“Because I didn’t know it meant anything until just now!”
Riga shifted, impatient. “So what did you hear?”
“Something woke me up around three A.M. I figured it was just someone going to the bathroom, but I didn’t hear the toilet flush. I remember, because I just kept waiting for it so I could go back to sleep.”
“Waiting for the flush?” Zara laughed. “Sounds like the name of a bad song.”
“A breakup song,” Derek agreed, giving her a quick smile.
Riga turned to Martin. “And what about you?”
He cocked his head to one side. “What about me?”
“What time did you get in that night?”
“I didn’t. I got in around five that morning, and waited in my car until I saw people were up.”
“How could you see they were up?”
He reddened. “Through one of the windows.”
“Who let you in?” Riga asked.
“Derek did.”
She looked to Derek for confirmation, and he nodded.
Damn. She liked Martin as a suspect.
“What is this?” Derek asked. “An interrogation? I thought you were a metaphysical detective.”
“I’m a licensed PI.” In California, she silently added. “And I nearly broke my neck on that fishing wire.” She turned back to Martin. “How long have you been with the company?”
“Ten years.” Martin cracked each of his knuckles in turn. “I started right out of college,” he continued, “worked my way through my MBA.”
“You put a lot of time in at Hermes Sportswear,” Riga said. “The sale must be tough.”
He let out a short bark of laughter, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Tough? I’ll be okay. What about the unskilled labor at the plant though, the guys without college educations? They’re the ones who’ll be screwed.”
Derek downed the rest of his drink. “We’re all screwed.”
Chapter 17
Sal snored lightly as Riga tiptoed across the carpet, rectangles of sunlight warming her bare toes. Overnight, the laces of her boots had become hopelessly tangled, and she had a good idea what was responsible: those damned fae. Would she have to start putting salt sachets in her boots as well?
She went downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water from the tap, gazing idly out the window above the sink. The clouds had moved on, and the snow outside sparkled. An SUV rolled past, picking up speed, and its rear wheels slewed left. The car slowed, corrected.
The cabin was silent, everyone asleep but Riga.
She checked the digital clock on the stove – seven A.M. Ash would be back soon to start his day shift protecting Sal, and Donovan’s lawyer would arrive as well.
Quietly, she rummaged through the kitchen, finding salty bagels in the bread box and toasting one, slathering it with a sun-dried tomato schmear from the fridge. She bit into the bagel, moaned with pleasure. Heaven.
Riga was brushing the crumbs from her blouse when she heard footsteps on the porch outside. She hurried through the mud room to the front door, and flung it open beneath Sharon’s upraised fist.
Slowly, Sharon lowered her gloved hand. Her other arm hugged a slim leather briefcase to her chest. She wore a fitted, scarlet-colored business suit, and Riga wondered if the lawyer’s insistence on knee length skirts in winter was born from stubbornness or slavery to corporate fashion.
Looming behind her, Ash was deep in conversation with a grizzled man wearing a navy blue parka that rode his hips. They glanced at Riga, and fell silent.
Riga touched a finger to her lips. “Everyone’s asleep,” she said in a low voice. “Come in.”
Covertly, she watched the stranger divest himself of his parka. He propped one foot on the bench and bent to unlace his boots, his knee digging into his gut. The boots were military issue – khaki colored canvas with thick soles. They were popular with the mercenaries these days, but impractical in the snow.
Sharon stumbled, and braced one hand against the wall as she tugged her ankle boots off. “Riga, this is Luther Vogelberg, the P.I. we hired. He’d like to ask you some questions.”
Ash kicked the snow from his boots, and brushed past Riga.
Sharon gave her a look. “Can’t take him anywhere, can you?”
“But he’s so good at his job.” Riga jerked her head towards the interior of the cabin. “This way.”
She led them to the breakfast nook, the farthest she could seat them from the bedrooms.
“Coffee?”
Sharon shook her head, no.
“Sure,” Luther said.
Straight backed, he followed her to the kitchen, watching her get a mug from the black-painted cabinet.
“Nice set up you’ve got here, Red.”
“It’s not mine, and my hair isn’t red.” Riga turned her back on him, and poured from the coffee maker, feeling his eyes on her.
She turned around, handed him the steaming mug. “See anything you like?”
“Just returning the favor. I saw you ogling me in the mud room. I think I got the better view.”
“I never did get the trick of watching someone without appearing to.”
“I can teach you.” He took a sip of the coffee. “Hear you’re a P.I., like me. Why didn’t they hire you for this gig?”
“Would you have hired me?”
“No.”
“Then you know why.”
He squinted at her. “You’re a funny dame.”
“It’s the twenty-first century. What’s funny is you calling me a dame.”
“So what do you know about this business?”
“Nothing.”
He pulled a notepad from the breast pocket of his shirt, flipped it open. “But you must have some ideas.”
She leaned one hip against the black granite counter. “Sure. The guy in charge of the money, Finn, the CFO, would be ideally positioned to commit the crime... and to frame Donovan. Donovan’s cousin, Reuben, has been at odds with Donovan since he returned from San Francisco in October.”
“You know why?” He looked up from his scribbling.
“I’m not certain. Donovan had been managing the Vegas casinos. When he returned to Tahoe, he took over management of the casino here, the one Reuben had been in charge of.”
“And Reuben was pissed?”
“Yeah.” But there was something else as well, an anger behind it all that Riga had been unable to fathom.
“As COO, Reuben could have pulled it off,” Vogelberg said. “A little obvious, though.”
“Have you learned any more about how the money laundering was done?”
“It was a beautiful plan. In exchange for a small fee from our money launderers – the mafia, whoever – someone just gave away receipts for winnings over one hundred large. The winnings were dutifully reported to the feds, deducted from the books, but no bets had ever been placed.”
“And the insider, whoever he was, pocketed it,” Riga said. “Ballsy. The guy on the inside gets all the money plus a fee from Gregorovich, and Gregorovich gets to clean big chunks of money at a time.” And since business had been down at the casino, the feds would believe Donovan had a motive to steal from himself by creating paper losses that were tax deductible.
The detective blew on the coffee. “Gregorovich?”
“When I was being interviewed by the police, one of the agents let that name slip. Vasily Gregorovich. He’s a local mob boss.” Sharon had been in the room at the time. Why hadn’t she told her detective?
He bent his head, writing down the name. “What else?”
“Nothing. I don’t know much about the casino operations.” And she certainly wasn’t going to tell him about the ghost accountant.
“Feelings? Intuitions?”
Riga quirked an eyebrow. “Intuition?”
“I’m a big believer in a woman’s intuition. And the days I don’t listen to my own little voice are usually bad ones.”
She thought of Isabelle, going th
rough Donovan’s closet. Riga shook her head. “No.”
He tucked the notepad in his pocket, handed her a rumpled business card. “Well, Red, if you think of anything else, call.”
“Sure.” Riga pocketed it, and followed him to the breakfast nook. She slid into a chair beside Ash, and realized the P.I. had called her Red again. And she’d let him.
Ash stood, and jerked his head at the detective. “You got everything you needed, Vogelberg?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Let’s step outside.”
The women waited until Ash and the detective had closed the sliding door to the deck behind them.
“When can I see Donovan?” Riga asked.
“I don’t know. Sandra’s murder has changed everything.”
“This is an awful question, but has her death made things better or worse for Donovan?”
The attorney opened her mouth, closed it.
“Sharon, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been sidelined by the legal team. I’m out of the loop.” The lawyer’s hands clenched.
Riga rose slowly from the table. “You don’t have any coffee. Would you like a cup?”
The lawyer didn’t look up. “Yeah. Coffee would be good.”
Riga took longer than she needed, giving Sharon time to put her armor back into place. When she returned, she set the mug beside the lawyer’s elbow.
“You mentioned you didn’t specialize in federal law.” Riga sat down across from her. “Is that why they’ve got you running errands?”
Sharon smiled wryly. “That, and they don’t think I’m objective enough.”
“What does Donovan have to say about this?”
“He doesn’t know.”
Riga leaned back in her chair. “How is that possible?”
“They haven’t told him, because they haven’t told me. But I know meetings are taking place without me, and as you say, I’m running errands. But that’s not important. Donovan’s got a crack legal team, and I’m ready to help where I can.” Sharon picked up the mug, turned it in her hands.
“What can you tell me?”
“Aside from the accountant’s testimony, there’s no evidence Donovan was involved in the money laundering and embezzlement. A lot hangs on whether Sandra’s deposition is admissible or not. And this is where I’m very glad I’m not the only member of his legal team, because one of my colleagues believes he has grounds to have the statement declared inadmissible.”
“How?”
Sharon sighed. “It’s what lawyers do. When we’re not trying to pin the tail on a different donkey, we’re trying to convince the court the donkey was never there in the first place. The wrangling over this won’t end any time soon.”
“And in the mean time, Donovan looks guilty as hell. This is a bad way to get him off.” No one would want to believe his innocence. He’d be a pariah.
“I haven’t given up looking for evidence to exonerate him,” the lawyer said. “That’s why Vogelberg is here. And Riga...” An uneasy expression crossed her chiseled face. “I’m open to information from any avenue.”
The lawyer stood quickly. “I’ll let you know when we can get you in to see him.” She glanced toward the deck, where the two men stood in animated conversation. “I’m glad you’ve got Ash with you. He’s tough, and he’s honest, and he likes you.”
Riga laughed. “This is liking? I’d hate to be his enemy.”
Sharon walked into the high-ceilinged living room, rapped on the glass doors to the deck.
The men fell silent, and came inside.
“Ready to go?” Vogelberg asked.
“Yes.” The lawyer turned to Riga. “Good luck. And remember – any avenue.”
Bemused, Riga saw Sharon and Vogelberg to the door.
Ash jerked his head toward the stairs. “Sal awake?”
Riga frowned. “Apparently not. Everyone was up late last night.”
“I’m going to do some work on my car. Call me when she’s up.” He strode outside, banging the door behind him.
Riga went to the kitchen, looking for liquid refreshment.
Zara leaned against the granite counter, stirring a Bloody Mary with a stalk of celery. Her orange and brown turban drooped.
“Hair of the dog?” Riga said.
The artist groaned. “I want to die. How can you look so chipper? You matched Derek drink for drink.”
“You have to train for it. Where’s Derek?”
“Still in his room, I guess. I heard him snoring when I came downstairs.”
“Been up long?”
Zara looked sideways at her. “Long enough to hear what that lawyer said. Sorry.”
“For overhearing?”
“Sorry about Mosse. That’s got to be tough. Sometimes I’m glad I’m single. I don’t need the aggravation. No offense.”
Riga peered inside the fridge. Eureka, orange juice. “Sounds like Derek’s divorce was aggravating.”
Zara studied the toes of her furry slippers. “Yeah, that was a nasty one.”
“I heard his ex cleaned him out.” She went to the cupboard and grabbed a short glass. “The loss of income from the sportswear company will hit him hard, won’t it?”
Zara took a slug of her Bloody Mary. “He’s a grown man. He’ll get by.”
“And you?” Riga poured juice into the glass.
“I guess I’ll have to. Fortunately, I have my art.”
“Textiles, right? How’s that going?” Riga’s online search had already given her the answer: badly. Zara’s last two shows had closed early.
“My work is developing in ways I never expected, and I’ve entered a rich, productive phase.” Zara laughed. “And if you believe that line of crap, then thank my PR firm.”
“Who’s your PR firm?”
Riga whistled when she told her. That company didn’t come cheap.
“I’ll be letting the firm go now,” Zara said. “Can’t afford them. Everything changes, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. And not always for the better.”
Chapter 18
June’s neighbor, Tammy, was a dead ringer for Mrs. Claus, wife of Santa. Tammy had gray ringlets, rosy cheeks, and button eyes glinting with curiosity. Chocolate chip cookies scented her kitchen, and a plate lay invitingly on the table before them. Riga and Cesar sat at her kitchen table, mugs of tea warming their hands, crumbs littering the checked tablecloth. Cesar had insisted on coming along, and Riga had agreed. She wasn’t sure she could stop him.
“But why are you interested in June’s death?” Tammy asked for the third time. Since they’d arrived, they hadn’t been able to get Tammy past the question, and Riga could feel her blood pressure skyrocketing.
“There are still some unanswered questions.” Cesar bit off the words.
Twice, Riga had said the same thing.
“Oh, I understand now.” She shot Riga a critical look. “This would have gone more quickly, young lady, if you’d only explained.”
Riga smiled tightly. “Can you take me through it? How did you come upon the body?”
“I came home from running an errand, and saw poor June’s door was open. That seemed strange to me – it was dark out. At first, I thought burglars, but then I heard her car running in the garage. There’s no mistaking the sound of that car. So I popped my head in and sure enough, there was her purse sitting on the kitchen counter, out in the open. Well, I didn’t want to leave her door open, but didn’t think I should close it myself since it’s her house, so I went to the garage – there’s an entrance off the kitchen. And when I opened the door, I saw poor June in the car, with a hose running from the exhaust pipe to the front window. I opened the car door, and she just fell right out. Then I opened the door to the garage, but it was too late for her. So I called 911.” She shook her head. “Poor thing.”
“Do you know if she was depressed?” Riga brushed the crumbs on the tablecloth into a mound with her finger.
“Goodness, no. I had no idea. But she was
n’t that kind of neighbor, not the kind to make friends, I mean. We said ‘hello’ when we passed each other outside, and I used to water her plants when she was on vacation, but that was all.”
“What was she like as a neighbor?”
“Quiet. Kept mostly to herself. No men or loud parties that I saw.”
Riga bet Tammy saw quite a lot. “The day of her death, did she have any guests?”
Tammy’s eyes widened. “It’s funny you should ask. There was a car parked outside her cabin.”
Cesar choked on his tea.
“Oh dear, are you all right?” She handed Cesar a pink dish towel. “I remember the car, because it was partially blocking my driveway, and I had to maneuver around it to go to the store. I would have said something to June, but she was usually so considerate about those types of things, and we can’t always help what our guests do.”
“That wasn’t in the police report,” Cesar said.
“Wasn’t it? I suppose they didn’t ask about visitors then.”
Riga leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the wooden table. “What time was this?”
She looked at the white-painted ceiling, puckering her mouth. “It wasn’t quite dark when I left. I remember thinking it was lucky it was still light out, or it would have been difficult for me to get around that car. And I was worried it would still be there when I returned from the store, but fortunately, it wasn’t. And of course, it’s easier going around something when you’re driving forward rather than backing up. I usually don’t take so long at the store – maybe forty minutes, and it was dark when I got back. So I think I left for the store around five thirty?”
“June would have just gotten home from work,” Cesar said.
“Do you remember what the car looked like?” Riga asked.
“It was dark colored. I remember thinking it was just my luck, because I don’t see so well at night and the car was dark too, and that would make it even more difficult to drive past it.”
“Anything else? The number of doors? The model?”
“Oh no, that was so long ago. I barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Of course, I remember more about that day because of poor June’s death, but that car wasn’t really a part of it, was it?”
The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 11
