The Hoodoo Detective (25 page)

“Witches have covens,” Riga said. “I don't know what the victims would have called themselves. What have you heard?”

“Rumors of rituals, animal sacrifices, sex and drugs. I heard they have their meetings in the dark of night in the cemetery.”

“Which cemetery?” Riga asked.

“It moves. New Orleans has so many delightful graveyards, and so many practices and religions, the poor groundskeepers can hardly keep up with all the magical goings on. Where do you think I get my goofer dust?”

Donovan's phone rang. He checked the number and rose. “If you'll excuse me for a moment.” He walked outside.

“Are there any other places of ritual significance they might go?” Riga asked.

“Pick any corner in the city, chère. You've been on the haunted house tours.”

“Too many.” Too many tours, too many hauntings. The city marinated in magic. “Voodoo tours, ghost tours, vampire tours—”

At the bar, Wolfe and Angus had been joined by two more men. One turned. Dirk. He grinned, a flash of white teeth, and raised a frosted beer mug.

Hannah snorted. “Vampires? Stories for tourists.”

Riga repressed a shudder.

“You cold?” Hannah asked.

“Depressed.” How had Dirk found them?

Hannah turned to Ash. “And what about you, Mr. Strong and Silent? What are you doing in New Orleans?”

He grinned. “Enjoying the view.”

Pocketing his phone, Donovan returned, smiling. “They've found Pen.”

Riga bounded up, knocking her chair onto two legs. Donovan steadied it.

She threw some bills on the table. “We should go. Thanks, Hannah. You've been helpful.”

“Well then, you be sure to return the favor.”

“It's a deal.” Riga stuffed her wallet in her satchel and slung the bag over her shoulder.

Rising, Ash nodded at Hannah. He followed them silently out the door.

“Where's Pen?” Riga asked. “Is she okay?”

They wound past a sandwich board advertising voodoo dolls and candles. The pink chalk gleamed in the reddish light of the setting sun.

“At a cheap hotel. A man from the PI firm is watching it now.”

“And she's inside?”

“That's what they told me.”

“Hey guys, wait up!” Wolfe trotted down the street, camera bouncing against his thigh. The dog trotted beside him. Angus, Dirk, and the photographer from
Mean Streets
followed. “Riga! What's going on?”

She whirled, glaring at the entourage. “Keep your voice down. We found Pen.”

Wolfe straightened. “You did? Where?”

“Who's Pen?” Dirk worked a bit of food from his teeth with his tongue.

“My niece.” Riga took Oz’s leash from Wolfe.

“Your niece is here? Why didn't you introduce us? I like girls.”

“Asked and answered,” Riga snapped.

“Riga had Pen thrown off the show,” Wolfe said, “and Pen disappeared. We've been trying to find her since.”

“Why would you do that?” Dirk asked. “Afraid of competition from a younger woman?”

“Younger being the operative word.” Donovan didn't break his stride. “Too young to be exposed to these murders.”

“Ah,” Dirk said. “So where are we going?”

Donovan stopped beside the SUV and waited while Ash swept for bombs.

“This is family stuff, Dirk,” Riga said. “Nothing to do with the show.”

Ash gave Donovan the nod, and he unlocked the doors, opened the passenger side for Riga and the dog.

“Everything's to do with the show,” Dirk said.

Riga hopped inside. “Not this.”

Dirk moved for the open back door. Ash strong-armed him. “Sorry. No room.” He slid into the car and locked the door.

Riga waved at Dirk as they drove off. But the actor was running in the opposite direction. One arm raised, he hailed a cab.

She dug her fingers into her scalp. “They're like leeches.”

“Angus and Wolfe have been helpful.”

“It's not them. It's Dirk. I can't get rid of him.”

“Don't worry,” Donovan said. “I'll take care of Dirk.”

They bumped down the uneven streets, squinting into the lowering sun. A gray smudge twisted above the skyline, its edges tinted purple and orange.

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “Pen is safe. That's all that counts.”

But a knot tightened her stomach. The closer they got to Pen, the more she worried something had gone wrong. But a detective was watching Pen, and if something had gone wrong, he’d call. And why would anything go wrong? The murder victims were all connected in a sick conspiracy. Pen had nothing to do with it.

But Riga couldn't forget the Old Man's threat.

Hurry, hurry, hurry.

“What else did the PI tell you?” Riga asked.

“They tracked her through the cab companies,” Donovan said. “As far as he could tell, she was alone. About Hannah...”

“Yes?”

“The more I think about that matchbook, the more convenient it seems. Was the Old Man leading us to Hannah? Did he want her to tell us your PR consultant was in on the murders?”

“We already knew Jenny was involved. That contract was in her safe. Now we have evidence Jenny knew the Old Man. He must have been on the other side of that contract, killing the occultists who failed.”

“If so, why tell us?” Donovan asked.

She watched the smear of dark cloud, drifting eastward. Red cords of anxiety twisted in her midsection. “That looks like smoke.”

Donovan grunted and made a sharp turn, beating a red light. “Must be a fire.”

Hurry
.

The dog whined, nosing her shoulder.

Ash craned forward. “Looks like a big one.”

Riga twisted the wedding rings on her finger.

A siren howled behind them, and Donovan pulled over. Horn blaring, a fire truck whizzed past. He whipped the SUV behind it, following it into the hotel parking lot.

“No.” Riga moaned.

Emergency vehicles clustered around one wing of the hotel. Police kept a line of the curious at bay.

The SUV rolled to a stop, and Riga jumped out, Oz at her side. She scanned the crowd for Pen.

Flames, orange and red and coiling with smoke, boiled from one of the rooms. Riga grasped the arm of an old woman in a New Orleans t-shirt. “Do you know which room that is?”

She shook her head. “Something in the two hundreds.”

Riga whirled. “Donovan—”

He grasped her shoulders. “I heard. Pen's in two twelve. Come on.”

He strode to one of the harried-looking policemen. “Excuse me. Our niece, Pen Hallows, is in room two twelve. Can you tell us which room that is?” Donovan pointed to the fire.

The cop's broad forehead creased. “Come with me.”

Riga's knees buckled.

Numbly, Riga followed the cop, vaguely aware of the pressure of Donovan's arm around her waist, the dog trotting at her side.

Leading them to a uniformed police officer and two firemen, he tapped one on the shoulder. “They say they're related to the girl in two twelve.”

“Do you know if she's inside?” One of the firemen asked.

Riga’s head swam.

“She was twenty minutes ago,” Donovan said.

With a roar, the roof collapsed. Someone screamed.

Riga sagged, and Donovan gripped her more tightly around the waist.

“The detective.” She grasped Donovan. Her voice shook. “He must have gotten her out.”

“Ash is calling him now.”

“Ash?” She'd forgotten him, noticed him now standing slightly to the side, frowning, phone pressed to his ear.

Donovan dragged her away from the police, but she recognized others in the crowd. Wolfe's face was white. Dirk set his jaw, pushed the cameraman's lens toward the pavement.

Ash shook his head. “The detective's not answering.”

“Start looking,” Donovan said.

They fanned out, Donovan at Riga's side, and she realized she didn't know what the detective looked like.

Pain arcing through her chest, she searched the crowd for Pen, her tousled hair, her slim figure. She'd be wearing one of those obnoxious t-shirts, probably something snarky about New Orleans. Pen wasn't in the fire. She was too smart to let herself get trapped.
Wasn’t she?

She stopped and closed her eyes. “Give me a minute.”

Donovan released her, stepped away.

She imagined cords grounding her into the earth, extending into the sky, invisible lines linking her to the in-between. Felt energy flow through them. Piece by piece, bits of hot fear dropped away, until she found her way to a cool corner of her mind. Riga pushed her senses outward. A ripple of dark magic, nails on a chalkboard, trembled off to her right. Flinging out a magical cord, she wrapped it around the bit of magic and hooked the other end beneath her solar plexus.

Riga opened her eyes and pointed toward a garbage bin. “That way.”

The dog raised his head, sniffing, and bounded in that direction.

Clutching Riga's hand, Donovan said, “Come on.”

Behind the garbage bin, a man sprawled, unconscious.

Donovan ran his hands over his body, felt for a pulse at his neck. “His heartbeat is thready, but there are no obvious injuries. One of us should get the EMTs.”

“You go.”

He nodded and sprinted across the parking lot.

She knelt beside the man. There had been magic here. She felt for her magical rope, and it drew her gaze to one of his hands. Something glittered between his loosely curled fingers, a dog tag colored orange and green, and with symbols that looked to be voodoo. She'd seen the necklaces sold in a shop in the French Quarter.

Was this all? A silly tourist charm? The remnants of dark magic, stale and rotting, surged around the fallen man.

The dog whined, sniffing him.

She rocked on her heels. He'd been attacked magically, and that magic was still operating.

Beneath her breath, she chanted a spell to break magical contacts. Power surged, crackled around her, died.

The man took a deep breath, his eyes remaining closed.

She was no healer, but her spell had cut the magic that bound him. “Wake up,” she muttered, “and tell me where Pen is.”

The unconscious man didn’t respond.

Rising, she paced around the fallen man, trying to piece the attack together in her mind. Had he been taken down so someone could get at Pen? Or had it happened afterward? An attack, Pen taken, the detective following and trying to stop it?

Dirk, Wolfe and Ash joined her and stared.

“That's our detective.” Ash knelt beside him, pressing his fingers to the man's neck. “Heartbeat seems steady, but I'm no medic.”

“What's that?” Wolfe asked, pointing.

Riga looked down. The voodoo charm dangled from her fingers, spinning. “It was in his hand.”

“That's evidence,” Dirk said.

Wolfe took it from her. “I gave this to Pen. It's a charm for opportunity.”

She swayed, and the dog pressed its body against her thigh, steadying her. If the detective had taken it from Pen, and the charm was out here... Pen might not be in the burning hotel. “Are you sure? Really sure it's Pen's?”

“Well, it isn't exactly one-of-a-kind, but it looks like the one I bought her.”

She snatched it from him. Something of Pen's. Something that would have mattered to her because it was from Wolfe. Now, she could scry. And Pen had been here, outside, not in the hotel room. She was alive. She had to be.

Two EMTs arrived with Donovan, and she pocketed the charm.

Dirk looked as if he might say something, but he pressed his lips together and walked away.

“Donovan—”

“I think it's time we told the police everything,” he said.

She took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “Yes. Yes, you're right.” Everything but the charm. That, she needed.

Letting Donovan do the talking, she stared at the dying flames. Pen wasn't in there, and black magic was about. Had Pen been kidnapped? Or had she escaped? Pen had power, but she was young, and Riga wasn't entirely sure how strong the girl was. Riga had handed the bulk of Pen's magical education over to Brigitte. It wasn't that Riga didn't want to train Pen, but their sessions tended to end in shouting. For whatever reason, Pen had worked better with the gargoyle. But Brigitte would have told her if Pen had moved beyond mediumship and protection spells.

“Riga?” Donovan said. “Would you add anything?”

Since she didn't know what Donovan had said to the cop, she shook her head. Every moment they wasted, Pen got further away.

The policeman's face tightened, his brows drawing together. “Stay here.” He walked away, speaking into the radio clipped to his collar.

Detectives Long and Short arrived. Riga told them everything – the hoodoo hit man's threat, her suspicions about the Old Man faking his illness – everything but the necklace burning a hole in the pocket of her loose slacks.

Hurry, hurry, hurry.

“Why didn't you tell us this before?” Short asked.

“I did tell you about the Old Man. But I didn't have any evidence of a conspiracy until we found that contract today at Jenny Wade's house. It's signed in blood. You can do a DNA test...” If they had the Old Man's DNA to compare it to. If they found him in time.

“What contract?” Long asked.

“At Jenny Wade's house,” Donovan said. “We told the police officers to pass it on to you. Didn't they?”

“Who the hell's Jenny Wade?” Long asked.

Riga explained about her connection, the ransacked home, Jenny's escape down the street. “She's involved in this somehow. Either she's been taken too, or she's on the run. And whoever's killed those occultists may have my niece.” Glancing at her watch, she gripped her arms to keep herself in one place. Nearly an hour had passed. Riga wanted to scream.

Short shook his head. “Or maybe your niece set the fire, panicked, and ran off.”

“Someone has been trying very hard to kill my wife,” Donovan said. “Whether it's the same person who killed the occultists or not, Penelope's disappearance is suspicious.”

Short snapped his notebook shut. “What's suspicious is that you two are always on the scene.”

“You invited Riga on the scene,” Donovan said.

“Yeah,” Long said, “after you approached us. Convenient. It's time we move this talk to the station.”