The Hoodoo Detective
Page 10
They'd left the door to Turotte's hidey-hole ajar. When the police returned, they'd find the skull and the other magical paraphernalia.
“Are you sure you want to sit in on this?” she asked. “It will be boring.” She didn’t even want to be there. If she’d had her way, they’d be doing to the hoodoo hit man’s house what they’d done to Turotte’s.
“I doubt that. Besides, I told Ash to meet us here.”
The bodyguard waited outside the conference room doors, glowering. “I can't guard her when I'm not there.” Ash pushed open the door for them.
“I was there,” Donovan said mildly.
Ash's lips tightened into a straight line. He followed them inside.
“Riga.” Sam rose from behind a monitor, where Wolfe and Angus huddled with a bored-looking woman Riga hadn't met before. “We need to interview you about your consultation with the police yesterday.”
Wolfe glanced up. “I thought we'd do he-said/she-said, interviews with both you and Dirk.”
“Will Dirk and I have to be in the same room?” Riga asked.
“No,” Wolfe said. “The whole point is you won't be.”
“Then it's a fabulous idea.” She approached the stranger, hand outstretched. There was something familiar about the young woman's smooth, caramel-colored hair, full lips, high cheekbones. “I'm Riga Hayworth.”
The woman rose. “I know. Jenny Wade, public relations.” Her hand was cool and dry. “It's nice to meet both you and Mr. Mosse. I was looking over some of the footage. You really were made for the camera.”
Donovan took her hand. “Jenny Wade. Why does that name seem familiar?”
“A PR consultant who can’t get her own name noticed wouldn't be very good.” She stepped back and rubbed her chin, looking Riga up and down. “It's the surprise, I think. You're not goth. There's nothing remotely spooky or macabre about you, though you do have a sort of Hitchcock heroine, understated elegance. It's unexpected in a show about the supernatural.”
“Mm.” After Turotte's, they'd rushed back to the hotel to change out of their dusty clothing. Now she wore wide-legged, white linen slacks and a sleeveless blue blouse, a jaunty blue scarf tied around her neck.
“And those fireworks with Dirk....” The PR consultant chuckled. “Add that to the Crazy Cat video, and I shouldn't have any problem spinning you onto a red carpet.”
“I'm not thrilled about that video,” Riga said. “No one got my permission to put it online.” Who had done it? Someone with editing experience. Someone who'd known the video existed. Wolfe?
No, Pen. Had she thought she was helping? Or was it revenge for being shipped back to Los Angeles? Riga stared down at her low-heeled sandals. She hoped her niece had worked her anger out of her system.
“If you want to squash it,” Jenny said, “that ship has sailed. The video is out there.”
Sam's cell phone rang. He looked at the number, frowned, and moved out of the room. The door clanged shut behind him.
“Fine,” Riga said. “What do you want me to do?”
Jenny raised a brow. “You used to be a PR consultant yourself. If you're trying to be kind by letting me take charge, don't stop.”
“I suppose you've got me booked for interviews.” She couldn't avoid them. Interviews were in her contract.
Donovan hooked her with his arm. “It won't be that bad.”
“Fortunately,” Jenny said, “you can do most of them from your hotel.”
Wolfe walked around the table and stretched, bones cracking beneath his faded t-shirt.
“Most of them?” Riga asked.
“Next week I've got you booked for a popular three A.M. show in New York. Don't worry. It films earlier in the day.”
“Thanks. When—?”
Face pale, Sam strode into the conference room. His hands clenched and unclenched on his cell phone. “Riga, it's Pen.”
“I know she leaked the video,” Riga said. “It's okay, Sam. I'll survive.”
“It's not that. She's not in L.A. She never showed at the studio.”
Riga stiffened. “What?”
“The person scheduled to pick her up called the airlines. They say she never made it on the plane.”
“But that's impossible.” Riga spun toward Wolfe. “You took her to the airport. You put her on the plane.”
Wolfe paused, mid-stretch. His arms dropped to his sides. He nodded, scratching one of his sideburns. “But I didn't see her board. I couldn't get into the gate area, past security.”
He was lying. A wave of red blurred Riga's vision. And then Donovan was in front of her, hands on her shoulders.
“It's okay,” Donovan said.
“He's lying.”
“I know. And he's going to come clean.” Donovan glanced over his shoulder at Wolfe. “Aren't you.” He didn’t bother to make it sound like a question.
Wolfe swallowed. “To a motel. I took her to a motel.”
Frowning, Angus rose to his feet, his folding chair squeaking.
“Take me there,” Riga said. “Now. I don't trust you not to call her and give her warning.”
“I'll come too,” Angus said.
“Thanks, Angus,” Donovan said. “But this is a family matter, and I believe you still have a television show to produce.”
Sam shook himself. “Um. Yeah. Of course, you need to find Pen. I'm sorry, Riga. I had no idea she would do this.”
“You're not to blame,” she snapped.
Wolfe raised his hands and let them fall. “I'm sorry.”
The cameraman wasn't to blame either, but Riga was too angry to let him off the hook.
Traffic choked the narrow roads. Riga looked out the window, fingers drumming on the door handle, willing the cars to part, to be free of the jam. Beside Ash, Wolfe faced her in the limo, and she didn’t want to look at him just yet.
“She may not be in her hotel,” Donovan warned.
“At this hour? She’ll still be sleeping.”
They bumped over potholes, past Tulane University, and through steadily decaying neighborhoods until they reached a sprawling, two-story motel that looked relatively well-kept.
“Which room is she in?” Riga asked.
“Eight,” Wolfe said. “Look, I couldn't say 'no' to her. She wanted to stay, and she's an adult.”
“I get it,” Riga said. “You're her boyfriend, not her keeper. But I'm responsible for her.” To Ash, she said, “Watch him.”
“What? Am I kidnapped now?”
Ignoring him, Riga and Donovan hurried across the newly tarmacked pavement to room eight. Riga's jaw clenched. The room was on the ground floor. Had Pen learned nothing about security? At least it had a decent lock. Riga rapped sharply on the door with her knuckles.
No answer. She tilted her head toward the door and used her magic to feel inside the room.
“She's not there,” Riga said.
“Maybe she's having breakfast.”
“I hope so.” They strode to the management office. It smelled of paint, the walls a modern, sky blue. Comfy red chairs were scattered around a carpet of abstract, primary colors. A windowed breakfast room was off to the side. Two men built like truckers devoured a pancake breakfast.
A motherly-looking woman behind the front desk smiled. “Good morning. Can I help you?”
Riga braced her hands on the desk. “We're here to meet my niece, Pen Hallows, in room eight. She hasn't answered our knock, and I'm concerned.”
The older woman frowned. “Meet her? But she checked out an hour ago.”
Riga grasped the linoleum countertop, blood draining from her face.
“Are you certain?” Donovan asked. “Young woman, slender, about this tall.” He held his hand at shoulder level.
“Penelope Hallows, yes. Very old-fashioned name. We had a nice chat about it. She said she prefers Pen. More modern.”
“Was she alone?” Riga asked.
“As far as I could tell. No one was with her when she checked out.”
The woman's eyes narrowed. “Why don't you just call her?”
“We're concerned something may have happened to Pen,” Donovan said.
The clerk crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Not at my hotel.”
Fear sparked in Riga's chest. “What—?”
“Thanks for your time,” Donovan said. He led Riga outside.
“She may know more,” Riga hissed.
“Your hair.”
“What?” She reached for it, catching a lock of auburn. Though the air was still, it snaked as if caught in a breeze, but the air was still. She’d lost her temper and gone Medusa, hair writhing. “Oh. Sorry.” She took a deep breath, and her hair stilled. “I know it's not rational. Pen is an adult. But with all that's going on, I'm worried. And Wolfe—”
“Should know not to get between a mother bear and her cub,” he said. “Catch your breath. Let me try again with the manager.”
She nodded, and Donovan returned inside the office. Riga swallowed. She was overreacting. Pen was fine.
Donovan emerged five minutes later. “She took a taxi. The manager didn't notice the company, but it was yellow. We'll find it.”
Riga pressed her fingers to her temples. “Dammit.”
“And...” He handed her a key card.
“Pen's room key?” She kissed his cheek, racing for the room. All she needed was a strand of Pen's hair, and she'd be able to find her by scrying.
The bed was rumpled and damp towels lay on the bathroom floor, but the garbage bins were empty. Riga ransacked the room, but didn't find a single thing that belonged to Pen — not even a strand of hair.
She stood in the center of the room, hands on hips. “She chooses now to pay attention?”
Donovan's head emerged from behind the bed. “Pay attention to what?”
“I had a big discussion with the Hoodoo Queen about the use of toenails and hair in jinxes. You find it in lots of magic. For once, Pen must have been paying attention. I can't find a scrap of her.”
“I haven't found anything either that might tell us where she's gone. Riga, there's nothing to indicate she's in trouble.”
Pen had left on her own steam, had probably figured out Riga would twist the name of her motel from Wolfe. For her niece, it was just a game.
But it was a game where Pen didn't know the stakes, and that terrified Riga.
Chapter 13
“What's going on?” Ash asked after they'd dropped Wolfe at his hotel. “Really going on?”
Donovan glanced at Riga. She nodded.
“We’re worried Pen might become a target,” Donovan said. “She doesn’t understand the risk.”
“Missing persons.” Ash grunted. “It takes manpower and local knowledge, which the three of us don't have.”
“You’re right,” Donovan said. “We need help. Recommendations?”
“There's a local PI firm I've worked with,” the bodyguard said. “They're big, competent, and they have an office in New Orleans. You want me to call them?”
Donovan nodded. “Do it.”
Magic would be quicker. But Riga needed an object of Pen's to scry, and she didn't have a thing. “And twenty-four hour surveillance on the Old Man.”
Donovan's expression flickered, but he nodded.
“Any idea where she might have run to?” Ash asked.
“Somewhere cheap,” Riga said. “Somewhere close to the action. I'd like to think she'd go somewhere safe...” She grasped Donovan's forearm. “My aunts. She might have gone to them.”
Donovan pressed the intercom button and gave the driver the name of the hotel. “They may be out. Should we call?” he asked.
“No. If Pen's there, she might run.”
“Does Pen even know your aunts are in town?”
“My aunts acted as if they thought I knew. Maybe they sent Pen an invitation to the memorial service and forgot mine. It's a long shot. But if she's not there, they may have an object of hers I can use for scrying.”
Riga's aunts were staying at a Spanish colonial hotel, three-storied and covered in brickwork. Narrow, faded green doors opened onto balconies lined with black wrought iron and hanging perilously over the street.
“Riga! Riiiiga!” Dot leaned over a balcony railing and waved a cloth napkin like a flag, her loose skirt billowing about her legs. “Up here!”
Stepping into the street, Riga shaded her eyes with one hand. “What room are you in?”
“Twenty-two. Come on up!” Dot pulled back, disappearing from view.
“So much for the element of surprise,” Donovan said. “I'll go around back, just in case Pen’s there and thinking of sneaking out. Ash, stay with Riga.”
“Yeah.”
Riga and Ash walked through the front lobby. She jerked her head toward the stairs. “I'll take the stairs. You take the elevator.”
“I'm supposed to stay with you.”
“Right now, the priority is finding Pen.”
He growled beneath his breath, shrugged, and punched the up button on the elevator with his thumb.
She ran up the stairs, exiting into the hallway as the elevator door opened, and Ash stepped out. Down a connecting corridor, Donovan walked toward them. Converging at room twenty-two, Riga knocked on the door.
Peregrine flung it open and looked down her long nose at Riga. “Here to help with the memorial planning? Better late than never.” She turned on her heel and strode into the dimly lit room.
Ash scanned the interior, checked the bathroom, and nodded. “I'll wait out here.” He took up a post outside the door.
Dot slipped her bulk through the drawn curtains from the balcony. “I'm so glad you came. And you remember Marek?” She motioned toward a wing chair.
Donovan’s dark brows drew together.
Marek unfolded himself from a chair, standing. “We meet again.”
Riga's shoulders twitched. In the gloom, she hadn't noticed him.
Riga turned to her aunts. “Pen's missing.”
“Missing?” Dot echoed. “Whatever do you mean?”
“She was supposed to fly to L.A., but she talked her boyfriend into taking her to a motel here instead. When we went there this morning, she'd checked out.”
Peregrine frowned. “Why was she flying to Los Angeles? Livinia's memorial is here.”
“Does Pen know about the memorial?” Riga asked.
“Well, I don't know why she wouldn't. She's one of us, a necromancer, after all.”
Riga's nostrils flared. “She's a medium, not a necromancer.”
“Potato, po-tah-to,” Dot said.
“And in case you've forgotten,” Riga said, “someone's killing occultists, and as a medium, Pen qualifies.”
“Occultists?” Peregrine canted her head. “Plural?”
“Two so far.”
“And there've been two attacks on Riga,” Donovan said. “We're concerned Pen might become a target.”
Peregrine perched on the edge of one of the queen-sized beds. “He's right, Dot. In an attack, young Pen's the weak link.”
“This all sounds rather vague to me,” Dot said.
“But interesting.” Marek sat in his chair and waved Riga toward the wingback opposite. “There's more you're not telling us.”
“Of course there is,” Riga said, still standing. “I don't know you.”
“Riga?” Donovan asked.
“Riga!” Dot's eyes widened behind her thick glasses. “Really. Marek is an old and trusted friend.”
“Trusted by you,” Riga said.
“And he has local contacts,” Dot said. “He can help. He knows who and what we are. There's nothing you can say that will shock him.”
Donovan shook his head. “Have either of you seen Pen since you've been in New Orleans?”
“No,” Peregrine said.
Dot pressed a finger to her wrinkled lips. “Well, that isn't quite true. We
thought we saw her in Jackson Square yesterday, remember?”
Peregrine shrugged her bony shoulders. “There are dozens of young women who look like Pen, with their messy hair and military pants. It could have been anyone.”
“I don't suppose either of you have anything that belongs to her?” Riga asked.
“You want to scry for her?” Dot asked. “Excellent idea. But don't you have anything? You two were so much closer.”
“No,” Riga ground out. “That's why I asked if you have anything.”
“I don't,” Peregrine said. “Dot?”
“Not a thing, I'm afraid.”
“Have you got a photo of her?” Marek asked. “I can circulate it, if you like. I owe your family a debt. If there's any way I can find her, I will.”
Riga shook her head. “Donovan?”
“What?”
“A photo?”
“What about a photo?” he asked.
Riga rubbed a spot above her eyebrow. It wasn’t like Donovan to be so unfocused. “Marek asked if we had a photo.”
“Who's Marek?”
“Oh!” Dot pressed a hand to her chest. “How rude of me. We never properly introduced you, did we? Donovan Mosse, this is Marek Loyola. Marek's a vampire.”
Riga groaned.
Marek walked toward him, hand outstretched.
Donovan didn't move. “Is this a joke?”
“You don't believe in vampires?” Marek asked.
Donovan turned to Riga. “What's going on?”
“I think he might actually be a vampire.” Riga crumpled onto the edge of a queen bed. “You know my aunt Livinia had... tendencies.”
“I know about your aunt Livinia,” Donovan said, “but who's this Marek person you keep talking about?”
“He's standing right in front of you,” Peregrine said. “There's no need to be rude about it.”
“The only person standing in front of me is you,” Donovan said. “Where's the vampire?”
Riga rose and laid her hand on his arm. “Wait, you mean... You can't see the man standing two feet in front of you?”