The Hoodoo Detective (12 page)

The ghost stroked her neck, beaded with damp. “Well, in fairness, we were both drunk as skunks. I did get into that car on my own. Never got out.”

“You're out now,” Riga said.

“To haunt him, of course. Not that that did me any good. You're the first person to see me.”

“I can see you,” Donovan said.

She sidled up to him. “Well, aren't you sweet? Things are looking up. But if you're here to perform some sort of exorcism, forget it. I'm not going until Turotte's as stone cold dead as I am.”

Riga's shoulders sagged. “Then you don't know.”

“Know what?” Terry asked.

“Turotte's dead,” Donovan said. “Killed a few days ago.”

“Dead?” The ghost clapped her hands together. “Really? But that's marvelous! Who killed him?”

“We hoped you could tell us,” Donovan said.

“I imagine just about anybody could have done it. He was awfully snarky.” She stamped her foot. “I can't believe I didn't get to watch him die. Where can a ghost get some justice around here?”

The air brightened around the apparition, and she faded away.

“That was unhelpful,” Donovan said.

“I think she crossed over. That's something, at least.”

“Mm.”

“Well, I'm not done yet.” As long as they were here, she might as well check out the house. She'd had little opportunity to conduct a serious search under the watchful gazes of Long and Short.

She extended her senses, and her stomach rolled. Head spinning, she grasped the back of a sofa and bent, sucking in lungfuls of air.

“Riga! Are you all right?” Donovan laid a hand against her lower back.

“Yes.” She gasped. “I tried to do some magical tracking, but all I can feel is the leftover magic from the murder. We'll have to search the house the hard way. Shall we split up?”

“No,” Donovan said, his voice harsh. His face smoothed. “Where's the fun in that?”

An hour later, hot, dusty and frustrated, they returned to the sitting room.

Donovan braced his elbow on the mantel. “Aside from the fact Turotte has expensive tastes, what have we learned?”

“Nothing.” She'd hoped at least to find some incriminating documents in the man's study. But the room had been used more for reading and leisure than actual work.

“What else have you learned about Turotte?” Donovan asked.

“He was considered one of the city's most eligible bachelors, but no girlfriend ever lasted long. He inherited a stake in a local oil drilling company, but was more along the lines of a silent partner. No one seems to expect his death to impact the firm. The stock price hasn't budged. His main occupation — if you can call it that — was his gossip blog. No heirs. He left his money to an un-named charity.”

“So that lets out money as a motive.” Donovan ran his gloved thumb along the grooves in the mantel. “And this demon the killer called, you say it grants power?”

“The desire of dark necromancers everywhere. Both the victims were wealthy and unattached – no family, no heirs, no one to really miss them. It isn't in a necromancer's nature to choose their victims so considerately.”

“Do you think it means something?” There was a snick, and he jerked away from the fireplace. A panel swung open. “I'll be damned.”

She went to his side. “How did you know?”

“I didn't. I must have the magic touch.” He reached inside and pulled out a human skull.

Riga knelt, her knees pressing into the brickwork around the fireplace. Drawing a flashlight from her bag, she shined it inside the compartment. Black candles, a decorative knife – an athame – a chalice with cavorting human figures, and a black-leather book. She took the latter, opened it, flipped through the pages. “What trash.” She handed him the book.

“A black magic spell book?”

“Of sorts. I met the author once. He's an idiot.”

“So Turotte was a dark magician?”

“Not a very good one if this book is any guide.” Slowly, she passed her hand over the other objects in the cubby, and felt no tingle of power, no sweet tinge of dark magic.

“Was Jordan Marks into black magic?” Donovan asked.

“I don't know. I didn't get a chance to search his home. He had occult objects — real occult objects — but I didn't see any grimoires or books of magic or ritual tools.”

“But both victims had an interest in the dark side of the occult.”

Their gazes met.

“Riga. Your aunts—”

“No.” She held up a hand to stop his words. “Yes, I believe they could kill. But not like this. They didn't do it.”

But had they?

Riga and Donovan arrived at the crew's hotel ten minutes late for Sam's morning meeting. Heads turned as they strode down the thickly carpeted hallway to the small conference room. With his chain of casinos, Donovan was a minor celebrity. Riga disliked the attention, but had learned the hard way that cloaking spells and cars didn't mix, and had dropped the veil as soon as they'd left Turotte's home.

They'd left the door to Turotte's hidey-hole ajar. When the police returned, they'd find the skull and the other magical paraphernalia.

“Are you sure you want to sit in on this?” she asked. “It will be boring.” She didn’t even want to be there. If she’d had her way, they’d be doing to the hoodoo hit man’s house what they’d done to Turotte’s.

“I doubt that. Besides, I told Ash to meet us here.”

The bodyguard waited outside the conference room doors, glowering. “I can't guard her when I'm not there.” Ash pushed open the door for them.

“I was there,” Donovan said mildly.

Ash's lips tightened into a straight line. He followed them inside.

“Riga.” Sam rose from behind a monitor, where Wolfe and Angus huddled with a bored-looking woman Riga hadn't met before. “We need to interview you about your consultation with the police yesterday.”

Wolfe glanced up. “I thought we'd do he-said/she-said, interviews with both you and Dirk.”

“Will Dirk and I have to be in the same room?” Riga asked.

“No,” Wolfe said. “The whole point is you won't be.”

“Then it's a fabulous idea.” She approached the stranger, hand outstretched. There was something familiar about the young woman's smooth, caramel-colored hair, full lips, high cheekbones. “I'm Riga Hayworth.”

The woman rose. “I know. Jenny Wade, public relations.” Her hand was cool and dry. “It's nice to meet both you and Mr. Mosse. I was looking over some of the footage. You really were made for the camera.”

Donovan took her hand. “Jenny Wade. Why does that name seem familiar?”

“A PR consultant who can’t get her own name noticed wouldn't be very good.” She stepped back and rubbed her chin, looking Riga up and down. “It's the surprise, I think. You're not goth. There's nothing remotely spooky or macabre about you, though you do have a sort of Hitchcock heroine, understated elegance. It's unexpected in a show about the supernatural.”

“Mm.” After Turotte's, they'd rushed back to the hotel to change out of their dusty clothing. Now she wore wide-legged, white linen slacks and a sleeveless blue blouse, a jaunty blue scarf tied around her neck.

“And those fireworks with Dirk....” The PR consultant chuckled. “Add that to the Crazy Cat video, and I shouldn't have any problem spinning you onto a red carpet.”

“I'm not thrilled about that video,” Riga said. “No one got my permission to put it online.” Who had done it? Someone with editing experience. Someone who'd known the video existed. Wolfe?

No, Pen. Had she thought she was helping? Or was it revenge for being shipped back to Los Angeles? Riga stared down at her low-heeled sandals. She hoped her niece had worked her anger out of her system.

“If you want to squash it,” Jenny said, “that ship has sailed. The video is out there.”

Sam's cell phone rang. He looked at the number, frowned, and moved out of the room. The door clanged shut behind him.

“Fine,” Riga said. “What do you want me to do?”

Jenny raised a brow. “You used to be a PR consultant yourself. If you're trying to be kind by letting me take charge, don't stop.”

“I suppose you've got me booked for interviews.” She couldn't avoid them. Interviews were in her contract.

Donovan hooked her with his arm. “It won't be that bad.”

“Fortunately,” Jenny said, “you can do most of them from your hotel.”

Wolfe walked around the table and stretched, bones cracking beneath his faded t-shirt.

“Most of them?” Riga asked.

“Next week I've got you booked for a popular three A.M. show in New York. Don't worry. It films earlier in the day.”

“Thanks. When—?”

Face pale, Sam strode into the conference room. His hands clenched and unclenched on his cell phone. “Riga, it's Pen.”

“I know she leaked the video,” Riga said. “It's okay, Sam. I'll survive.”

“It's not that. She's not in L.A. She never showed at the studio.”

Riga stiffened. “What?”

“The person scheduled to pick her up called the airlines. They say she never made it on the plane.”

“But that's impossible.” Riga spun toward Wolfe. “You took her to the airport. You put her on the plane.”

Wolfe paused, mid-stretch. His arms dropped to his sides. He nodded, scratching one of his sideburns. “But I didn't see her board. I couldn't get into the gate area, past security.”

He was lying. A wave of red blurred Riga's vision. And then Donovan was in front of her, hands on her shoulders.

“It's okay,” Donovan said.

“He's lying.”

“I know. And he's going to come clean.” Donovan glanced over his shoulder at Wolfe. “Aren't you.” He didn’t bother to make it sound like a question.

Wolfe swallowed. “To a motel. I took her to a motel.”

Frowning, Angus rose to his feet, his folding chair squeaking.

“Take me there,” Riga said. “Now. I don't trust you not to call her and give her warning.”

“I'll come too,” Angus said.

“Thanks, Angus,” Donovan said. “But this is a family matter, and I believe you still have a television show to produce.”

Sam shook himself. “Um. Yeah. Of course, you need to find Pen. I'm sorry, Riga. I had no idea she would do this.”

“You're not to blame,” she snapped.

Wolfe raised his hands and let them fall. “I'm sorry.”

The cameraman wasn't to blame either, but Riga was too angry to let him off the hook.

Traffic choked the narrow roads. Riga looked out the window, fingers drumming on the door handle, willing the cars to part, to be free of the jam. Beside Ash, Wolfe faced her in the limo, and she didn’t want to look at him just yet.

“She may not be in her hotel,” Donovan warned.

“At this hour? She’ll still be sleeping.”

They bumped over potholes, past Tulane University, and through steadily decaying neighborhoods until they reached a sprawling, two-story motel that looked relatively well-kept.

“Which room is she in?” Riga asked.

“Eight,” Wolfe said. “Look, I couldn't say 'no' to her. She wanted to stay, and she's an adult.”

“I get it,” Riga said. “You're her boyfriend, not her keeper. But I'm responsible for her.” To Ash, she said, “Watch him.”

“What? Am I kidnapped now?”

Ignoring him, Riga and Donovan hurried across the newly tarmacked pavement to room eight. Riga's jaw clenched. The room was on the ground floor. Had Pen learned nothing about security? At least it had a decent lock. Riga rapped sharply on the door with her knuckles.

No answer. She tilted her head toward the door and used her magic to feel inside the room.

“She's not there,” Riga said.

“Maybe she's having breakfast.”

“I hope so.” They strode to the management office. It smelled of paint, the walls a modern, sky blue. Comfy red chairs were scattered around a carpet of abstract, primary colors. A windowed breakfast room was off to the side. Two men built like truckers devoured a pancake breakfast.

A motherly-looking woman behind the front desk smiled. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

Riga braced her hands on the desk. “We're here to meet my niece, Pen Hallows, in room eight. She hasn't answered our knock, and I'm concerned.”

The older woman frowned. “Meet her? But she checked out an hour ago.”

Riga grasped the linoleum countertop, blood draining from her face.

“Are you certain?” Donovan asked. “Young woman, slender, about this tall.” He held his hand at shoulder level.

“Penelope Hallows, yes. Very old-fashioned name. We had a nice chat about it. She said she prefers Pen. More modern.”

“Was she alone?” Riga asked.

“As far as I could tell. No one was with her when she checked out.”

Riga stared, not seeing, her hands slick on the counter. “Did you notice which way she went?”

The woman's eyes narrowed. “Why don't you just call her?”

“We're concerned something may have happened to Pen,” Donovan said.

The clerk crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Not at my hotel.”

Fear sparked in Riga's chest. “What—?”

“Thanks for your time,” Donovan said. He led Riga outside.

“She may know more,” Riga hissed.

“Your hair.”

“What?” She reached for it, catching a lock of auburn. Though the air was still, it snaked as if caught in a breeze, but the air was still. She’d lost her temper and gone Medusa, hair writhing. “Oh. Sorry.” She took a deep breath, and her hair stilled. “I know it's not rational. Pen
is
an adult. But with all that's going on, I'm worried. And Wolfe—”

“Should know not to get between a mother bear and her cub,” he said. “Catch your breath. Let me try again with the manager.”

She nodded, and Donovan returned inside the office. Riga swallowed. She was overreacting. Pen was fine.

Donovan emerged five minutes later. “She took a taxi. The manager didn't notice the company, but it was yellow. We'll find it.”

Riga pressed her fingers to her temples. “Dammit.”

“And...” He handed her a key card.

“Pen's room key?” She kissed his cheek, racing for the room. All she needed was a strand of Pen's hair, and she'd be able to find her by scrying.

The bed was rumpled and damp towels lay on the bathroom floor, but the garbage bins were empty. Riga ransacked the room, but didn't find a single thing that belonged to Pen — not even a strand of hair.