The Hoodoo Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  “What about you?” Wolfe said. “Have you done any work with Mean Streets today?”

  “Mm, no.”

  Angus and Wolfe glanced at each other.

  Wolfe rose. “Let us know if anything happens. We're still your crew.”

  Donovan showed them out the door, and Riga went to the balcony window, slid it open.

  Brigitte hopped inside. She fluttered atop the dining table, gouging its finish. Riga winced. The dog growled softly.

  “What has happened?” the gargoyle asked.

  “Another attack,” Riga said. “And you know what your talons do to furniture.”

  “Do not be pedantic. Tell me about ze attack.”

  “We were jumped on Bourbon Street,” Riga said. “They're getting bolder.”

  “It wasn't a bad play.” Donovan returned to the living area, swirling his brandy. “They disappeared in the chaos.”

  “They? There was more than one?” Brigitte reached behind her ear with a talon and scratched. Flakes of lichen fell to the table. “So you are working against an organization, a conspiracy.”

  “Or someone with the money to hire thugs.” Riga hesitated. “Something else happened. I sort of disappeared in one place and reappeared in another.”

  Donovan frowned into his snifter. “I saw you appear behind my attacker, out of thin air. With all that was happening, I don't think anyone else noticed. A new spell?”

  “No, I was trying to pull an offensive spell, but I lost the threads, and it just happened. This was the second time.”

  “Second time?” Brigitte asked. “And why did you not tell me about ze first time?”

  “What happened the first time?” Donovan asked.

  “I was at one of the murder scenes. It was cluttered with cursed and dark objects, and between them and the dark magic and the murder, all I wanted was to get out. And then suddenly I was outside in a neighbor's garden.”

  Donovan rubbed the back of his neck. “They didn't catch that on camera, did they?”

  “No. They didn't allow cameras in the house, and Dirk's back was turned. But Hannah's grandfather saw me appear. He seemed to take it in stride.”

  “Speaking of seeing things,” Donovan said. “Brigitte, maybe you can answer this question. Why can't I see vampires?”

  “You cannot see vampires?” Brigitte blinked, a grating sound. “Interesting. You have not succumbed to their delusion. Most rare.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “Vampires exist only because they believe they exist,” Brigitte said. “They willed themselves into existence. You do not believe in their undead reality, and so for you they do not exist.”

  “But what does it mean?” Riga asked. “Why is he immune?”

  The gargoyle shrugged. “How should I know? I am not an encyclopedia for you to look up answers you are too lazy to discover for yourself. Now tell me about this new magic. What happened? What were you thinking and feeling?”

  “I was disoriented,” Riga said, “frantic, could barely figure out which way was up. And then I was outside it all, looking in.”

  “You say you lost ze threads. What threads?”

  “The above and below.”

  “But not ze in-between?”

  “Nooo... That was still there.” Riga’s gaze went distant. The in-between was always there. It was everywhere. She couldn't understand what had happened.

  “So you teleported?” Donovan asked. “That will cut travel time.”

  “Not teleportation,” Brigitte said. “That is science fiction. She walked in between. But that is not necromancy. That is ze magic of—”

  Riga gasped. “The Old Man. That's how he's doing it.”

  “I just said walking in between is not necromancy,” Brigitte said, affronted.

  “No, astral projection. He's using an accomplice – his nurse, for example – to do the physical work. Then he astral projects to do the magic.”

  “Riga,” Donovan said, “you're doing a lot of guesswork to make him guilty. Astral projection?”

  “I astral projected into his territory last year. He was able to see me, and we interacted on a magical level. And his nurse probably could do the physical work on her own. She's used to lifting dead weights.”

  “You did not astral project!” Brigitte snarled. “And you are losing ze point. Walking in between is most remarkable. Or it would be if you knew how to control it. What if you reappear inside a wall? You would become like one of those poor haunted ladies in Europe.”

  “Ladies in walls?” Donovan asked.

  Brigitte shrugged, her feathers rippling. “They liked to wall up virgins in castles for good luck. Ze ultimate cornerstone. If someone walled me up, I would make good and sure to bring as much bad luck as I could. But people have always been foolish. What can one do against ze forces of superstition?”

  “Hm.” Donovan went to the open balcony door and looked out. “We need to learn more about this new spell.”

  Brigitte snorted. “I should say. Now, what word of ze brave Pen?”

  “No word,” Donovan said. “She's lying low.”

  Riga gave Brigitte a rundown of the day's events, to the gargoyle's hissed exclamations. “If the pattern holds,” Riga said, “after this attack there will be another murder.”

  “And I suppose you want me to watch ze Old Man again tonight?”

  “Cheer up,” Riga said. “Maybe you'll catch a killer.”

  Chapter 20

  The morning sun blazed between the low buildings of the French Quarter. A man swept the sidewalk in front of his restaurant, his broom making soft scraping sounds on the wet brick sidewalk. Donovan stepped aside, avoiding splashes on his blue pin-striped suit.

  They crossed the street to Café Le Monde's open patio and ordered beignets and coffee. Ash sat at a separate table, his military boots making prints in the drifts of powdered sugar on the tiled floor. A second bodyguard leaned against a nearby lamppost, Oz panting at his feet.

  Donovan's phone rang. He checked the number. “The PI firm,” he said to Riga. “What have you got?”

  A waitress dropped off their order.

  Riga leaned across the table to hear. She picked off a piece of the beignet, staining her fingers with sugar.

  “It’s a step, but we need.... Ah.... Yes.... I understand.... Yes. Go ahead.” He hung up.

  “What?” Riga asked. “What did they say?”

  “They tracked Pen to a hotel, but she checked out yesterday morning. No sign of foul play. She grabbed another taxi. They think she shifted to a new hotel. They’ve been trying to track her cell phone, but think she must be removing the battery. They can’t trace her that way.””

  “Dammit. I need to call Pen's mother.” She whipped out her phone, dialed. “Rebecca?”

  They spoke briefly, and she hung up. “She says they spoke last night around six, California time. Rebecca was supposed to call me when Pen got in touch.” And she hadn’t.

  “At least we know Pen's okay.” He reached across the round table and wiped a fleck of powdered sugar from her lip.

  “Rebecca mailed one of Pen's camera lenses to our hotel using the slowest method possible. If it ever arrives, I can scry for Pen's location.”

  They finished their coffee, and Riga collected Oz's leash from the bodyguard. Trailed by the two men, Riga and Donovan walked the dog up a park-like embankment.

  The Mississippi, the color of brandy, flowed sluggishly past. A breeze tossed Riga's hair, and she took a deep breath. It felt less humid here, above the French Quarter. Even at this early hour, the summer heat left a sheen on Riga's skin.

  They strolled along the boardwalk.

  Riga pointed. “There they are.”

  The Old Man sat in his wheelchair, staring out at the river. His nurse was on a green-painted bench beside him.

  Oz growled.

  Turning, Donovan held up a finger to the bodyguards, indicating they should stay. Riga and Donovan had agreed they didn't w
ant anyone else hearing this conversation.

  Ash nodded, scowling.

  The nurse looked up, her broad face wreathed in a smile. June laid down her guidebook on the bench. “Mr. and Mrs. Mosse! We hoped we'd see you today.”

  The Old Man shot his nurse a baleful look. “We?”

  “Sorry.” She laughed lightly. “Sometimes I get too nursey-nursey. And what a nice doggy!” She scratched Oz's head. The dog ignored her, his gaze fixed on the Old Man.

  “And how are we this morning?” Riga asked, just to piss him off.

  His face twisted in a smile. “I'm feeling better every day. New Orleans has been a tonic, rejuvenating, one might say. It sounds as if it hasn't been kind to you though. I heard about the car bomb. Terrible, terrible thing. How fortunate no one was killed on your account.”

  “Yes,” Riga said tightly.

  Oz jerked his leash, and she hauled him close, laying a hand on his back. His complaints subsided.

  “It must be terrible,” he said, “for your very existence to be a threat to others. What a dreadful responsibility. Have they found the bomber?”

  “Not yet,” Donovan said.

  “I suppose it's unlikely they will,” the Old Man said. “Although I do enjoy this city, I've never had great regard for its law enforcement.”

  “Not a problem,” Donovan said. “Riga's investigative abilities are almost... magical.”

  The Old Man grunted. “And your dear niece of course – what's her name? Penelope? Clever girl, clever girl.”

  Riga's stomach tightened. “What do you know about Pen?”

  “Penelope,” the Old Man mused. “Of course you know that in Greek myth, she was the wife of Odysseus. Penelope the faithful. Though youngsters these day are so selfish, aren't they? Always running off, thinking of no one but themselves. They don't understand how short and fragile life is.”

  Donovan lowered his head, studying the Old Man.

  Energy leapt, unbidden, into her chest, crackled in her palms. The Old Man knew Pen was gone. Oz’s leash slipped from her fingertips. “If anything happens to Pen, I'll—”

  “You'll what? Fly off in an ineffectual rage? Take vengeance? In the end, you'll mourn.”

  “Are you threatening her?” Riga's hands clenched.

  The nurse's eyes widened. “Threatening? He couldn't hurt a fly.”

  The Old Man's smile turned sickly. He rapped his knuckles on the arm of his wheelchair. “That's right. I'm just a helpless old man. What could I possibly do?”

  Blood pounded in her ears.

  He laughed, the sound of tearing paper. “Me? Ah, if only I could wreak havoc on the world. If only I could be a slayer of young ladies... Metaphorically, of course.”

  “Of course,” the nurse said. “He would never—”

  “Never commit those terrible murders I've been reading about in the papers,” the Old Man said. “Never interfere with you and those you loved—”

  Riga's vision clouded.

  Howling, the dog bolted forward, lunging at the old man. There was a snapping sound in Riga's mind.

  His wheelchair rocketed backward, down the slope. Donovan leapt after him, racing down the steep hill, Oz howling at his side.

  Riga stood, stunned.

  “Oh, no!” The nurse clutched a hand to her ample chest.

  Jerking forward, Riga ran after them. What had she done?

  Footsteps heavy on the uneven embankment, the nurse panted behind her. “Catch him! Catch him!”

  Donovan made a final lunge for the chair, too late. The Old Man plummeted over the embankment, into the river.

  Pausing on the concrete ledge, Donovan wrenched off his jacket, his shoes.

  “Help,” the nurse screeched. “Someone help!”

  Bubbles popped on the surface of the muddy water.

  “Wait.” Riga grabbed Donovan's arm. The Old Man was faking it. In a minute, he'd rise to the surface, sputtering, and she would prove he was capable of the murders.

  The dog barked, a slow, steady rhythm.

  “Control the dog.” Donovan jumped, disappearing beneath the water.

  “He'll drown.” The nurse clutched Riga's arm.

  “Your patient will be fine.” Riga wrapped the leash around her hand.

  Ash and the bodyguard ran down the riverbank. “Where is he?”

  Riga pointed to the rippling surface of the water.

  “Dammit.” Ash tugged off his jacket, toeing off his shoes. The other bodyguard took up a position beside Riga.

  Donovan surfaced, gripping the Old Man beneath his shoulders, and Ash's posture relaxed. Donovan kicked toward a rocky outcropping.

  Riga and the bodyguards scrambled down the embankment. They tugged the Old Man out of the water.

  “I'll kill you!” Body rolling limply, the Old Man flailed his arms. His eyes bulged. “I'll tear your family apart.”

  “He doesn't mean that.” The nurse picked her way to them across the uneven stones.

  “She shoved me,” the Old Man said. “Did you see her? I want that dog put down!”

  “No one shoved you,” the nurse soothed. “And the dog didn't touch your chair. The brake must have slipped when you jerked backward.”

  “Liar!” His neck muscles corded.

  “He's not well.” Shaking her head, the nurse gave Riga an apologetic glance. “Shock can sometimes affect people this way.” To Donovan, “Did you get the wheelchair?”

  Donovan coughed. “No.”

  “I can't take him back without a wheelchair.”

  “And you.” The Old Man stabbed a finger toward the nurse. “Useless!”

  “We can't just leave him here on the rocks,” the nurse said. “We'll need something to transport him back to the hotel, at least to the street to get a taxi.”

  “We can carry him,” Ash said.

  In a liquid motion, Donovan rose to his feet. “Come on.” He reached for the Old Man.

  “Don't touch me!”

  Donovan stepped back.

  Tourists clustered at the top of the embankment, pointing, but coming no closer.

  “He's old.” The other bodyguard's smile was sympathetic. “We'll take him up.”

  Riga and Donovan watched them carry him, cursing, up the bank, the nurse lumbering behind.

  “He's not faking it,” Donovan said. “He's got no muscle tone, little control of his limbs.”

  “We need to follow him.” Her legs trembled. “He knows about Pen. Did you hear what he said? He's taken her.”

  “I've spent half a lifetime across a negotiation table. If there's one thing I know, it's when someone’s bluffing.”

  Riga rubbed her palms over her eyes. “He knew too much. He knows Pen's disappeared.” But others knew it. Her crew knew. Pen's tantrum could have leaked to the Mean Streets crew.

  “He was lying. He wants you off balance. He wanted you to attack. I'm glad the dog got to him first.”

  “The dog didn't touch his chair. June was right.”

  He halted, staring.

  Clenching her jaw, Riga looked at the industrial buildings on the far side of the river. The magic had been in her hands, and she'd lost her temper. “What have I done?”

  “I'm not sure. What have you done?”

  “I might have been responsible.” She wanted to tell him she hadn't meant it, but that would be a lie.

  “For letting go of the leash? It was an accident, and he's unhurt.”

  She shook her head. Oz nudged her hand with his nose.

  “He threatened Pen,” Donovan said. “Of course you lost your temper. He wanted you to. She's almost a daughter to you.”

  “And now he knows it.”

  “He probably did before today.” He slung a damp arm over her shoulders. “It's okay.”

  Silently, they walked along the bank and collected Donovan's shoes and jacket. Her phone rang in her purse, and she retrieved it. Dirk.

  The bodyguards appeared above them and cut diagonally down the slope.


  “This is Riga.”

  “There's been another murder. I just left the scene.”

  “Tell me.” She put the phone on speaker. Donovan bent his dark head closer, beads of water trailing down his neck and jaw.

  “Same as before. One of those magic circles and the body inside. This time the victim had a plastic bag wrapped around his head. There was some blood on the back of his scalp – that much I could see – so it looks like he was hit over the head and then smothered. But like the others, we'll have to wait for the M.E.'s report. They wouldn’t let us film, but I've got that video for you from the last murder.”

  Something clicked in her mind, faded away. She struggled to reclaim the thought. “Who was the victim?”

  He hesitated. “Rich dude named Peter LeCroix. And before you ask, he was into black magic too.”

  “Time of death?”

  “His maid said—”

  “He had a maid?”

  “Yeah. She was the one who discovered the body. She said he was alive and well last night at six. So the video, you want me to drop it by your hotel?”

  Riga's eyes narrowed. That was suspiciously helpful. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  She hung up and looked at her husband.

  “Why is it so easy for me to visualize the scene?” Donovan asked.

  “Because we've seen it before, at...” Riga trailed off. “Oh no.”

  “What's wrong?”

  “I've seen it all before. The upside down hanging, the decapitations, the gunshot wound to the head. These are past cases I've investigated.” She halted, head swimming. “That explains why the M.O. keeps changing.” The Old Man was taunting her.

  “Anyone could know about those cases,” Donovan said. “Supernatural Encounters hired you because of your resume.”

  “They're even roughly in the same order.”

  “Roughly?” Sitting on a bench, he peeled off his socks, wrung them out, and jammed them in his jacket pocket.

  “In the case I investigated, before the traitor’s hanging, there was a car accident meant to look accidental.”

  “Convenience?” He put his shoes on. “It would be difficult to put one of those magic circles around a car wreck.”