by Deanna Lee
"She prefers priestess,” Ethan called after her, grinning. He would have given anything to be a fly on the wall for that meeting.
* * * *
Kyra paused and looked across the hood of her transport to her partner. “Look, why don't you head home. I'll be going off duty after this consultation anyway."
Phil grinned. “Are you sure you can handle her?"
"I can handle an ancient Voodoo priestess,” Kyra muttered. “Go home to your wife."
He didn't need any further encouragement. She watched him trot off to the rocket-cycle he drove to work. With a grunt of dissatisfaction, she jerked open the door of her vehicle and climbed in. Settling into the driver's seat, Kyra allowed herself a few moments of admiration. She'd purchased the new transport only six weeks before, and its sleek lines seduced her every time she saw it.
When she'd gone to purchase a new vehicle, it had been with the intention of buying a sensible and common vehicle. She'd come home with an energy-guzzling all-terrain vehicle that was hardly sensible. Engaging the engine, she thought briefly about the hover system she'd been shopping around for. She'd have to get one soon; department regulations required it.
Clara Tibideaux lived outside the city, in the bayou. The mean old witch was interesting in a horrifying sort of way. Kyra grimaced as she pulled out of the station parking lot; it just wasn't going to be a good end to her day.
She used the thirty-minute drive to Clara's house to gather her own thoughts about the case. What the ME had told her about the neck bruising, she'd expected. The bruises had been old and faint. The vial of bones had been a surprise. There had been no obvious trauma at the crime scene except for the bit of skin he'd taken with him. That wound wouldn't have been enough to kill her. Poison? It had crossed her mind, something fast-acting and easy to get hold of. Most poisons were rigorously controlled—well, most synthetic poisons. If Voodoo was in the mix, he could have taken a poison out of his own backyard. People who had a rudimentary knowledge of Voodoo studied the plants and herbs used in the faith.
She slowed down as she approached the turnoff that would take her to Clara. Would she ever be comfortable with the woman? Somehow, she doubted it. With serious dread, Kyra turned off the highway and onto the dirt road that would eventually lead to Clara's driveway. She hadn't seen Clara in four blessed years. It had been a case that had brought her to Clara's door then, too. Four years since she'd learned the truth behind her mother's death and about her own conception. Pushing the past firmly out of her mind, she focused on the road and hoped like hell that Clara would at least be civil.
Turning onto Clara's narrow driveway, she glanced toward the dock that stretched out into the swamp. The murky brown water looked uninviting and ominous. She already knew how it would smell—stale, dead. After hitting a series of potholes that qualified as small craters, she parked in front of the house and got out. The old witch was standing on the porch, hands on her hips as if she were expecting Kyra.
Clara's hair was pinned up neatly, her midnight-dark skin smooth and shiny. Most would have never guessed she was nearly a hundred years old. Kyra knew that Clara had less than half the standard nanobots recommended for good health, and had taken the anti-aging shots only because she wanted to live long enough to see her son's body recovered. She shook that loose; focusing on Clara's son wouldn't serve her now.
Stalling, she looked out into the swampy waterway just off Clara's driveway and wondered briefly if Clara even bothered with proximity security against alligators. She doubted it; she also doubted that any self-respecting alligator would come near the old witch.
Kyra swung out of the transport and cast a wary glance toward the scarecrow prominently displayed in the front yard. God, that thing was creepy. Clara dressed the scarecrow in her murdered son's clothes and had since he'd gone missing more than fifteen years before.
"Detective Moray."
"Inspector,” Kyra corrected evenly. “I have a couple of questions to ask you, Clara."
"I don't work free.” Clara crossed her arms over her breasts and glared. “Especially for a bitch cop."
"As always, the NOPD is willing to pay you a consultation fee for your answers,” Kyra snapped. She knew that Clara made nearly fifty thousand credits a year on consultations with the police and with the DA's office. It never ceased to amaze her. “A reasonable fee."
Clara snorted and turned away from her. “Come on, then."
Kyra walked up to the porch and paused at the entrance. The house smelled of cinnamon cookies and incense. Disgruntled, she walked into the foyer and followed Clara down the hall to the room used as an office. The last time Kyra had been in the room, she'd been ridiculously scared. Now all the theatrics and bad attitude just pissed her off.
She removed the evidence bag and put it on the table as she sat down. “What does this mean to you?"
Clara picked up the bag and opened it. “I can touch it?"
"Yes.” Kyra leaned back in the chair and schooled her expression.
The vial rolled in the bag briefly before Clara's nimble fingers caught and withdrew it. The glass was cloudy with bone dust; the cork plug still looked damp.
"The letters are gibberish—they have no meaning beyond making you waste time. A vial of bones such as this is a powerful talisman, especially in the hands of a dedicated practitioner of the art. You found this on a body?"
"In a body."
"The mouth,” Clara surmised, and turned her head toward the window briefly.
Kyra frowned at the scar she saw running around Clara's neck, and pushed aside thoughts of Clara's past. “Yes."
"Young woman, an impersonal killing."
"There is nothing impersonal about murder,” Kyra snapped and stood.
"Sit down, Inspector,” Clara demanded, and didn't continue until Kyra had taken a seat. “He didn't bother to know her well. If they had a relationship, it was one of fantasy for her. She would have known little about him that was actually true. It wasn't about hatred or passion. Humans both hate and love obsessively; most murder is born out of one of the emotions. This one was not. He likely killed her in a method that left her relatively unmarred."
"We have no cause of death."
"Poison—one that is fast-acting and unusual, but not untraceable. He would want no doubts that she was murdered."
"Why leave the bones?” Kyra forced herself to sit up straight and drop her hands into her lap. “Other than that vial, there was no other sign of Voodoo."
"It's a talisman to draw evil.” Clara put the vial back into the bag and sealed it carefully. “It represents the victim."
"She was a nineteen-year-old college student. There is nothing evil about that."
"She existed. Perhaps he found her tempting in someway, and blamed her for it. He didn't assault her."
"No, but he peeled almost an inch and a half of skin off her."
"When he escalates to rape, you'll have a different sort of killer on your hands.” Clara stood. “Now, I'm finished."
"Wait.” Kyra stood as well. “You haven't told me what you felt from the object."
"The sample is too tainted with the hands of others. I can't get a clear impression of him except to say that he is evil and he isn't done. I'm finished, Inspector. You've brought evil into my home, again.” Clara glared briefly. “I must cleanse now. Leave."
Kyra sucked in a deep breath and tried to smile. The mayor favored Clara, and Kyra would hear about it if she lost her temper. “Good day, then. I'll see the department pays you."
"You do that."
* * * *
Kyra looked around her empty apartment with a soft smile. Leaving murder and her day at the door, she dumped her bag in a chair in the small foyer and went into the kitchen. She poured herself a large glass of milk, kicked off her shoes, and curled her toes briefly into the lush beige carpet.
Her home was in many ways her only haven from the work she did. The walls and carpet were a neutral, calming beige, while the furni
ture was a riot of red and black. In the living room, she saw her personal comm-u station's blue message waiting light blinking wildly. She hit the play button as she set down her glass and shrugged out of her suit jacket.
"Kyra, this is Grandmother. Give me a call. I want to confirm our attendance to the Halloween masquerade ball at the Drakes'. Don't forget, you need pick up your costume. You are just going to love what I picked out for you."
"I just bet I will,” Kyra muttered grimly. Last year, she'd been shoved into a corset and a white wig. This year, she was going in as little as possible. The ballroom of the Drakes’ ancestral home was the most poorly ventilated room in the entire state.
"Now, I want you to promise me you'll have a date for the ball this year. No excuses, young lady."
Kyra shot the station an obscene hand gesture and then blushed with shame. Her grandmother had reduced her to a juvenile state in a matter of minutes just by leaving a message. She sat down on the fire-red couch and snagged her glass of milk. It was, she decided, a good day for a stiff drink. It was too bad she'd given that up.
Her grandmother's transmission ended, and her friend Glory's wailing filled the room. “I left him. The bastard just isn't worth all of this torture, Kyra. You were right, you know. You warned me he was no good. I'm just no kind of friend for not listening. I'm at Still Waters down the street from your place. Come be with me."
Kyra finished her milk in one hasty gulp.
* * * *
She found Glory at a small table near the dance floor, with three empty glasses already on the table. Glory James was a five-foot-five walking bit of sex, and most men found her completely irresistible. Her blonde hair was cut short and spiky; her dark blue eyes were framed with thick lashes highlighted with blue glitter. The glitter also happened to match her lipstick.
They had been best friends since elementary school. Once they'd had a great deal in common, but age had blunted those things. Now, all they had was a friendship that had been built on tragedy and loneliness.
Kyra sat down wearily and moved the glasses to one side of the table. “Tell me, Glory, didn't you decide six months ago that a man wasn't worth a hangover?"
Glory giggled and shrugged. “Getting drunk for me, not because of him."
Kyra leaned back in the chair and laughed. “Okay, tell me what happened."
Glory grimaced and propped her chin on her hand. “I'd much rather just drink."
"If you wanted to just drink, you wouldn't have called me."
Glory signaled one of the waitresses with a resigned sigh. Kyra ordered a soft drink when the waitress came with Glory's fourth drink.
"He was cheating on me. Just like you said."
There were times when she hated being right. She plucked up Glory's hand and patted it gently. “Don't think about what I said. If I'd been a real friend, I wouldn't have run a check on him anyway."
Glory laughed. “Well, I'm glad you did. I kept my promise—never gave him access to my money and kept everything I bought in my name. He was so much older than I was, I should have realized that his motives weren't exactly pure. We had zero in common, yet he always seemed to be absolutely fascinated by everything I said or did."
"No one is immune to that sort of attention."
"I've learned my lesson; he doesn't get a second chance."
That was a relief to hear. Kyra would have had a hard time trying to explain beating Jerry Capshaw to death. She fiddled with her paper drink coaster until the waitress returned with her soft drink. She motioned to the waitress to remove the empty glasses and then pointed at Glory's full one.
"That's her last one."
The waitress nodded with a grin and sauntered off.
"Oh, come on, don't ruin my fun."
"Last one. You aren't going to spend the night throwing up on me.” Kyra rubbed her neck and nearly groaned aloud when she caught sight of the entrance to the bar. “Did you tell him where you'd be?"
"Nope.” Glory turned toward the entrance and groaned. “It doesn't help that he's so pretty."
"Most womanizers are.” Kyra glared at Jerry as he approached. “You aren't going with him."
"Don't want to,” Glory promised solemnly.
Jerry strode toward the table and glared at Kyra. “Should have known she would be with her dyke cop friend."
Kyra let the insult slide right off. He'd been calling her dyke since she'd declined his generous offer of sex four months before. “Go away, Jerry. She's not interested in talking to you."
"She's coming home, where she belongs."
She watched him rock on his feet and then start to reach out for her. “Touch her, and you'll pay for it."
"You have nothing to say in this!” He pointed a finger at her as he spoke, then grabbed Glory's arm.
Kyra slid out of her chair and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “Let her go."
He released Glory's arm and jerked against Kyra's hold. Kyra responded by punching him in the mouth and slamming him on the empty table next to them. Her knee in his back, she pulled out her restraints and waved them in front of Jerry's face.
"Two options, asshole. You beat it, or you're getting new jewelry tonight."
"Fuck you! I haven't done anything."
"We got a problem here, folks?"
Kyra looked up and found herself smiling at one of the best-looking men she'd seen in a long time. “Not unless he pushes it."
The man bent down and looked at Jerry's face. “Are you pushing her?"
"No.” Jerry ground out through clenched teeth.
Kyra backed off but knew what was coming. Jerry just wasn't a smart man, and he backhanded her across the face. She took a step back, but didn't stumble. “That is assaulting a police official, Jerry."
Glory bounded up from the chair. “You bastard! How dare you hit her..."
Kyra grabbed Glory and shoved her back. “Put your hands on the table, Jerry."
"Fuck you.” He reached for her again, but the man who'd interrupted them stepped between them.
"I don't tolerate violence in my place."
"I got this.” Kyra wiped blood from her mouth with the back of her hand and walked around the man she now assumed owned the bar. Music and conversation had ground to a halt. She kicked Jerry in the knee and shoved him to the ground while he howled. “Jerald Capshaw, Jr. You are under arrest for assaulting a police official. You have the right to remain silent during transport.” She pressed her knee into the small of his back and fixed the restraints to his wrists.
The restraints immediately fit to his skin, their magnetic connection stiffening his posture briefly before he went slack beneath her as the restraints pumped a calmer into him.
"You have the right to be represented by an advocate during questioning. If you cannot afford representation, it will be provided at no cost to you. Any and all statements made during questioning will be recorded and used within the confines of your criminal trial. Failure to provide the truth will result in additional charges being filed against you. Do you understand these rights as they have been defined?” She activated her wrist comm-u, input the code for dispatch, and shot a look in Glory's direction. She looked absolutely fascinated. Pissed, but fascinated.
Kyra sighed. “Inspector Moray. I need a transport at Still Waters on St. Anne Street."
Putting all of her weight on Jerry, she ended the transmission. “Now, Jerry, I'm going to make things very clear to you. Assaulting an officer of the law in the fine city of New Orleans is a serious offense. Pissing me off is just one more way to ensure that you get the nastiest cellmate I can find. Trust me; I got a few in there who would love to get ahold of a pretty boy like you.” She stood and helped Jerry to his feet.
"You're bleeding."
She turned to the owner of the bar when he spoke, and offered her hand. “Yeah, it's a habit. Inspector Kyra Moray."
He took her hand. “Alexander Waters. My friends call me Alex. It's a pleasure to have you here, Inspector."
/> "You can send me the bill for damages."
Alex laughed. “We'll call it an entertainment expense."
* * * *
"Never seen a woman lay a man out like that before."
Alex leaned against the bar as Kyra escorted her prisoner out the door. “Yeah, Jake, put him on the list. I don't want him back in my place."
Jake Banner, the bartender, nodded and pulled out a p-pc. “What's his name?"
"Jerald Capshaw.” Alex picked up his water bottle and looked toward Kyra's abandoned friend. “Think I'll keep her friend company until she comes back."
Ignoring Jake's laughter, Alex strolled between the tables and sat down in the chair Kyra had abandoned. “You okay?"
Glory shrugged. “Thought I loved him, ya know?” She shrugged. “Kyra, she's a great friend."
"She's interesting."
"Yeah, men always say that.” Glory met his gaze. “I'm Glory James."
He grinned and took her hand gently. His gaze drifted over her pixie features and denim-blue eyes. “I've never met a woman more aptly named in my life. I'm Alex Waters.” He motioned toward the door. “Your friend got a man?"
"Nope, she's a real ballbuster. Men don't stick around much, especially when they figure out she doesn't think she needs a man.” She grinned then. “Never seen her arrest anyone before. I think I'll ask to go on a ride-along."
"Not in a million years.” Kyra grinned as she returned to the table. “Come on, I've called you a cab."
"Geez, Kyra, you have a big bruise!” Glory's bottom lip quivered.
"I had it already,” Kyra soothed. “Got it last night. Now, come on. He won't be around for at least twenty-four hours. Pack your stuff, and I'll help you move out tomorrow."
"I'll pack his shit,” Glory muttered. “I love that apartment. He can move out."
"Then we'll start paperwork on a restraining order in the morning.” Kyra took a deep breath and helped Glory up. “I'll be back in a moment to handle her bill."
Alex nodded, though he did not intend to let Kyra pick up Glory's tab.
* * * *
"The owner of the bar sure is sexy."
