The Hoodoo Detective (3 page)

A magical attack was a three-part affair, one part the connection between the spell caster and his victim. Once that connection was broken, the spell failed. Salt water was the quickest way to break that link. Chanting under her breath, keeping her fury at bay, she mopped beneath the bed with the salt solution.

If the hoodoo hit man had left this for her, then he really had been what he'd said. Or had someone else left it? The person who had killed him? Riga's thoughts ping-ponged from one possibility to another.

She shook her head. Tempting as it was, a metaphysical detective didn't jump to conclusions. Riga needed more, starting with the hit man's real name.

Rinsing the mop in the narrow bathtub, she scrubbed the tub with a fresh salt water mix, anger powering her movements.

She showered, dressed, and sank into a chair and stared out the window view of a freeway overpass. She itched to call Donovan and thrash it out with him, but with the time difference in Macau, he’d still be sleeping.

She hadn’t the contacts in New Orleans to get to the truth about any underworld connections the “hit man” might have had. But if he had been involved in hoodoo, someone in the magical community would know.

Hoodoo still confused her. Everyone she spoke with had a different take. It was Cajun, it was southern, it was Afro-American, it wasn't. Some said it was voodoo stripped of its religion. Others said it was something else entirely. Tonight she cared less about its origins and more about its practice.

The hotel phone blared, jerking her from her reverie.

She snatched it up. “Riga here.”

“It's Sam. Can you come down to the work room? We've got to talk.”

“Sure.” She lowered her head, frowning. The show was probably being canceled. She could live with the loss. Though the extra income fed her ego, she didn't really need the cash. It would be a blow for Pen, however.

Jamming her key card in her pocket, she wandered down the hall. If the show did go on, Riga didn’t want her young niece here with a hoodoo murder hanging over their heads. Pen was only beginning to explore her gifts as a medium and their family’s heritage as necromancers. Her magic was raw, vulnerable, and as attractive as hell to those who practiced black magic. Like the necromancer whose file she kept in her hotel room.

Riga tasted something sour in the back of her mouth. She couldn’t ignore the possibility dark hoodoo might be involved in the killing. Pen was going to have to go. Riga could handle her niece’s fury, but she keenly felt Pen's upcoming disappointment.

The team's base of operations was a conference room on the hotel's first floor. The walls were a mellow sand color. Tables had been assembled in a U-shape for the team. Computer equipment and monitors lined them, black cables snaking across the thick, red and green carpet.

Sam sat before a monitor, frowning. Wolfe stood beside him, camera at the ready.

Riga's jaw clenched. Were they going to film her getting the bad news? That was one way to generate the conflict Sam craved.

Looking up, Sam waved her to a chair. “Sit down, sit down.”

She remained standing, crossing her arms over her chest. “What's up?”

“So... The show so far is adequate. Not great, but it will work.”

“But?”

“We're going to be making some changes.”

“Just tell me Sam. I'm a big girl.”

“I've been talking to the police department and Dirk’s
Mean Streets
crew, and an opportunity has come up. We got lucky. This afternoon there was a murder with occult overtones.”

“Lucky?” she asked.

“I mean, it’s terrible, of course. But lucky for the police that someone like you, with experience as an occult consultant to law enforcement, is in town.”

“They want me to consult on the murder of the hoodoo hit man?”

“The drunk at the restaurant? No,” Sam said slowly. “There was nothing supernatural about that murder. But it turns out, there's been another. I managed to talk them into letting you consult on the case. Dirk was a big help.”

Riga stared. “What?”

“He's a great guy, Riga. I think you'll like him once you get to know him.”

“What?” Her voice went up an octave.

“I've been going over the footage of you and Dirk, and the chemistry is electric.”

Wolfe chuckled. “That's one way of putting it.”

She glared at the cameraman. “Are you saying that we're teaming up with Dirk and his
Mean Streets
show?”

“A cross-over!” Sam rubbed his hands together. “What do you think?”

Riga jammed her hands in her pockets and stared at a blank monitor. Dirk the jerk seemed to have good relations with the cops. It might be a way to get closer to the hoodoo hit man case. “What sort of occult murder?”

Sam shrugged. “Does it matter? The cops are on their way over now.”

Her lips thinned. “Pretty sure of yourself, weren't you?”

“Come on, Riga. I know you're curious.”

More importantly, her contract bound her to this madness. “Fine. And Pen goes back to California.”

Wolfe blinked. “What?”

“I don't want her around murders. She's not even twenty. It's too much. She goes home.”

Sam took off his glasses and polished them with the hem of his golf shirt. “I'm sorry, Riga.”

She drew breath to argue.

“I should have thought of that myself.” He replaced his glasses and frowned. “I'm just so used to thinking of her as one of our cameramen... people. I didn't think. You're right.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Great. Thanks. And... I'd better be the one to tell her.”

“I can do it. The fact is, with our crew combining with Mean Streets, we've got more manpower than we need. It makes sense to send Pen back. She can get to work with the editing team. It’ll be good experience for her.”

“I'm sure she'll see it that way,” Riga said dryly. When Pen found out, she’d go nuclear. “Wolfe, I'd like to see the video from the restaurant today. Before the murder.”

“I thought you might.” He handed his camera to Sam and flipped on one of the monitors. “Here.” He stepped away from the narrow table, pulling back a folding metal chair.

“Thanks.” By now, she knew a bit about the equipment and was able to maneuver through the footage. Wolfe had queued it up to their arrival at the restaurant – walking down the wide, brick entry, their fleet slapping lightly on the flagstones. They paused to speak with the hostess, and Wolfe panned the scene: the fountain in the center, surrounded by ferns. Seated diners. Some shots of the
Supernatural Encounters
crew joking around the table, and then a cut to Wolfe, jogging down the dark hallway, Riga silhouetted in the open alleyway door.

She rewound the footage, played it forward at half speed.

Her heart stopped.

An old man sat at a table near the door. Bald, in his tweed jacket he looked like an aging professor. Gaunt face. Sunken chest. A smile cold as a reptile's, turning Riga's heart to ice. Beside him sat a younger, dark-skinned woman.

The old man was a necromancer.
The
necromancer. The file in her hotel room was filled with details of his kills, and she wondered wildly if her interest had summoned him.

“The Hotel Meurice,” the Old Man said loudly. He glanced at the camera. Smiled. “Such a lovely courtyard suite. Ground floor, naturally. Room 105.”

So it was going to be that way, was it?

The hotel phone by the monitor rang, and Sam stretched to get it. “Yes? Yes. Sure. Send them in.” He hung up. “The police are here. You ready for this?”

“As I'll ever be.” Rattled by the video, she twisted the wedding rings on her finger.

The heavy door clanged open. Two detectives walked in, jackets over their arms, sweat stains darkening the armpits of their button-up shirts. One was tall, lanky, saturnine. He shook hands with Wolfe, towering over the cameraman. The other officer stood a couple inches shorter than Riga. He was muscular, his neck lost in the cords of muscle in his shoulders. Detectives long and short, she thought, wondering what metaphors Dirk had made of that team.

The taller one looked about, his hawk nose flaring. “Dirk’s not here yet?”

Sam rose, hand extended. “Er, no. But our consultant…” He motioned toward her. “Riga is ready.”

The shorter one shrugged, crossing the room, and shook Riga's hand. “Don't know what Dirk could tell us anyway. He's not the supernatural type.” He held out a manila file folder to her, and for a bad moment she thought he'd taken it from her room upstairs. “Dirk said you were aces at this sort of thing. We called the references your show gave us. They all agreed.”

Riga quirked a brow. Dirk had said?

Laying the folder on an empty table, she opened it. She sucked in her breath, blew it out. The photo on top showed a man hanging upside down, fingertips scraping the parquet floor. The furnishings behind him were French Revolution opulent – a baroque mirror that had just caught the flash of the camera, a gilt armchair. The victim carried extra weight, and gravity pulled his folds of flesh toward his chin.

“A traitor's hanging,” she said.

“What?” The tall detective came close, leaned over her shoulder. He smelled like sweat and soap.

“In Renaissance Italy,” Riga said, “traitors were hanged upside down. Most occultists know this – it's the root of the Hanged Man in the tarot deck. The tradition never quite went away. After Mussolini was executed, his body was hung upside down for public display.”

She pushed that picture to the side and looked at the next, swallowed. A sigil, white against the dark wood of the floor. She'd seen it before, drawn by men associated with the old man. And he was here now... “Chalk?”

“Looks like it,” Detective Short said. “You recognize the symbol?”

Necromancy. The word stuck in her throat. “It's a sigil, a magical symbol, as you've probably guessed. It's old, at least Renaissance.” She laid out the rest of the photos – more sigils. “I don't have these memorized, but I believe they spell the name of a demon.”

“So whoever killed him was calling a demon?”

A shot from farther back that took in the scene in its entirety. A circle had been drawn on the floor, the sigils around it, the man dangling in the center, lines of chalk crossing the circle. “It appears to be a necromantic sacrifice,” she said. “These are typically done to gain power. Was he an important or wealthy man?”

“Yeah,” Detective Long said. “A local playboy. What do you mean, necromantic?”

“Necromancy. It's a broad term for death magic. It could be as innocent as speaking with the dead or as dark as using death to power one's spells.”

“Magic spells?” Detective Long's brows rose. “Really? You believe this crap?”

“Your killer may,” she said. “He knew what he was doing. But...”

“But what?” Detective Short asked.

“I could tell you more if I saw the actual crime scene. Is it possible?”

The detectives glanced at each other.

“Yeah,” Detective Short said. “Tomorrow morning.”

Pen slipped into the room.

Gathering up the photos, Riga returned them to the folder, closed it. She pressed her fingers on the top as if the contents might fly away.

“We've already discussed this with the police,” Sam cut in. “We'll be with the
Mean Streets
team as they check out the scene of the crime.”

Pen hurried to Riga. She bounced on her toes, and Riga noticed she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her black t-shirt. When had that started? The cops watched with interest.

“It's true?” Pen asked. “We're joining Dirk Steele and the
Mean Streets
crew? That is so awesome!” She grinned at Wolfe.

He looked quickly away.

Sam coughed, glanced at the cops. Short drew the folder with the photos from beneath Riga’s hand.

“Um, Pen,” Sam said. “There's something we need to talk about. Since we're joining up with
Mean Streets
, we're going to have to cut back on our camera staff. It's nothing personal, just the budget. So I'm sending you back to L.A., where you can work with the editing crew, be their shadow.”

Pen's face fell. “Back to L.A.? But...” She drew a sharp breath, eyes widening. Jaw jutting forward, she spun on her aunt. “You're behind this, aren't you?”

Sam shook his head frantically.

“I suggested you go home because I don't want you around a murder investigation,” Riga said. “But Sam's not lying about the budget issue. That's the only reason he agreed. He wants you here.”

“I can't believe you'd do this to me! You know how important this job is!”

“Which is why you'll continue it in Los Angeles.” Riga tried to ignore the two cops.

“Los Angeles isn't where the action is!”

“Pen,” Sam said. “You know how important the editing side is. We still want you, and we'll have you back in the field for the next episode.”

Riga gazed intently at her niece, willing her to understand. “A murder investigation is rough on everyone involved.” She didn't say she and Pen shared a heritage of necromancy. For her niece, that made a murder investigation doubly dangerous. Pen knew this.

She glared at Riga. “Traitor.”

“Let's talk about this upstairs,” Riga said.

“Why? Nothing's going to change.” Whirling, Pen stormed out.

Wolfe's camera wavered, dipped toward the floor.

“Oh, go on,” Riga said.

Glancing at Sam, he hurried after Pen.

“I'm supposed to be the one ordering the cameramen around,” Sam said mildly.

“Sorry.”

Detective Short cleared his throat. “Can you get us some more information on those – what did you call them? Sigils?”

“I'll need to do some research. It may take a little time. But yes, I can.” Riga stared at the doors, closing slowly in Wolfe’s wake. “The man who had his throat cut behind the restaurant today... Have you identified him?”

“Yes.” Detective Short's jaw set. “Thank you for your assistance.” He extended his hand.

Riga shook hands, knowing a blow off when she heard one. Frustrated, she watched them leave, rubbing the back of her neck.

Riga stood beneath a balcony twined with wrought iron. Night had fallen, but heat still radiated from the sidewalk and the faded, red-brick walls of the Old Man’s hotel. Raucous laughter and music echoed from nearby Bourbon Street, a ghostly revelry.