She told him about the poppet, the dark attachments, and her journey following the trail of one to the apartment in the city. The old man, Rupert Howell, and his ghoul. Gupta twitched at the name, but said nothing. She kept silent on the Aunts and Donovan’s undead problem. They were Riga’s business.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tented upon his stomach. “But that is not all, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why is Vasily Gregorovich interested in you?”
“Vasily?” She inhaled sharply. “How do you… know him?” More importantly, how did he know that Vasily knew Riga?
“I’ll tell you what I know about him, but first, tell me why he’s taken an interest in you.”
“What does that thug have to do with anything?”
“You tell me.”
She tipped her head to one side. So far, she’d been giving more information than she’d been getting. And didn’t like it. But the vision had brought her here, and Gupta knew something she needed to understand. “He told me he thinks I’m his destiny – his high priestess. Apparently, a fortuneteller told him so, so it must be true,” she said dryly.
“And is it?”
“I wouldn’t touch that S.O.B. with a fifty foot pole.”
“But that doesn’t answer the question. And you share common interests. The occult. Demonology. Necromancy.”
“For the last time, I’m not a…” She stiffened. “Vasily is a necromancer?”
He shook his head. “Not a practitioner. A backer, with a strong interest in the occult. You can see why my daughter was wary. You’ve been seen in his company. He obviously esteems you.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“And you have much in common.”
“Except for the most important point. I’m no killer.”
His eyebrows rose. “And yet your enemies all seem to die.”
She leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “Careful.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m starting to think you don’t like me.”
“A threat?”
“You’re the one who came at me with a shotgun.”
“As I said, Afreen was defending—”
“I know. And yes, I’ve had to defend myself at times.”
“Ah. You call it self-defense? And that incident in Afghanistan? Twenty-five dead, incinerated, weren’t they? What would you call that?”
Her expression turned to granite. “I don’t. What do you know about Vasily?”
“We think he’s a member of a black lodge. We think you are, too.”
“You think wrong. Who’s Rupert Howell?”
“A museum curator in Brooklyn,” he said. “He’s a specialist in the occult, has access to shall we say… historic objects? What you’ve told me tonight is interesting. If you’re telling the truth.”
“So he could be black lodge. What’s his connection to Vasily?”
“Excellent question.”
“What does Vasily want?”
“To recruit you, I suspect.”
She laughed harshly. “Then he’s going about it the wrong way.”
“Or they see you as a threat, and want to get you out of the way.”
“Why? What’s the lodge up to?”
Mr. Gupta spread his hands. “Who knows? Their aims are usually simple. Money. Power. Sex. Control.”
“Vasily hinted at human trafficking, slavery.”
He nodded. “I don’t doubt it. Human trafficking is more profitable than dealing drugs. And more common than we want to believe.”
“Not very occulty though.”
“It is just a means to an end. And for a black lodge, the ends always justify the means. It’s a slippery slope with magic.” He paused. “But I’m sure you know all about that.”
She shifted the bag on her shoulder. “Don’t assume.” Riga stood, turned to go.
“Miss Hayworth.”
Outside, a broom scrape scrape scraped.
“Your aunts. If they remain in my territory, they’ll be dealt with.”
Riga brushed through the beaded curtain. Afreen looked up, her expression calculating, resentful. Riga waggled her fingers at her, walked on, crunching through soda and glass, boots rapping on the cheap linoleum, and then she was outside. The snow was still falling, a cold caress on her cheeks.
Sunrise was on its way, and she imagined a lightening on the horizon, where the mountain peaks were sunk deep in clouds. She got into her Lincoln, rolled slowly down the slick driveway to the highway. No cars. No lights. Only the rumble of her engine, a deceptive peace.
Mr. Gupta’s threat wasn’t hollow. He’d meant it.
Half a dozen mouthy remarks had risen to her mind, and she’d bitten them all back. To them, she was the threat, the villain, the necromancer, and she no longer knew how to react.
Chapter 15
Riga stopped at a diner, and slid into a booth, setting off another ripple of pain through her side. The smell of bacon set her stomach rumbling.
It was too late (early?) to go to bed, and Pen and Brigitte lay in wait at home.
Riga’s plan? Avoidance.
A waitress with circles beneath her eyes took her order, brought her a plate of poached eggs, bacon and toast, and a cup of coffee. The waitress smiled. “Breakfast makes everything better.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.”
Riga stabbed the eggs, and contemplated the yolk running off the fork tines. There was something she’d forgotten, something important.
Hell. Ash. She should have told the bodyguard she was leaving. He got testy when his bodies wandered. Maybe he wouldn’t notice she was gone. Futile, silly hope.
She looked out the window. It was nearly seven and still dark outside. The snow fall had lightened, the morning traffic picking up – people on their way to work, parents driving kids to school.
Riga took a bite of eggs and toast, washed it down with stale coffee.
She couldn’t really blame Afreen for pulling a gun. Had a suspected necromancer walked through Riga’s door, she’d have done the same. The thought was depressing.
And what had Gupta meant when he’d called himself a hunter? One more question she should have asked. But she’d been too rattled by his knowledge of her, the strangeness of the night.
Maybe things would go right for a change and the Aunts had found a fix for Donovan. Riga froze, bite of egg halfway to her mouth. Donovan. Vasily had heard her call Cam’s body by Donovan’s name. And Vasily was part of the black lodge that had…
Riga grabbed a wad of bills from her pocket, and tossed them on the table, raced from the diner.
She skidded on a patch of ice, slammed into the door of her Lincoln, grunted with pain. Dammit, dammit, dammit. She fumbled in her pocket for her keys, found her cell phone instead.
Better idea.
She dialed. It rang. No answer. Donovan’s voice mail clicked on.
“Donovan, it’s Riga. Vasily knows you’re in Cam’s body, and I think he might have helped put you there. I’m afraid he’ll…” What? Fear arced through her, wild and unreasoning and certain. “I think you’ve been his target all along. I’m coming to you at the casino.”
She screeched out of the parking lot, the Lincoln fishtailing on the pavement. Riga took a breath, forced herself to slow on the lakeside highway. The Honda in front of her braked for a yellow, its taillights a sullen glow beneath the mud encrusting the car’s rear. She tapped her fingers on the wheel. Her windshield wipers squeaked, driving the snow into piles on the sides of her window. The light turned green and the Honda crawled forward.
Come on come on come on. She tapped her palm on the wheel, her ring a staccato on the hard surface.
A gray sedan cut in front of her and she slowed, cursing. Trapped behind it, she missed another light.
Christmas lights shone dully through the falling snow, red and green prisms on her damp windows. Between the trees, the lake was a gray mass shrouded in fog. She crawled forward.
The sedan turned left into the casino parking lot and she followed, then swerved around it and roared to casino’s front doors, heedless of the red zone. A guard in a green uniform strode forward, jaw set in a reprimand. She stepped out, and he blinked in recognition.
“Miss Hayworth.”
“I’m here to see Donovan. It’s urgent. I’ll deal with the car later.”
“But he’s right there.” The guard pointed across the parking lot, where Donovan’s father in Donovan’s body stood, head bent, peering into a car window. “Kid got locked in a Buick. His mom was freaking out and Mr. Mosse was nearby—”
Riga took off across the lot. The gray sedan lurched to a halt in front of her and she fell onto the hood, pushed away, swearing.
Mr. Smith got out of the car, unzipped his bomber jacket. “Problem, Miss Hayworth?”
“I have reason to believe Gregorovich has a hit out on Donovan.”
The federal agent took off, his arms and legs pumping mechanically, economically as he raced toward’s Donovan’s father. She dodged around the sedan and followed. Where was her Donovan? The real Donovan? If something happened to his body…
“Mosse!” Smith shouted.
Donovan’s father looked up, squinting. “Eh?” He shook his head, and bent toward the car. A tall blond stood beside it, banging on the window.
A gunshot cracked. Glass splintered.
Donovan’s father and the blond vanished. Had he ducked? Had he been shot? A woman screamed, a steady shriek.
Smith pulled back his jacket and drew the Glock from his holster. He ducked behind a blue SUV. Riga skidded in behind him.
“Looks like you were right,” he said. He pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and tossed it to her. “Call it in.”
“Was he hit? Did you see?” Hands shaking, she dialed the Sheriff’s office, a number she now knew by heart. Surely casino security had heard the shot, the screams.
“I don’t know. Judging from the banshee’s lung capacity, I’m betting the woman’s not hurt.”
The screaming was continuous, piercing, the whine of a circular saw.
Terse, Riga reported the shot, the location, the possible victim, and hung up mid-way through the dispatcher’s questions. She didn’t have the time.
“Stay here,” Smith said. “I’m going after the shooter.” Crouching, he darted around the car and toward the stand of pines at the edge of the lot.
Riga pressed her back against the SUV, and shook her head. She had to know.
She crept toward the Buick.
The woman’s screams subsided to frightened sobs. “My baby. My baby.”
“Mr. Mosse?” Riga asked softly. She duck-walked around the Buick’s bumper. Donovan’s father sat against the car. She felt that strange sense of wrongness – Donovan but not Donovan. She scrambled between the cars, and knelt beside him. “Are you okay? Were you hit?”
“Keep her head down,” he said.
The woman struggled against him to stand and he clutched her arm, pulled her back to the ground.
“Your boy is fine,” he said.
“But the window,” the woman protested.
“It was another car that was hit.” Mr. Mosse rolled his eyes. “You’re a woman,” he said to Riga. “Deal with her.”
“How? Besides, she’s not the target,” Riga said.
The woman rocked and moaned.
“Then who?” He asked. “Donovan? Why?”
Riga blew into her hands, her fingertips numb. “Didn’t Donovan tell you to stay put? What are you doing outside?”
“It’s my job to manage my casino, young lady.”
“It’s your job to get Donovan back safely where he belongs,” she hissed.
“I can’t do anything about that now. That’s what your aunts are for.”
Smith trotted back to them, huffing. “Shooter’s gone. I found a shell casing on the edge of the woods. High-powered rifle. Either he was a bad shot or you got lucky, Mosse.”
Mr. Mosse released the woman, and they stood.
She whipped around to the car, pressing her mittened hands to the windows. “My baby. We’ve got to get him out of here.”
“Breaking into cars now, Mosse?”
“Waiting with my guest until security gets here to crack this door open. And they’re taking their sweet time about it.”
The woman turned to them, her eyes rimmed with tears. “What if he overheats? You hear about children suffocating in cars all the time.”
Smith snorted. “In this weather? Not likely, lady.”
“Your boy will be fine,” Mr. Mosse said. He pointed across the lot. “Look, here comes security now. They’ll have a file to get the door open.”
Riga checked her phone. No messages. “That was too easy.” Her insides quivered unpleasantly. “Where’s Donovan?”
His father paled. “I left him in the casino with that cowboy.”
“Is there another Donovan?” Smith put his hands on his narrow hips. “Who are you talking about?”
Riga took off at a run, Donovan’s father at her heels.
“Hey!” Smith shouted. “Get back here.”
Five men jogged towards them. Three dark green casino jackets. One cowboy hat. And Cam’s rawboned figure, disguising her Donovan, hurrying toward her. Of course he would come. This was still his casino, and he’d be alert to signs of trouble. Undead, he’d think he was invulnerable.
He wasn’t.
Jordan grabbed Donovan/Cam’s arm. Without breaking stride, he shook off the country singer, his gaze fixed on Riga, mouth in a tight line.
She put her hands in the air, motioned them back.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Go back,” she yelled.
The guards stumbled to a halt, uncertain. But Donovan kept coming, his leather jacket flaring about his hips. He was close now, his brows drawn together.
“Damn fool.” His father lunged.
A shot rang out and both men went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Donovan’s head jerked up. “Riga!”
She dropped, sliding feet first on the icy macadam.
“Get behind a car,” he bellowed.
But she was already rolling for safety, knew he was moving too, knew he wouldn’t remove himself from the danger zone until she was out of it.
Donovan and his father ducked behind an SUV.
Donovan’s curses drifted through the icy air, a low and steady stream.
“Are you both okay?” she called out.
“Fantastic,” Donovan shouted back.
She winced at the sarcasm lacing his voice.
“You?” he asked.
Last night’s aches had grown tentacles, wormed hot lashes into her knees, her shoulders, her back. Her heart thundered in her chest. “I’m good.”
The sirens grew louder. Cavalry.
“I’m coming to you,” he said.
“No! I’m fine. I’m safe here. The police are coming.”
She bowed her head. Her legs trembled.
They were okay. They were okay.
Chapter 16
Mr. Smith slammed out of the penthouse study, clutching his bomber jacket in his fist. He stopped in front of Riga, and she straightened away from the foyer wall, stretched. Her hand grazed the raven’s beak on the totem pole. To the raven, she muttered an apology.
The federal agent shrugged into his jacket. “What do you know about this?”
“Nothing.” Riga had spent the last hour talking to the police. They’d found more shell casings, from a different location on the edge of the parking lot. But the shooter had vanished.
She’d told the Sheriff she suspected Vasily Gregorovich, that he’d been hounding her. The Sheriff had gotten started on a temporary restraining order. But she didn’t believe it would do much to restrain the mobster.
“Nothing,” he said. “Why don’t I believe you?”
Because she was lying. Maliciously, unfairly, she asked, “Why d
id you tell us the shooter was gone?”
“Mosse goes nowhere until I return.”
“Fine by me,” she said, and watched while he disappeared into the elevator.
Cam/Donovan stalked into the foyer from the kitchen, and for a moment Riga wondered how people couldn’t see the reality behind the mask. Cam’s body moved like Donovan’s, his expressions were Donovan’s. Terry would know in an instant that something was wrong.
Donovan shot her a worried look, and strode into the study. “Dad?”
His father put down a decanter of brandy on the small bar. “We don’t have much time. Smith will be back soon. He suspects something’s fishy about me, but can’t figure out what.”
Donovan collapsed onto a leather couch, stretching his legs toward the fire. Crossed pairs of antique skis decorated the stone chimney. “And he won’t. He’d never believe it.”
His father carried his glass to a tall-backed chair opposite his son, and sat. “Who was shooting at us?”
“Gregorovich, I suspect,” Riga said.
“Who’s Gregorovich?” His father asked.
“Mob,” Donovan said.
“And you’re letting some hood give you the runaround? Pay him off and get rid of him.”
Donovan rubbed his face. “It’s not that simple and I don’t pay bribes.”
“Why not? That fed will take one. Get him off your back, too.”
Donovan stared. “Tell me you didn’t offer him a payoff.”
He shrugged. “The timing wasn’t right. Though we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, so the opportunity is sure to arise. He’s my new bodyguard.”
Riga went to the window, stared into a wall of fog. Moisture smeared the glass. Donovan and his father bickered, a low background hum.
They’d never get rid of Vasily. The cops had been after him for years for far worse than stalking and attempted murder, and hadn’t been able to pin anything on him. He was insane, and he wouldn’t stop.
Riga twisted the diamond ring on her finger, turned the diamond palm in, made a fist. The stone dug into the pad of her hand.
Someone knocked lightly on the study door, and Riga glanced over her shoulder.
“Come in,” the men said in unison.
Donovan’s assistant strode inside, stopping just past the door. She combed her fingers through the gray streak in her hair. “Mr. Mosse, your appointment with the head of the poker tournament, Mr. Nowell, will be here shortly. You asked me to let you know.”
4 The Infernal Detective Page 12
