Wicked Ways: Death at the DuMond (A Cozy Witch Mystery Book 1) (17 page)

My heart raced, and my face flushed. We crept to the front door. It was unlocked. Gibbs pushed the door open.

“Mom, are you home?” I called out. 

No response. The television was on, and a morning show droned on about the latest celebrity gossip. It was the only sound in the house. 

Gibbs eased down the hallway. I followed behind him. Newport rounded the corner, startling Gibbs.

Newport ran to my ankles. He looked up at me with sad, terrified eyes. I could read his thoughts. 

“They took her,” I said.

“What?”

“They’ve kidnapped Mom.” My eyes filled with tears.

“Maybe she stepped out for a minute,” said Gibbs, hopeful.

I shook my head, sobbing. “She’s gone.”

“We’ll get her back,” Gibbs said, trying to comfort me.

“You and I both know the odds in these types of situations.”

My phone rang from an unknown caller. I answered and put the call on speaker. A man’s voice crackled out. “We know Stryker gave you the audio recordings. Hand them over and your mom won’t suffer a horrible death. You got 24 hours.” Then he hung up.

CHAPTER 27

MY KNEES WENT weak, and I almost collapsed. I had to sit down on the couch and pull myself together. I was a basket case. 

“Did Stryker give you the audio recordings,” Gibbs asked.

“No. I don’t have them,” I said. “The first time I learned about the recordings was when you did.” My head fell into my hands in despair. “What am I going to do? They are going to kill Mom.”

“Just calm down. Take a few deep breaths.”

“I’m calm.”

“You don’t look calm.”

“We need to go to Stryker’s apartment,” I said. 

“No, it’s too dangerous. I’ll send some officers over there.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Do you really think you can trust anyone in the department?” I said, with biting sarcasm.

Gibbs frowned and shook his head. “You’re not going over there.”

“I’m not staying here.”

Gibbs got the last known address of Stryker and we headed over. I was beginning to get worried about Bancroft. I know it sounds weird to worry about someone who is already dead. But bad things can happen to spirits too. I hadn’t seen him in quite a while. Newport hadn’t seen him either.  I reassured myself that Banksy was okay, and that I was just being paranoid. Then again, I had plenty of reasons to be paranoid.

Stryker lived in a luxury high-rise. I guess being a hitman for the mob pays pretty well. The lobby was opulent. Marble floors and elegant decor. We were greeted by a doorman as we entered. He looked like he had been the doorman forever. 

“Good morning,” the doorman said. “Who are you visiting.” 

Gibbs flashed his badge. “Mr. Stryker.”

“Oh, dear. I hope nothing’s wrong,” the doorman said. He seemed genuinely concerned.

“No, not at all. Just a routine investigation,” I said.

Gibbs gave me a sideways glance. 

“The penthouse suite. My name’s Rigby, if I can be of any further assistance.”

We took the elevator up to the top floor. Then strode down the long hallway to Stryker’s apartment. His door was ajar. Gibbs drew his weapon and cautiously pushed open the door. The sprawling apartment had been turned upside down. Furniture was toppled over. Seat cushions torn apart. Every nook and cranny had been rummaged through.

We crept into the living room. Gibbs cleared the corners with something less than textbook precision. He looked clunky and awkward. Not to mention, a little nervous. I don’t think Gibbs had to do this type of thing often. He seemed like the kind of guy who was always in the rear, letting the tactical assault teams lead the way. He told me to stay put as he cleared the rest of the apartment. 

I stood in the living room. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the city. The view was stunning and expensive. Stryker had surprisingly good taste for a hitman. The apartment had a modern, minimalist feel. It was the kind of place you’d see featured in a design magazine. Only now, it was torn to shreds.

Gibbs returned in a few moments and signaled that all was clear. I strolled through the apartment, surveying the destruction. Picture frames were smashed. Shards of glass lined the floor, crackling under my footsteps. 

In the bedroom, there was more disarray. The sheets were ripped from the bed. The mattress dangled halfway off the box spring. It had been sliced up the side and searched. It seemed that no stone was left unturned in Stryker’s apartment. Yet they had come up empty-handed.

In the nightstand, by the bed, there was a 9 mm semi-automatic handgun. I picked it up.

“Be careful with that,” Gibbs said, nervously. I don’t think he was too fond of me handling a loaded weapon. 

The gun instantly gave me a chill. I got goosebumps and my spine tingled. Never before had I felt such psychic energy from an object. And it wasn’t good energy. It was horrific. I sensed all of the death and destruction, pain and suffering, this weapon had caused. I wanted to set it down as soon as possible, but I knew this gun would be the key. 

I pushed the release and dropped the magazine into my hand. It was loaded with seventeen hollow-point rounds. I set the gun back in the drawer. Then scooped a round from the magazine into my palm.

“What are you doing?” Gibbs asked.

“Finding the audio recordings.”

Gibbs’s face crinkled up, perplexed.

“Do you believe in the supernatural?” I asked.

“You mean, like ghosts and stuff?” 

“Yeah. Ghosts and stuff.”

“I don’t believe in any of that hocus-pocus nonsense,” Gibbs said. 

“What if I told you it wasn’t nonsense.”

“I’d think you’d need your head examined.” Gibbs folded his arms and furrowed his brow.

“Go ahead. Be a skeptic. But I’m going to prove to you magic exists.”

Gibbs sighed. “This ought to be interesting.”

I grabbed some lipstick from my purse and drew a triangle on the floor. 

“You’re not planning on sacrificing a chicken, are you?”

 “No,” I said. “I need you to take this seriously, or it’s not going to work.” I pulled three small candles from my person put them on each corner. A good which always travels with candles, gemstones, and herbs. You never know when a situation might call for a little incantation.

I placed the bullet and a gemstone within the triangle, along with the mirror from my makeup compact. The mirror was small, but it would have to do.

 As usual, I sprinkled a dash of herbs around the triangle and burned some in the candle flame.  Gibbs rolled his eyes.

“Focus,” I said.

“What am I focusing on? How entirely ridiculous this is?”

“I told you, this isn’t going to work if you keep putting out negative energy. I want you to close your eyes and think only about the audio recordings.”

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at me. “You said that you were going to prove magic exists. You didn’t say anything about me having to participate.”

“You don’t have to participate. Just don’t work against me.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll think about the audio recordings. But I still think this is hogwash.”

I wrote an incantation on a piece of paper. I chanted the spell over and over again. Gibbs snickered.

“Hey, you can laugh all you want if this doesn’t work. But right now, you need to focus.” My tone was stern. “If you can’t do that, you need to go into the other room.”

 Gibbs looked at me like a scolded child.

“Yes ma’am. I’ll focus.”

I cleared my mind and chanted the spell again. My mind was an empty void, focused on nothing but the audio recordings. My words blended into a monotone cadence. I burned the slip of paper in one of the candles and dropped it into the triangle. It blazed like flash paper, then turned to ash.

I looked into the mirror and saw my reflection. The spell didn’t work. I waited for a moment, but still nothing.  “Sometimes it can take a minute for the image to appear.”

Gibbs had that smug look on his face, staring at me like I was a lunatic. Another minute went by, and still no image in the mirror.

“Lets get out of here,” Gibbs said. “And I’m going to pretend this never happened.” He stormed out of the bedroom.

I blew out the candles and put the gemstone back in my purse. I scooped up the bullet and shoved it in my pocket. Then I lifted the makeup compact from the floor. I was about to snap it shut and stuff it in my purse when I saw the mirror change. An image began to appear.

“Gibbs,” I shouted. “You might want to see this.”

He marched back into the room. “No more nonsense,” he growled.

I held out the mirror to him. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped at the sight. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

The mirror displayed the image of a locker. It’s number was 429. 

“Where do you think that is?” I asked.

“There must be hundreds of lockers in the city. It could be anywhere.” 

I held the mirror at an angle to see if I could catch a glimpse of the surroundings. I saw rows and rows of lockers.

“What are you doing?” Gibbs asked.

“The mirror is like looking through a window. It’s a three dimensional glimpse into a location.”

“Can you see anything else?”

I squinted and looked all the way from the side. It was like I was peering around a corner. “Ew!”

“What is it?”

“I see old naked men.”

Gibbs pondered this for a moment. “It’s a gym locker room,” Gibbs said. “I can get a warrant to access his bank records. We can see if any membership fees were being drafted.”

“We don’t have that kind of time.”

“You got a better idea?” Gibbs asked. 

CHAPTER 28

RIGBY SEEMED CONFUSED. The answer was on the tip of his brain, but then it kept vanishing. “Ah, yes. The Cosmopolitan Club,” he said, triumphantly. Then his grin faded. “No, that’s Mr. Sanderson.” 

Rigby pondered things another moment. “Yes, I’m certain it’s the Cambridge Club.” Then he deflated and frowned again. “No, that’s Mr. Sullivan.” He scratched his head and mumbled to himself. 

Finally, Rigby stood tall and proclaimed, “I believe Mr. Stryker was a member of the Camden Club.”

“Are you sure about this?” I asked. 

“Young lady, I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” Rigby said.

Gibbs and I exchanged a skeptical glance. 

“Thank you, Rigby,” I said. 

Gibbs and I turned for the door. 

Rigby cleared his throat in an exaggerated fashion. I craned my neck back to Rigby who was clearly hinting at something. Then it dawned on me what it was. I dug in my pockets, but I had no money.

“Gibbs,” I said, nudging him. It took him a moment to catch on. He pulled a few dollars from his pocket. I shook my head. Gibbs huffed and dug out a five. I shook my head again. Gibbs raised an eyebrow at me. He sighed and slipped a twenty from his wallet. I snatched it and gave it to Rigby.

“Oh, how generous,” Rigby said. “Totally not necessary. Thank you.”

I smiled. 

Gibbs and I were almost through the door when Rigby called after us. “Pivot.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Mr. Stryker was a member of Pivot on 65
th
Street,” Rigby said.

I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I’m positive,” Rigby said, with a wink.

I wondered if he had been holding out for a tip this whole time.

Gibbs and I raced across town to the exclusive club. It was the kind of place that cost $100,000 to join, and $30,000 a year and dues. Two doormen stood outside the building and greeted members with smiles. But the smiles faded as we approached the door.

“I’m sorry, this is a private club,” one of the doormen said.

Pivot, like other elite social clubs, was the kind of place where the staff knew every member. They knew every member’s preferences and how to cater to them. We certainly weren’t members.

Gibbs flashed his badge.

The doorman hesitated. He grimaced, almost in physical discomfort. You could see the thoughts play on his face. If he let us in, he would get in trouble for letting a non-member through the door. But this non-member was a cop. He wasn’t sure if he could say no. Finally, he took a deep breath and pulled open the door.

We strolled into the lobby. Two receptionists sat behind the front desk. One blonde, one brunette—both mid twenties. Sleek, gorgeous women, who could have been models—and probably were. Their smiles faded too. Gibbs flashed his badge at them as well. They seemed as pained as the doorman.

“I need to see the men’s locker room,” Gibbs said.

“Just one moment,” the brunette receptionist said. She dialed a number and spoke into her headset. “Tessa, can you come down here. We have a situation.” She smiled at Gibbs and I with a fake, insincere smile. The kind of smile that has nothing behind the eyes.