The Hoodoo Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Bad?” he asked.

  “Another decapitation.” The divider was up, and the intercom was off. Ash sat up front, giving them privacy. “The killer put her head in the bathtub and filled it with water.” Throat tightening, she looked out the window, trying to blot out the image.

  “Why put it in water?”

  “I don't know. I suggested they test the water for salt. Salt and water can block magical energies, but I honestly don't see why the killer would have bothered with it at that point. The head seemed... discarded. And from a necromantic point of view, I don't know why they wouldn't use the head in their ceremony like they did before. There have been minor variations in all the killings – different materials used to form the circles, for example. But the demon called is always the same. The victims were all involved in necromancy. Has the PI firm you hired reported back?”

  “No word on Pen. The Old Man didn't go anywhere last night.”

  But all the victims had been necromancers. The Old Man had to be part of the killings. “He could have given them the slip. A good cloaking spell would have done it.”

  Donovan quirked a brow. “I thought you said cloaks didn't work if someone was actively looking for you.”

  “But if he was walking, in a disguise, they might not see him. They'd be looking for someone in a wheelchair. A cloak would work.” She needed someone magical watching him, who'd be open to catching the cloak. That or set up her own twenty-four hour surveillance.

  “You really think he's faking it?”

  “He was fine the last time I saw him.” Her stomach growled.

  Donovan smiled. “Lunch?”

  “I'm not sure I can eat.” The thought of muffaletta or jambalaya or anything mashed and red turned her stomach.

  He squeezed her hand. “Drinks then. I know just the place.” He pressed the intercom button and gave the driver a Mediterranean-sounding name.

  “I know where it is, sir.”

  Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of a restaurant in the business district. The limo deposited them on the sidewalk and glided off.

  “This place makes a mean Obituary,” Donovan said, leading her up the steps, “though we'll have to try one at the Absinthe House later. I thought you’d like some light dishes – hummus and baba ganoush and falafel.”

  “It's perfect.”

  And it was. They ordered plates of tangy baba ganoush, tabouleh, kebbeh, hummus and sambusek.

  The cheese inside the sambusek pastries was scalding hot, raising a blister on the roof of her mouth. Riga took a gulp of her Obituary cocktail and made a face. Normally, she liked licorice, but the alcohol was too much, and her stomach revolted. She leaned her head back, examining the painted grapevines on the white ceiling.

  Ash sat at a nearby table, facing the door, drinking a mineral water.

  “Three dead necromancers and a hoodoo hit man in New Orleans. How does Howdini tie into the other murders, if at all?” Donovan fished the olive out of his cocktail glass.

  “It’s almost as if his death started the chain of murders, but I can’t figure out how.”

  “Isn't it a bit odd that necromancers cluster together in one city? I thought necromancers tended to fight it out.”

  “If they were powerful necromancers, I'd agree. But I think they were all dilettantes. The ghost, Terry, said Turotte never noticed her presence, and his spell book was a joke. Marks had cursed objects in his house, but the only residue of magic I sensed was from the murder. Muriel's magical equipment was only slightly higher caliber than Turotte's, and I didn't sense any of her magic either.”

  “Is there any evidence the three knew each other?”

  “Not yet.” Riga drummed her fingers on the white tablecloth flecked with crumbs of pita bread.

  “Another good question for our PI firm.”

  “I'm not sure I can ask it. I've got a confidentiality agreement with the local police. You aren't even supposed to know what I saw inside those houses.” Besides, Riga had her own PI license and her pride.

  Donovan pulled his briefcase off the chair between them, and drew out a tablet computer. “Let's see what we can find.” He swept his broad fingers across the screen. “What were those names again?”

  “Franklin Turotte – professional gossip – Jordan Marks – trust fund baby – and Muriel Erickson – public relations. And I'll be asking my new PR consultant, Jenny Wade, about her.”

  “Jenny Wade... Where do I know that name?”

  “She was the only civilian casualty of the Battle of Gettysburg.”

  “Ah, here.”

  She scooted her chair around the table and pulled a black leather notebook from her leather satchel. Her knee pressed against his, she leaned over his arm, taking notes while he scanned news articles on the murder victims.

  A waitress approached their table. “May I get you anything else?”

  “Baklava, Riga? And would you like a different drink? You haven't touched your obituary.”

  “Yes to both, a baklava and an iced tea, unsweetened, please.” She stretched across him, swiped the screen down to read more.

  “Donovan, can you enlarge that photo?”

  He swiped the screen, turned it sideways. A photograph of Franklin Turotte and Jordan Marks spread across the screen, a young woman in a sequined gown grinning between them.

  She sat back in her chair. “So they did know each other.”

  Nudging the photo aside, he continued his search. “Ah.” Donovan handed her the tablet.

  A photo of the latest victim from behind, her head turned, laughing over her shoulder. She wore an evening gown, and a man's arm was wrapped around her waist. His head turned toward the woman, in profile, smiling. Jordan Marks.

  “That is more than a casual acquaintance,” Riga said.

  “It's dated a year ago.”

  Jordan and Muriel had briefly been an item. Later articles showed them on the arms of other men and women. Franklin Turotte had dated Muriel as well.

  The waitress returned to their table with the dessert and drinks and scuttled away.

  “Is there anything about them on Turotte's gossip blog?” Riga asked.

  “I'll check...” Donovan's fingers skimmed the tablet. “No.”

  She crossed her legs, bouncing her foot. “We're chasing false trails. A powerful necromancer committed these murders. We know the Old Man was responsible.”

  Donovan tilted his head, rubbed his chin. “The murders you described required significant physical strength. His wheelchair provides a neat alibi.”

  She stabbed the baklava. Flakes of buttery crust splattered the plate. “Even if he isn't faking it, his nurse could knot me into a pretzel. She could be his accessory.”

  “I just want to point out – and this isn’t a criticism, mind you – but you may be seeing what you want to see.”

  She paused, baklava to her mouth, and put down the fork.

  “You decided the Old Man was guilty from the start,” he said. “You even brought his file here to obsess over in your spare time.”

  “You don't believe me.”

  “What I believe doesn't matter — though for the record, I do believe you. Contra Brigitte, we need to be able to convince a jury.”

  “Are you humoring me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why do you believe me?”

  “Because I read your file on him. And I’d never marry a stupid woman. Obsessed, but not stupid.”

  “Thanks for that, at least.”

  Lowering his chin, Donovan gave her a look.

  Grudgingly, she smiled. “All right. I hear what you're saying. We'll keep following the trails. But the Old Man has the magical mojo to evoke that demon, wheelchair or no. It's no coincidence that he showed up and the murders began.”

  “Like your aunts did?”

  She sighed. “No coincidences.”

  “Who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky and New Orleans has been turned into a vortex for dark necroma
ncers. The streets could be littered with black magicians.”

  She choked on her tea, coughing. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  He clapped her on the back. “Eat your baklava.”

  They finished, Riga tossing back the last of her tea. Donovan motioned for the bill and caught Ash's eye. Ash nodded and called the driver.

  Rising, they walked outside. The driver stood by the front door. “Sorry, why don't you go back into the restaurant, and I'll get the car?”

  Ash grabbed his arm. “You were supposed to stay with the limo.”

  The driver shrugged. “I wanted to get some water. The limo's in the garage across the street.”

  “There's plenty of water in the limo,” Ash snarled.

  “It’s against policy—”

  “Give me the keys.”

  The driver's eyes widened. “What?”

  “You're fired,” Ash said.

  Riga glanced at Donovan. He shook his head. Don't get involved.

  “You can't fire me. I work for a company.”

  “Give me the keys, or you won't be working at all,” Ash said.

  Pressing his lips together, the driver dug the keys from his pockets. “Look, I'm sorry. It was just a misunderstanding.”

  “Don't worry about it,” Donovan said. “I'll explain to your company that you became ill, and Ash took over.”

  Muttering, the driver slouched down the street, and Riga felt a pang of sympathy. Firing him seemed an overreaction, but she wouldn’t challenge Ash’s authority in public.

  “I'll get the car,” Ash said. “You two can wait inside.”

  Riga checked her watch. They'd wasted too much time. “I'd rather stick with you. It will be quicker.”

  “Whatever the lady wants,” Donovan said.

  They followed Ash to the garage. He spoke briefly with the attendant, who pointed down a row of cars. Ash nodded, aimed the key fob.

  A boom rocked the air, ear-shattering in the confined space. Heat struck Riga, flattening her clothing against her body. Donovan pushed her roughly to the ground. Glass shattered. Car alarms squalled, accompanied by a backbeat of pounding flame.

  Donovan released her. Coughing, she staggered upright, limbs trembling. The limo blazed, black smoke billowing.

  Ash pressed his arm against his nose and mouth. Blood trickled from a cut in his forehead.

  The parking attendant stumbled to his feet, his forehead smeared with grime and sweat.

  “Was anyone back there?” Donovan shouted over the din.

  The attendant shook his head. “What? No. No one.”

  “Get out of here.” Ash waved them away.

  Donovan strode from the garage, one arm pulling Riga tight to him.

  Behind them, the limo burned.

  Chapter 16

  A sweating lawyer met them at the police station doors. Shaking Donovan's hand, he introduced himself. “If you don't mind, it would be best if I did the talking.”

  “How did you get a lawyer here so fast?” Riga whispered.

  “I texted my attorney in Nevada. She sent a local colleague.”

  In the interview room, they let the lawyer take charge. Riga couldn't speak if she wanted to. Her insides felt hollowed out, deadened.

  What if they'd parked on the street, its walks filled with pedestrians? What if someone had been nearby in the garage? What if they'd been closer, and Donovan... Her midsection tightened. She clasped Donovan’s hand.

  No, they had no idea who had blown up their limo.

  Yes, Mr. Mosse has enemies, and here is a list of recent death threats.

  Of course, they will remain in New Orleans to answer any further questions.

  Three hours later, they escaped the station. Ash waited at the foot of the steps, scowling.

  The attorney wiped his brow. “I think it's unlikely any real suspicion will fall on you, Mr. Mosse. But in this day and age, well, you know...” Clearing his throat, he extended a business card. “If the police contact you again, call me. This is my cell number. I advise you to say nothing until I arrive. And if all goes well, they won't call.”

  “Thank you.” Donovan grasped his hand, and they hurried to Ash.

  Dark stains flecked the bodyguard's white t-shirt. He sported a bandage on his temple.

  “What have you heard?” Riga asked.

  “No one was in that part of the garage,” Ash said. “We got lucky.”

  Riga's shoulders sloped inward. “Thank God.”

  Donovan's jaw tightened. “Contact my security team. I want more people on the ground.”

  “It's done. They're aware of the situation and are following S.O.P’s. That’s standard operating procedures,” he said to Riga.

  Riga shrugged, irritated. She knew about S.O.P's.

  The streets were dark when they drove back to the hotel, Donovan's arm over her shoulders. She curled against him, taking comfort in the hard planes of his body, in his confidence and strength.

  In silence, they walked to their hotel room. A bulky man in a suit waited outside the door, his face expressionless.

  “Lenny.” Ash shook hands with the man and turned to Donovan. “Part of the new security detail.”

  Riga clenched her jaw. Thanks to her insistence on staying, they had an entire detail now. If they’d returned to Tahoe… they’d probably still have an entourage of armed men.

  The bodyguards moved through the hotel room ahead of them, checking for intruders. Oz bounded to Riga, prancing on his hind legs. In spite of herself, she smiled, and knelt to rub his fur. The daycare center had washed him, and his fur was silky. She refilled his food and water while the bodyguards checked the closets, the bedroom.

  “Clear,” Ash said.

  “Get some rest,” Donovan told him. “You've earned it.”

  Lenny shut the curtains, nodded, and left with Ash.

  Riga fell back on the bed, arms outstretched, and stared at the ceiling, listening to Oz crunch his way through a bag of kibble in the next room. “I can’t wait for this day to be over.”

  He checked his watch. “Five hours left.”

  “So many people could have been killed.”

  “Thank God no one was.” He sat on the bed, braced an arm across her.

  “First the hoodoo hit man. Then the attack in the hallway, the sniper, and now a car bomb. Someone wants me dead and doesn't care who else gets hurt.”

  “Someone also killed the hoodoo hit man before he could get to you. None of the attacks have succeeded.”

  “I’ve been lucky.”

  “Most likely, though I’d rather think someone wants you alive. Besides me, I mean.”

  “And took out the hit man to protect me? That's optimistic. The hit man,” she mused. “He's still the odd piece in the puzzle.”

  “Riga.”

  She looked at him.

  He brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. “This wasn't your fault.” Lowering himself beside her, he pulled her into his arms, fit his mouth to hers. She didn't resist as he explored the contours of her neck. Her anger and fear drained away as his kisses seared a path to her shoulders.

  There was a scratching at the balcony door.

  He groaned, buried his head between her breasts. “Not Brigitte. Not now.”

  “Brigitte can wait.” She wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him closer, her thoughts fragmenting.

  They wrapped themselves in hotel robes, and Riga answered Brigitte's scratching at the balcony door.

  “Faugh! Did you not here me at ze door? I was waiting forever!”

  Oz glanced contemptuously at Brigitte, yawned, and curled up at the sofa. Brigitte hissed at him.

  “We were distracted,” Donovan said.

  “Get undistracted, and tell me what has happened. Have you killed ze Old Man yet?”

  “I can't just go around killing dark necromancers,” Riga said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because—” A knock at the door interrupted her. She looked at Donovan, wary. �
�Ash?”

  “Wait here.” He went to the door, peered through the spy hole. “It's Lenny.” He opened the door.

  “A Ms. Jenny Wade is here to see Mrs. Mosse,” the bodyguard said. “Ash is with her now in the lobby. We suggested she wait there as she admits she has no appointment.”

  Riga went to the closet, Oz at her heels. “I'll get some clothes on and go downstairs.”

  “It would be more private here, ma'am.”

  And easier for the personal protection detail. Riga nodded, continued her rummage through the closet. The dog sniffed her shoes.

  “Not for you,” she said.

  He whined and sat back on his haunches.

  Donovan shut the door. “She's here to capitalize on the car bomb.”

  Riga found a pair of wide-legged slacks and tossed them on the bed. “I'll tell her to forget it.”

  “Controlling the message might not be such a bad idea.”

  She stared at him. “The message is the killer can...” Riga pressed her lips together, breathing hard. Other people would be asking about the explosion, and she needed to rein in her temper. “I'll talk to her.”

  He walked into the bathroom. After a moment, water pattered against the shower tile.

  She pulled on a white blouse and khakis. They were tight about the middle, a fatality of New Orleans cooking. But Riga did love pain perdu.

  “What about me?” Brigitte said. “I suppose you are banishing me to ze balcony.”

  “No, you can stay. Just don't break the mantel, or wherever you decide to perch.”

  “Break ze mantel indeed. I am not ze sort who breaks things willy-nilly.”

  “Willy-nilly? You should spend more time with Pen. She'll catch you up on the latest slang.”

  “How is ze brave Pen? Have you spoken with her since her return to Los Angeles?”

  “No, I—” There was a knock on the door. “Hold that thought.”

  Riga let the PR consultant inside as Donovan strode from the bathroom, dressed in loose, dark slacks and a matching dress shirt. His damp hair lay about his collar.

  Oz barked once and Jenny stopped in the living area, teetering on her three-inch heels. “You have a dog?” She clutched her over-sized purse to her chest. The Chanel bag was lipstick red, the same color as the shell beneath her black blazer.