The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  “No,” he said. “They wouldn’t have had access to the right codes. She needed someone at the top. I’ve been trying my damndest to figure out a way it might have been an outsider. But I can’t. Sandra had a partner high up. And the feds have Donovan’s signature. The lawyers are trying to prove it’s a forgery. Maybe it is. But there’s still a limited number of people who could have pulled it off.

  “I’m surprised they got away with it as long as they did. Maybe they thought it was so simple they wouldn’t be caught.” He turned to her. “You can interview them this afternoon. May as well get it over with. Give me an hour. I’ll arrange it.”

  “Thanks. Finn, I have to ask you something else you may find offensive. Where were you when Sandra was shot?”

  “Watching it unfold on TV with Candace. And I’m not offended.” He studied the toes of his shoes. They gleamed like oil against the white carpet. “Just tired.” He looked up at her. “You’ll be calling Candace?”

  She nodded.

  “Do me a favor? Don’t ask her where she was. Ask her when she heard about Sandra’s death. You’ll get your answer without upsetting her.”

  “I will. Thanks, Finn.”

  She left his office, and walked back down the corridor, drawing the phone from her pocket. She didn’t like making a call – she’d miss the body language, the subtle vocal cues – but she wanted to talk to Candace before her husband got a chance to.

  Candace answered, breathing hard as if she’d been running. She verified her husband’s alibi. He’d been home all day, had spent most of it on his computer in his home office. Candace admitted she’d never liked Sandra much, though her fury at Sandra’s betrayal was tempered by the manner of her dying.

  Riga rang off, promising to come to dinner soon. She wanted to believe Candace’s alibi for her husband, but knew she couldn’t trust it. She liked Candace and Finn. She even liked Isabelle, with her tough, prickly nature that kept others at a distance but hadn’t stopped her from dragging the dealer from harm when Gregorovich’s men had drawn weapons. As for Reuben... She wanted to like him. But he had so much to gain from Donovan’s downfall. He was also a jerk.

  She ducked back into the elevator and ascended to the penthouse, relieved to find Reuben and Isabelle gone. Alone in Donovan’s study, she called him.

  “Riga.” His voice rumbled over the line, and something in her chest fluttered.

  She couldn’t do this over the phone.

  “I need to see you.” She dropped onto the leather sofa, gripped the phone with two hands.

  A beat of silence. Two. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. The press found me here hours after I arrived, and they’ve got both gates covered. Someone must have leaked to them.”

  “I can come on the ski path through the woods.”

  “No,” he said sharply. “I don’t want you crossing this threshold unless I’m carrying you over it.”

  Startled, she didn’t reply. Was his comment born out of frustration? Romanticism? Or was he asking if she was still his, in spite of everything? That, at least, was one question she knew the answer to.

  “Donovan—”

  “No. Don’t say anything. Not now. And don’t sound so worried.”

  “I’m not worried. I’m moved.” She smiled. “Okay, I lied. I’m worried.”

  “Has something else happened?"

  She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and gazed at the cold fireplace. “Did you know Sandra was Cesar’s ex-wife?”

  “Of course. I was at their wedding.”

  She waited, silent, unhappy.

  “You think he’s a danger to me.”

  “He wonders if you might have been responsible for her death.”

  He chuckled. “Then that would explain the very close eye he’s keeping over me.”

  “Donovan, please take this seriously.”

  “Is this about what Ankou said? About my imminent demise?”

  “No, it’s about Cesar saying he’d rip your throat out if he learned you’d killed Sandra.”

  Donovan was silent for a beat. “For obvious reasons, he won’t hear that. But I’ll have him taken off my detail.”

  “And there’s something else.” She rubbed her temple. A headache was coming on. “Where were you last March fifteenth, the date of June’s death?”

  “At a conference in Atlantic City. I remember because I was in a Roman-themed hotel. All I could think about was Shakespeare’s line: Beware the Ides of March.”

  “Can anyone verify it?”

  He hesitated. “I was a speaker – you could probably find the conference agenda online.”

  “You could have cancelled after they posted it. Can anyone else confirm it?”

  “Ye-es. I wasn’t alone there.”

  “Great. Were you with Isabelle?”

  “No.”

  Riga waited. “Is it a secret?”

  “No. It was sort of a date.”

  “A date.”

  “With a woman.”

  “For the entire conference?” A shiver of jealousy leapt from a dark corner of her brain, and she shoved it aside. Ridiculous. The conference had been months before they’d met. She cleared her throat. “Did you share a room?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “That’s good news, a solid alibi.”

  “I suppose you want her name.”

  “I promise not to be too rough on her, even though you’re no longer seeing her, and you slept with her months before we even met.”

  He laughed, a low rumble. “Her name is Celine Feuer.” He spelled the last name. “I don’t have her number, but she lives in Vegas. And I stopped seeing her shortly after the conference.”

  “Good. Where was Isabelle?”

  “I was based in Vegas at the time, so she was probably in our offices there.”

  And now Isabelle was here, dragged about like a briefcase wherever Donovan went. Riga wondered how she stood it. “I want to try to communicate with June’s spirit again.”

  “Me too, but I’m locked down tonight. Tomorrow?”

  “Deal,” she said.

  “Is there something else going on? You sound strange.”

  She picked up a coaster from the end table, and rolled it between her fingers. It felt damp.

  “Something Sheriff King said to me. He asked if you knew what civil forfeiture was, told me to make sure to ask you about it.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, “So that’s the next play.” His voice was threaded with anger.

  “What is it?”

  “With the help of local law enforcement, the feds can confiscate property where a crime has been committed. Then the locals and the feds split the proceeds.”

  “You mean... The casino? But don’t they have to prove a crime has been committed first and that the owners knew about it and let it happen?”

  “You haven’t been reading the papers. With civil forfeiture, you’re guilty until you can prove you’re innocent – or at least, your property is guilty.”

  “But that’s... That can’t be right!”

  “Don’t worry about it, Riga. I’ll take care of this. I owe King for the warning, and you. Thanks.”

  “There’s something else.” She dragged her fingers through her hair. “One of Sal’s cousins was poisoned last night. She’s in a coma.”

  “What’s her prognosis?”

  “Not good.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said.

  The quiet stretched long between them.

  Riga shifted. “What aren’t you saying to me?”

  “I’m not saying that the would-be killer made a mistake, because you’re never going to give up now, and that I wish you would give up, but know there’s no sense asking. And I’m not saying that part of me doesn’t want to ask you to quit, because if you agreed, you wouldn’t be you.” He paused. “We’ll get through this, Riga. Both of us.”

  The room brightened, the sun emerging briefly from the clouds, before the shado
ws returned.

  “That’s twice you surprised me in one conversation,” she said.

  “What was the first time?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. I love you.”

  “I know.” He hung up.

  “Even though you are a cocky bastard,” she said to the dial tone.

  She drew her laptop from her leather bag and opened it there, on the couch, not bothering to plug it in. It didn’t take long for her to find the Atlantic City conference agenda online. There were even photos from the event, and of Donovan at the podium, rakish in a black suit. He was in the clear for June’s death. She grimaced, rueful. Now if only she could prove he hadn’t been involved in the crimes he’d actually been charged with.

  She debated calling his alibi. The conference agenda and photos were really all she needed, weren’t they? But that would be sloppy – she’d always followed the trails to the end, confirmed, reconfirmed. And she’d been sloppy on this case, on these cases. Urgency had made her so, trying to save time by calling people rather than interviewing them in person. It wasn’t right.

  Her cell phone rang, startling her. A number she didn’t recognize. What now? The press? A political donation?

  She answered, frowning. “Riga Hayworth.”

  “Uh, hi. My name is Frank Delacort.” A cough, a cleared throat. “You left your business card on my door?”

  She inched forward on the sofa, alert. “You were June Carding’s neighbor?”

  “Uh, yes. Is that what this is about?”

  “I’m a private investigator from California, looking into her death. Were you home the day she died?”

  Another phlemy cough.

  He was as bad as Dora, the newspaper editor. Riga should call her too, find out if she’d gotten anything on Lizzy.

  “Yes,” he said, “I was home. It’s a quiet street, I remember the cop cars, the ambulance.”

  “Is there anything else you remember about that day? Anything unusual?”

  “No. It was just an ordinary day until the fire trucks showed up.”

  Damn. “A neighbor saw a strange car parked outside June’s house. Did you have any guests it may have belonged to?”

  “The Lincoln? No, it didn’t belong to anyone I knew.”

  Riga rose to her feet. “A Lincoln? You’re sure?”

  “Yeah. That I do remember. I’d been meaning to buy one – rental car agencies sometimes have good deals on ‘em, and this one had a Hertz sticker on it. Got me thinking. I went out the next week and bought a nice one. And I did get a good deal on it.”

  “Do you remember anything else about it? The color? The year? The plate?”

  “I remember it was black, because I ended up with the same damn color. Would’ve liked a silver one,” he said wistfully. “Feels like I’m driving a limo, and the black shows up the dirt, but it’s still a good car, and I’m too old to fuss about color. It was a Nevada plate – I almost went over and asked where the person had rented it from.”

  “And you’re sure it was Hertz?”

  “Yep. That’s where I got mine, at the airport in Reno.”

  Riga didn’t have the resources to track down the car – too many rental agencies in Nevada. She needed foot soldiers, help.

  “Was that all you wanted?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks. You’ve been a big help.” She hung up, thinking hard. Vogelberg was a Nevada PI; he might be able to find the rental agency. Or Sheriff King? She discarded the idea. The local cops were too busy working current cases to dig into her hunch about June’s death. It would be Vogelberg.

  She found Celine’s phone number online, and made the call before she could talk herself out of it.

  “Hi! This is Celine,” a cheery voice said.

  Riga introduced herself, explained what she wanted.

  Celine gave a low chuckle. “I remember that weekend, all right. When he wasn’t speaking or schmoozing at the conference, we were together in his room. And if you need me to, I’ll vouch for it in court. These accusations against him, the terrorist financing... I can’t believe it.”

  Don’t think about the hotel room, don’t think about the hotel room, it was before you met, be an adult.

  Riga forced herself to smile. “Me neither. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  She sighed. “Anything for Donovan. Is he... He’s not still single, is he?”

  “No.” Crap, she was jealous. What was her problem? When she’d first met Donovan, he’d had two blondes on his arms. She was never jealous.

  “Too bad, but I guess a man like that can’t stay on the market for long.”

  “I guess not. Thanks again for your time. Someone may be in touch.” Riga hung up, and rubbed her temple, the headache now a steady drumbeat. She deserved it. Jealous. What was wrong with her?

  Riga wandered to the bedroom, half-hoping to find Brigitte. The gargoyle had her faults, but she’d never failed to snap Riga out of a self-pity party.

  The room was empty, the fire unlit.

  Riga went to the window, saw dark trees, white snow, and a gray lake beneath lowering clouds.

  Where the hell was Brigitte?

  Abruptly, Riga sat down upon the geometrically-patterned rug. She closed her eyes and reached out with her other senses. Brigitte, where are you?

  Nothing.

  No tingle of awareness, no sense of the gargoyle, nothing.

  Riga didn’t know what she’d expected. She’d never tried calling the gargoyle before – she’d never needed to. Brigitte always seemed to be there, ready to give her opinion whether it was wanted or not. Unless the gargoyle was on one of her errands. But she’d always alerted Riga beforehand, let her know when she’d be back, certain Riga would pine away without her company.

  Riga growled in aggravation. Her eyes flew open. “Brigitte!” Her shout echoed through the penthouse.

  No response.

  But she felt marginally better.

  And Brigitte could take care of herself. She was probably off pouting, teaching Riga a lesson, frustrated by Riga’s recent lack of magic. Lately, their relationship had been strained– partly Riga’s fault. But only partly.

  She checked her watch, unfolded herself from the rug. Time to interview the finance department staff.

  That exercise looked like it was going to be useless as well. Finn set her up in a closet-sized office, where she met with each of the tellers, accountants, and finance staffers, who denied knowing anything about the embezzlement or money laundering, were in agreement that Sandra had gotten what she deserved, and hadn’t known June well.

  Riga’s last interviewee, a petite accountant named Mavis, sat across from her, arms and legs crossed.

  Mavis bounced a leg up and down in time to the gum she chewed. “I mean, do you have any idea what this has been like? We’re all under suspicion. Being interviewed by stick-up-their-ass agents... And who knows what will happen to the casino now? We may all be out of jobs, or worse.”

  Riga rolled a pen between her palms. “How well did you know June Carding?”

  Mavis put her foot down with a thunk upon the cheap green carpet. “June?” A startled expression crossed her face. Slowly, she raised one hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. That’s why she was killed.”

  Chapter 25

  “Killed?” Riga kept her voice level. She watched Mavis carefully, tried to ignore the cramped room, the sallow fluorescent lighting, the dying plant on the metal filing cabinet. Its vines twined, groping for the accountant’s curly hair.

  “Well, she sure didn’t commit suicide.” Mavis leaned forward and her blouse gaped, exposing a lacy black bra. “I tried to tell the police, but would they listen? No. No evidence, they said. But what evidence was there that she’d killed herself? She was happy! She had no reason to kill herself. And she was Catholic – not one of those Catholic in name only people, but someone who really believed in it. Suicide was a mortal sin to her.”

  “You talked about suicide with her?” Riga shift
ed her chair, bumped into a file cabinet.

  “Of course not. We talked about divorce. My husband dumped me for a younger woman. It sucked. June and I went out for drinks to celebrate my freedom, and we got to talking about religion and divorce and the rules different churches had. Look, I get that no one wants to think a friend would kill themselves. But usually, afterward, something comes out and you understand why. We never got the why.”

  “Was she under any stress at work?”

  Mavis’ hands began to curl into fists, then straightened. “No.”

  “But there was something, wasn’t there?”

  The accountant chewed her lip. “Someone in the casino was harassing her. She told me she was going to complain to Mr. Yamamoto about it. And then the next day, she was dead.”

  “Do you know who?”

  “No. She said she didn’t want to spread rumors, make things worse. June seemed almost... embarrassed about it. She wanted to talk to Mr. Yamamoto first.”

  “Did she talk to Finn? Mr. Yamamoto, I mean?”

  “I don’t think she got the chance.”

  “She didn’t say what kind of harassment it was? Verbal? Sexual?”

  “I doubt it was sexual. There are only two men in the department. One’s gay and the other’s just not that kind of guy.” Mavis pursed her lips. “I’ve thought about it a lot since June died – what I could have said, should have said. Now I’m not sure what actually was said.”

  Riga ran her hands through her hair, frustrated. Something was here, she could feel it, but Mavis’s lead was hearsay, vague, intangible. Once again, she was chasing ghosts.

  A wet, sticky snow clotted the blades of her windshield wipers, her headlights dimly illuminating the darkening road. It was a relief to turn into the safety of the hospital parking lot. As she stepped from the car, a wind blew up, pasting her with white flakes, cutting through her pea coat. She hurried through the sliding doors, the aura of misery clouding the place barely affecting her in her relief to be indoors.

  She found Sal slumped in a chair beside Zara’s bed. The room had the sour smell of body fluids and disinfectant. Zara lay, eyes closed, a thin form beneath the plain white sheet. She seemed bereft without a flamboyant turban, her hair plastered to her skull, tubes feeding into her nostrils and arms.