by Ally Shields
Maggie threw a last look at the dark shadows on the street. Where was the killer tonight? What was he or she doing? She couldn’t shake the feeling she should know.
Josh urged her into the air-conditioning, and they dug into the containers of oriental takeout. Avoiding case talk, they mostly discussed Harry and the tennis game.
“I’m not sure what he’s going to do about Annie,” Josh said. He pushed his container away and gave a satisfied sigh.
Maggie lifted a brow. “Did they have a fight? Annie hasn’t said anything to me.”
“She wants to get married…at least he thinks so…and he can’t afford it. Money or time. Not that he doesn’t want to,” Josh amended. “But not now. He doesn’t want to lose her either.”
“They’ll work it out. Annie’s level-headed…well, except for curses.”
The phone rang, and Maggie half-expected it to be Annie. It wasn’t.
“Madame L,” Maggie said, “what can I do for you?”
“I hope you don’t mind a weekend call,” the soft Jamaican voice said. “But it occurred to me that Stephanie Michaels may have the list of ball contestants. She was in charge of registration. If she doesn’t have a copy, she may remember the names. I tried to contact her to check, but she hasn’t responded.”
“Her husband took her out of town.” Maggie wanted a look at that list. The other contestants’ chances of winning had skyrocketed after the three murders.
“I knew she’d left New Orleans, and the day before yesterday we exchanged texts, but now, nothing.”
“I’ll find her,” Maggie said. “We have a contact number through her husband’s office. I’d love to know if all the contestants were outsiders or if something else made our three victims special targets.”
“Outsiders?” Madame L sounded puzzled. “None of them are outsiders. How else could the winner serve on the council?”
“But their relatives said—” Maggie jerked upright so quickly Josh turned to look at her. “Preston, Shayre, Gundermann…were all Society members,” she told him before returning to Madame L. “Did you say the winner becomes a board member?”
“Yes, of course, until the next ball. No one told you?”
“Is this a voting position?” But Maggie knew the answer before she heard the confirmation. This was the tie-in. As simple—and yet as powerful—as a guaranteed vote on a divided board.
After an hour, Maggie conceded they wouldn’t reach Michaels that night. The office number they’d been given didn’t answer. Not entirely unexpected on a weekend, but there wasn’t a message service either. Dennis Michaels had implied he and Stephanie could be reached at any hour. Josh went though information for New York City and found the company’s general number. At least they were able to leave a message for her—presuming it got to the right person.
“It’s like we’re standing beside a locked door, and the answer’s on the other side.” Maggie tapped her fingernails impatiently on the tabletop. “If we knew who expected to win with the three contestants removed, we’d have one of the coven members.”
“Don’t get your hopes too high. Michaels might not remember the names or be in any condition to tell us.”
She gave him a sideways look. “A nervous breakdown, you mean? I suppose that could be why we can’t reach her. She didn’t seem the type. But I didn’t expect her to flee town either. If she isn’t in any shape to help us, I hope her husband will give us access to her computer and any physical files she kept on the Society.”
“If he doesn’t, a warrant will change his mind.” Josh stood and pulled her toward the living room. “How about a late movie? Something relaxing, different.” He picked up the TV remote.
“Like something on the horror or the mystery channel?” She gave him an indulgent look and settled into his arms on the couch.
“They’re relaxing to me. I don’t have to solve them.”
* * *
Josh watched Maggie doze off and was on the verge himself when the notes of “Ground Control to Major Tom” announced Tom Ross was calling. He grabbed his phone. “Geez, buddy. It’s freakin’ late.”
“Well, if you don’t want to hear what we’ve got on Gordon—”
“Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker.” Josh shook Maggie’s shoulder. “Are you awake?” She rubbed her eyes and gave him an owl look. “It’s Ross on the phone. It’s about Fiona Gordon.”
She blinked and sat up this time. “I hope it’s good.”
“Well, it’s creepy,” Ross drawled. “Um, did I interrupt anything important?”
“Can it,” Josh growled as he and Maggie leaned over the phone. “Just tell us what you’ve got.”
“Spiders. Black widows to be exact.”
“What about them?” Maggie demanded sharply.
“Gordon bought them,” Ross said. “With a credit card, no less. We were clearing the tip line and found a message from a private breeder. He’d talked with your college professor Colby and heard you were asking about spiders. He called to report he’d sold four dozen to a first time buyer. We got him out of bed to check his receipts. And bingo! We nailed her.”
Josh gave Maggie a quick hug. Despite the pieces of evidence coming in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours, he hadn’t quite believed Gordon was cold-blooded enough or clever enough to pull off three nearly flawless murders. The credit card was an infinitely stupid mistake. But they had solid proof of assault and harassment now. It might be enough to pry a confession from her if they played their cards right.
The judge signed off on the search warrant, and within an hour they were headed for Fiona Gordon’s swank apartment with Ross and Barclay. They met Sims and Winkle (the task force detectives on the Gundermann case) at the west entrance to the large complex of four interconnected buildings, housing close to two hundred apartments. After arguing briefly with the doorman and two security guards—who wanted to notify the tenant—they demanded to speak with someone in charge, and a rather snooty manager arrived.
Josh showed him the warrant. “No notice,” he said grimly. “We’ll keep this as quiet as we can.”
The manager’s face whitened. “But I already did.”
“You called Gordon?” Barclay stepped into this face.
“I…I called the apartment, but no one answered.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“Certainly. It’s policy.”
Barclay swore loudly, and the detectives raced toward the stairs and elevator to access Gordon’s third floor residence. They’d counted on the element of surprise to avoid a potentially violent confrontation. If Gordon was there and not answering or if she returned by another entrance before they got there, they’d lose that advantage. This could be a nearly impossible scene to contain. Every major corridor had an elevator, stairs were spaced throughout each of the six floors, and every odd-numbered level had a walkway to the next connected building.
At this time of night—closing in on one o’clock—the one thing they had going for them was that most residents were settled in their apartments.
Josh and Maggie came up the stairs and passed no one until they reached the third floor. A lone woman wrapped in a towel and a dark green robe carried an ice bucket around the corner on their right. Josh made a mental check—too thin for Gordon—and dismissed her. The elevator dinged twenty yards away on the left, and the other detectives got off. Gordon’s apartment was half-way between.
Flanking both sides of the suspect’s door, they knocked and announced themselves. With no immediate response, Josh used the key card he’d gotten from the manager, and they burst into the room, scattering to clear the large apartment.
“In here,” Ross called from the master bedroom. “Suspect’s down.”
“What happened to her?” Maggie edged into the room, keeping her SIG at the ready.
“Looks like another overdose.” Ross knelt beside Gordon. She was sprawled on the bed in a pale blue nightgown and matching robe. A syringe lay on the floor.
“Faint pulse. Help me get her on the floor.”
Barclay called for the EMTs; Maggie and Sims began CPR.
Winkle appeared in the doorway. “The apartment’s clear, except for a terrarium of spiders in the laundry room. I’ll call the lab techs.”
Since there was nothing he could do to help Gordon, Josh poked around the apartment, looking for evidence to determine whether this was self-inflicted or another convenient murder. A suicide note would be good. Perhaps a handy confession.
His gaze landed on her electronic message board above the desk. The manager had called…so why wasn’t there a blinking light? Had she listened to the message and then done this? Hell, no. She would hardly have had time to find the syringe, much less fill it, inject it, and lapse into unconsciousness. Someone else had been here, watching her die…someone who’d left as soon as they heard the manager’s warning.
An image flashed into his head. The woman with the ice bucket.
Had she seen someone leave? Was she the killer?
Josh spun on his heels. “There was a woman in the hall. I’m going after her.” Winkler frowned as Josh dashed past him.
Turning left, Josh rounded the corner. The second corridor was as empty as the first. It had both an elevator and stairway entrance and ended in a walkway to the next building. Josh stopped uncertainly. Which direction? She could be anywhere. Another apartment, up, down, or in another building. What was worse was she might walk right by him, and he wouldn’t know it. All he’d seen was the long, green silk robe, the white towel wrapped around her presumably wet hair, and the ice bucket.
Her appearance implied she lived nearby. He began knocking on doors. When Maggie joined him a few minutes later, she shook her head at his questioning look.
“Not good. EMTs transported Gordon to the hospital, but she’s non-responsive. Are you looking for the woman with the towel?”
“Yeah. It’ll be hard to find her, unless she lives on this corridor.” He pointed out the various exits. “And it isn’t clear whether she—or possibly he, covered up like that—is a witness, a suspect, or somebody having a nightcap.”
“We found a nasty bruise behind Gordon’s left temple. It wasn’t a suicide.”
Josh’s face darkened. “And the killer may have walked right past us.”
They worked their way down the hall, knocking on doors and talking with occupants roused from their sleep. The other four detectives soon joined them while CS techs processed the apartment. Despite working the adjacent corridors and convincing the manager to open the two apartments where no one answered, they failed to locate the mysterious woman. Ross and Barclay left for the hospital to check on Gordon’s condition. The rest of them returned to the apartment.
“This totally screws our theory,” Detective Sims grumbled. “If Gordon killed the other victims, who the devil killed her? Or did someone else kill them all?”
When no one suggested an answer, they agreed to pull the task force together the next morning. They’d have to start over. But if the killer had been interrupted, maybe forensics could give them something to go on this time. Sims and Winkler headed home to catch a few hours of sleep.
Maggie and Josh seized the opportunity for an unhurried walk-through. They snapped on evidence gloves and started in the kitchen, checked out the back rooms—where Maggie wrinkled her nose at the spiders’ terrarium—and returned to the living room.
Josh pointed out the message board in the front foyer with its unlit call light.
“I think the killer stood here and listened to the message.” He glanced at a tech dusting the door for fingerprints. “Be sure to process the message button for prints.”
At the young woman’s patient nod, Josh grimaced. She didn’t need a reminder. But he supposed CS techs were used to frustrated detectives pointing out the obvious.
Josh and Maggie had saved the master bedroom for last. Two techs still worked inside, stripping and bundling the bed linens.
“Photos done?” Maggie asked.
“Yes. But no fingerprinting in here yet.”
“OK. We’ll be careful.”
They walked around the room and the attached bath, looking for anything that didn’t belong, didn’t quite fit. Maggie nudged the partially open folding doors of the main closet. Clothes hung neatly, consistent with Josh’s reading of Gordon’s personality. Orderly—tops together, dresses in another spot, and longer items gathered at the end, including the matching nightgown and robe sets similar to the one Gordon had been wearing.
Maggie abruptly pushed the clothes aside and squatted to pick up something on the floor. “Josh. Look at this.”
He jerked his head around at her sharp tone. A dark green nightgown hung from her fingers. The same dark green… He sucked in his breath.
Maggie’s blue eyes sparked with anger. “We did see the killer. She—or he—slipped right through our fingers disguised in one of the victim’s robes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Josh immediately called the task force surveillance teams who’d been watching Sutter and Brice since the gas cans were found.
“What are they saying?” Maggie asked, following him out of the master bedroom.
He held up a finger for her to wait, then finally shook his head as he shut down his phone. “Sutter has been home all evening. I just sent them to the door to verify, and he’s there. Brice has been in a bar on Bourbon Street the last couple of hours, hustling girls.”
“With Gordon eliminated, now Brice and Sutter, that’s three off the list. So who’s left? Somebody smart…powerful.” She gave Josh a worried look. “Could it be Madame L? No, that’s ridiculous. What would she gain? She already controls the Society. Gordon was definitely part of the conspiracy. The spiders prove that. Unless…she was framed too.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think so. Isn’t it more likely she’d become a liability? She was killed only after we brought her in for additional questioning.”
Josh put his arm around her shoulder. “Your imagination’s jumping all over the place, and we both need sleep.” He urged her toward the door. “Tomorrow we’ll start over, tear apart the Witching Hour, check everyone’s alibis for tonight, and delve into the local occult culture, especially anyone who advocates black magic or violence. We’ll find him or her—”
“Her. It’s got to be a woman,” Maggie said with conviction. “I sensed it all along, even when Sutter looked so guilty and Brice kept showing up everywhere. I didn’t trust my instincts, but I’m going to follow them now. I’m sure Madame L’s hiding something or suspects someone. We need to start by questioning her again.”
“But not tonight,” Josh repeated, guiding her into the hallway.
“OK, but early in the morning.”
They took the skywalk to the next building and rode the elevator to the exit closest to Josh’s parking space. Maggie stretched her right shoulder, trying to relieve the stress that just wouldn’t go away.
Suddenly, the hair on her neck rose. She spun around as three ghostly orbs flashed past so close she felt a breath of icy cold. Grabbing Josh’s hand, she nearly pulled him off balance as she took off running. “It’s them. The three witches. And they’re in a hurry.”
He matched her pace as she cut across streets, through an alley, ducked into a flowered courtyard, and onto Rampart Street.
The orbs danced only a half block ahead, darting into the trees of a public park and back out again. Maggie ran down the shadowy walks in pursuit, past the area where she and Dalia had discussed auras only a few days ago, and stopped abruptly when the ghostly figures vanished in a silent pop of light.
Josh nearly ran into her, but he grabbed her around the waist, placing a finger of caution over her lips when sharp voices erupted just ahead. Maggie stilled, and he let her go. Keeping to the darkest shadows, they eased forward behind the trees until they saw a circular garden with paved paths, raised flowerbeds on north and south, and back-to-back benches in the center. At the east entrance, a four-foot boulde
r held the garden’s dedication plaque. A few steps in front of the rock stood one of two women, a brunette dressed in a black shirt and pants, with her back to Maggie and Josh. Twenty feet to the west stood Madame L, her robe of ivory blowing gently in the warm, late night breeze. As usual, the priestess’s face was serene, but her attention was riveted on the figure across from her.
Tension sizzled in the air. Anger and an eerie energy radiated throughout the scene, sending shivers up and down Maggie’s arms. Madame L didn’t hold a visible weapon, but the other woman’s hands were out of sight. The two women seem poised for a fight. But with what? About what? What was she witnessing? Some kind of uber witch standoff?
Had one of these two killed Fiona? If so, which one?
Maggie strained to hear what they were saying. Madame L was talking. “It should never have come to this. But I am as fallible as others…seeing what I desire to see. I could not accept your downfall, your betrayal. I foolishly assumed the threat was coming from a newcomer or outsiders. For that I hold myself responsible. But now Fiona too?”
A low chuckle from the woman in black grew into a harsh, explosive laugh. “Don’t waste your sympathy on her. She betrayed us both. Fiona burned your shop. While you escaped unharmed, I wasn’t so lucky. She deliberately set me on fire.”
My God. Stephanie Michaels! Maggie squeezed her eyes tight. Had the woman totally flipped out and murdered Gordon out of fear and a need for revenge?
“Is that your excuse?” Madame L continued, her eyes flashing for the first time. “How did you justify the other killings? Were those women—your sisters—just in your way?”
Other killings? Maggie nearly screamed the words inside her head. She finally understood. A woman she’d never suspected had killed them all.
“Oh, Isabella, how can you not know? I needed the vote.” Michaels’s voice was eerily calm. “With the contest winner’s vote, I would have achieved a quiet change in the Society’s leadership, seven votes to six. But the police got too close. The investigation spooked Fiona into doing stupid things—like trying to kill the detective in the cemetery—and it bred fear within my coven, forcing me to change plans. It doesn’t really matter. The end result will be the same. Your death erases any hope of secrecy, but I confess I prefer it this way. The witches soon to be reborn as the dark magic League of the Midnight Hour may as well know from the start that I hold the power.”
