “No offense, man. So what's next?”

“Next,” Riga said, “you pore over the background information you have on the victims and find the connection.” She already knew the connection, but she wanted him out of her hair.

“We know the connection,” Dirk said. “They were all occultists.”

“That's
a
connection,” Riga said. “But did they know each other socially? How did the killer find them? New Orleans is packed with magical practitioners – just look at all the Voodoo and witchcraft shops in the French Quarter. Why these five?”

“Huh. What do you think?” he asked his field producer. “Research could show my intellectual side.”

They argued the merits for the rest of the journey — should he wear glasses to appear more thoughtful? Or was it too far outside Dirk's brand?

At their hotel, Riga and Donovan piled out. Ash clambered out of the van, keeping a hand on Pete's shoulder.

“We'll let you know when we need you,” Dirk said, slamming the door behind them.

“That is so cool,” Pete said.

“It's something,” Riga said.

Walking through the lobby, the men flanked Pete. A uniformed police officer stood at the front desk. The clerk pointed at Donovan, and the cop beelined for them.

Paling, Pete rolled his shoulders. “You said you wouldn't bring in the cops.”

“We haven't,” Donovan said. “Play it cool.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mosse?” The cop tipped his hat. He was big, beefy, his cheeks reddened by the sun.

“Can we help you?” Donovan asked.

“I hope so. I’m Sergeant Smith. Mind if we sit down?” He tilted his head toward a grouping of chairs in the lobby.

Donovan nodded, and they followed the cop to the chairs.

“What's going on?” Donovan lowered himself into a curving chair.

“There's been an accident,” the cop said, “and you may be witnesses. This morning you were at Moon Walk, the boardwalk along the Mississippi?”

“Yes,” Donovan said, expressionless.

“And you spoke with Miss June Mahe? Did you notice anything unusual?”

“No, I didn't. Riga?”

She shook her head. “No. What's this about?”

“Miss Mahe wrapped her rental car around a tree,” Smith said.

Riga went cold. “Is she okay?”

“I'm afraid she didn't make it. Her employer suggested she might have been intoxicated, said she was behaving bizarrely. He suggested we speak to you two.”

Riga gripped the arm of the chair. It wasn't possible.

The Old Man, that bastard, had sent the cops to them to let them know. “Won't a tox screen tell you if she was drunk?”

“Yes,” he said, “but that will take weeks. Real policework isn't like those CSI shows you see on T.V. These things take time. Are you sure you didn't notice anything?”

“No.” Riga rubbed her hand across her cheek. “She seemed competent. I have a hard time believing she was drunk.”

“Well.” He stared hard at them. “It's the Big Easy, the Vegas of the south.”

“Her employer was sharp with her,” Donovan said. “There seemed to be some tension between them.”

“That wouldn’t account for the accident,” Smith said. “Mind if I get your contact information?” He took down their information and departed.

“I need a drink.” Donovan rose.

“Who's this Mahe lady?” Pete asked.

“Upstairs.” Ash hauled him out of his chair, and they took the elevator to their suite.

Inside the living area, Riga sat on the blue-striped sofa, the dog at her feet. She motioned Pete to the wingchair across from her. Afternoon sun streamed through the balcony doors, slanting across Pete's face.

Donovan went to the bar.

“Why were you trying to break into the hoodoo hit man's house?” Riga asked.

The kid stiffened. “Who said I was?”

“We saw you. Cut the crap.”

Ash whistled, tossed Riga a wallet.

Pete lurched forward in his seat, and the dog sat up. “Hey!” He cut a nervous glance at Oz.

She opened the wallet, pulled out his driver's license. “You really are Pete Cunningham. At least you didn't lie about that.”

“I haven't lied about anything.”

“You're a magical practitioner,” Riga said.

“Can I get you a drink, Pete?” Donovan asked.

“I'll have a beer.”

She squinted at the date on his license. “He'll have a soda or water.” He was barely older than Pen.

“What is this? Good cop/bad cop?”

She tapped her fingers on the arm of the couch. “You're connected to a series of murders. If I don't get some answers, the cops are the next people you'll be talking to.”

“Fine,” he said. “I'll have a coke. And I'm no magician. That was my Dad.”

“Was?”

“He's dead.”

“I'm sorry,” Riga said.

Oz turned a soulful gaze on Riga. She ruffled his fur.

“Yeah. Well. That sort of thing went with the territory. That's what he used to say, at least.”

“He was killed?”

“Turotte ran him down right in front of our house, took out a mailbox, and swerved off.”

What a piece of work. The ghost had told them Turotte had killed her by driving his car into a swamp. Had he been drunk when he’d hit Pete’s father as well? If it hadn’t been for the other murders, she’d think his upside-down hanging a simple act of revenge.

“And he wasn't prosecuted?” Riga asked.

Pete just looked at her. “He did it. I saw him. Okay?”

“Where and when did this happen?” Donovan handed him a can of soda, Riga a bottle of water.

“Six months ago, in Natchez.”

“Is that why you were at Turotte's house? For revenge?”

“No.”

“You must know Turotte's dead by now,” Donovan said. “You're going to have to give us some answers.”

“He took his head.” Pete took a deep pull from the can, and slammed it on the arm of his chair, glaring.

Slowly, Riga put down the bottle. “My God.”

“Who took whose head?” Donovan asked.

“Turotte. After my dad was buried, someone dug him up and took his head. I know it was that bastard Turotte.”

“None of that explains why you tried to break into Howdini's home,” Riga said.

He tugged at the collar of his white tee. “Because I couldn't find it at Turotte's. So I figured, since they're both into black magic and were friends, Howdini might have taken it. My Dad won't rest in peace until I get it back.” Pete looked away. “Don't ask me how I know.”

Donovan handed Riga his computer tablet.

She glanced at the screen. A newspaper article about the murder of Peter Cunningham Sr. Headline: GRAVE DESECRATION IN NATCHEZ.

She looked up. “How do you know Turotte and Howdini are connected?” Riga asked.

“I was following Turotte.”

“What did you see?” Donovan asked.

“I saw Turotte with the hit man.”

That tracked with what the police had found – that Turotte had paid the hit man. Her eyes widened. “Wait. You knew he was a hit man?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, I was following him. I overheard Turotte hiring Howdini. He talked about a bet, some sort of game. Turotte said he couldn't afford to lose. His neck was on the line if Howdini failed. They talked about the hit, mentioned your name.”