She gave him a long look, and nodded. “I believe you.”
“What about those deeds?” he asked.
“They were just an excuse to get you away. I’ll take care of them.” Dryly, she said, “I ought to. I really am a P.I.”
Chapter 28
“So is this what it means to marry rich?” Dora asked. “You sleep all day?”
Riga groaned, and pulled the covers over her head. Sunlight penetrated the blankets, and she piled a pillow on top for good measure. “I’m not rich. And how do you keep getting in here?”
“I’m a little old lady,” the newspaper editor said. “I’m harmless. Who would stop me?”
“The guards are going to hear about this.”
“They’ll love that. Now get your ass out of bed. I’ve got news.”
Riga sat up. “On Vasily?”
“That too. But this is weirder.” She tugged on the collar of her blue turtleneck. “Someone dug up the local cemetery and scattered body parts all over one of the back streets downtown.”
“Ah. That is weird.”
“I’ve got pictures. So I’m thinking a quick interview with you to go along with the article?”
“Why me?” Riga yelped.
“Why not? You’ve consulted for police departments on occult crimes. Don’t you want the publicity? I thought you wanted to get your business going again?”
Riga didn’t remember talking to Dora about that, but work was definitely on her mind. And she might be able to spin the story away from what had really happened. “Okay. But I can’t form an opinion about the body parts until I get more info. So, what about Vasily?”
“Uh uh. I don’t do favors for free. Interview first, Gregorovich second. And I want the exclusive on whatever goes down with that S.O.B.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Dora pressed the back of her hand to Riga’s head. “Are you feeling okay? You usually give me more pushback.”
“Just tired.”
“Then move over.” Dora sat on the bed beside her, a waft of stale cigarette smoke following in her wake. She handed Riga her tablet computer. “Check out these pictures. Heads everywhere.”
Riga yawned. “The necks are the weakest point.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Sorry. Ignore me. I was just thinking of Afghanistan. Suicide bombers. Their heads always tended to pop off with the bomb blast.”
“That’s an attractive image. Thanks.”
“War is hell.” Riga scanned through the photos. Ghoul parts were even more disgusting in daylight. “Honestly? If the bodies were stolen as part of an occult ceremony, they wouldn’t have been left lying around the street like this. Were they disfigured in any way?”
“Aside from the decapitations?”
“Which could have just been a natural part of decomposed bodies being tossed around. Look, I have no idea why some sicko would want to dig up a bunch of bodies, but they don’t look like they were used in an occult ritual.”
“So how do you explain the graves?”
“What about them?”
“I went to the cemetery. They weren’t dug up.” Dora flipped the pictures on the screen to a shot of a hole in the ground. Overturned snow and dirt lay in a narrow circular pile before a gravestone. “It looks like the bodies clawed their way out.”
“Oh.” That was going to be harder to explain.
“This wasn’t the work of a backhoe. And how did so many bodies get dug up so quickly? Exhumation takes time.”
Riga scrambled. Hoaxes. Famous hoaxes. The Piltdown man… “Crop circles.”
“What?”
“Crop circles,” Riga said. “They seem impossible to fake until you know how it’s done, and then it’s obvious. I mean, obviously these bodies didn’t rise from the grave, walk down the street, and then fall apart.”
“I thought you said crop circles were made by faeries.”
“I said it was a theory. Come on. Faeries.” She rolled her eyes.
“So your quote is that they were dug up by some sick weirdo for reasons unknown, but they were likely not desecrated in an occult or satanic ritual.”
“Yes.”
Dora shrugged. “Good enough to go to press with.” She dug into her black leather handbag and pulled out a sheet of folded paper. “A list of Vasily’s ex-girlfriends – the ones that are still alive.”
“That’s it? Ex-girlfriends?”
“Cherchez le femme. Besides, you didn’t think I was going to give you his mob contacts to interview, did you? You wouldn’t last a minute.”
Riga took the paper, unfolded it. “Thanks.” She scanned the list of names, wrinkled her brow.
“What? You see a name you recognize?”
“Faith Roberts.” She puzzled over the name. Why were her alarm bells going off? “The name seems familiar but I don’t know why. What do you know about her?”
“Waitress. Severely injured in a car accident. Funny thing was, she doesn’t have a car.”
“You think she was covering for Vasily?”
“Yeah. She lives in Vegas. You know, I had a hell of a time finding these women. I’m serious about that exclusive.”
What if Barbara Yaganovich hadn’t been speaking in fortune cookie-ese? The mystic had told Riga to find faith. Had she meant faith with a capital F? A real, live person? “I’ve got to get to Vegas.”
Dora leapt from the bed, and started tapping on her computer tablet. “Great. I’ll get the tickets.”
“I’m going alone.”
“Then I won’t tell you my bonus news.”
“Bonus news?”
“It’s good.”
“Fine. What is it?”
“Madison died of a heart attack.”
“Then the poison—”
“The poison was what triggered the attack. She had a weak heart.”
“Oh.” Riga’s brain flipped through the ramifications. The poison hadn’t been particularly fast-acting, it had just packed a bigger wallop because of Madison’s heart condition. So it could have been administered from Cam/Donovan’s glass.
“So, any preferences on flight times?”
“It will take us at least ninety minutes to get to the Reno airport,” Riga said.
Dora checked her watch. “We’ll have to hustle. Get dressed.”
Muttering under her breath, Riga threw the covers off, slid into a pair of khakis and a creased white blouse. Faith probably wouldn’t be happy to see them. She’d been a victim of abuse, and had good reason to be scared of Vasily, to stay silent. Would having Dora along help or hurt?
Her cell phone rang and she dived for her purse. “This is Riga.”
“Riga,” a man’s voice rumbled.
She felt a moment of disconnect – a voice she should know but didn’t recognize. “Who… Donovan?”
“How are you?” Cam’s voice asked.
“Making progress.” She glanced at Dora, intent on her computer screen. Riga went to the balcony, shutting the door behind her. The lake glinted in the sun, the snow-covered mountains hard and flat and blindingly bright. “On the magic and the murder. Dora and I are following up on a lead. Donovan, are you free?”
“No. Dad told me what happened to Livinia. This has become too dangerous. Whatever you’ve found, hand it off to one of my detectives. And Riga, I’m sorry about your aunt.”
She shivered, and stepped into a patch of sunshine. “You saw your father?”
“He arranged for this call.”
Then he had come through, after a fashion. “How’s it going with your father?”
He sighed. “I wish you hadn’t told him to… No, that’s not true. I needed to get some things off my chest. We talked. Well, shouted if you want to know the truth. I’m not sure if things are better or worse.”
“I had to give him a nudge, Donovan. He’s not crossing over until things here are resolved.”
A pause. “You haven’t agreed to my request.”
Request? Oh. Handing t
he work off to the other detectives. “Donovan, we have to move fast. And the woman we need to talk to… I think we’re going to have to finesse this one.”
He growled. “Riga…” Donovan blew out his breath. “I couldn’t live with it if you were hurt on my account. And… I also couldn’t live with it if you changed because of me.”
She leaned against the rail, ignoring the cold layer of snow that pressed into her side. “I’m not the easiest person to love, am I?”
“You are very easy to love. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.” She looked across the lake. “And we’re getting married this weekend, Donovan. That’s a promise.”
Chapter 29
“Are you going to get that?” Dora asked.
They sat in the back of a yellow cab, cruising through a Vegas neighborhood of boarded up windows and rusting cars. Riga’s phone was ringing.
She checked the number. Cesar. She’d almost forgotten – she’d asked him to do background checks on the staff at her house, and on the catering company. “Hey, Cesar. What have you got?”
“The catering staff checks out clean. So do your staff. But there was one red flag.”
“Who?”
“One of your guards, Thomas Vandermeer. His little brother is in to the mob. Owes three hundred grand.”
Riga whistled. “The mob? Who, exactly?”
“Gregorovich.”
She stared out the window. Dry, scrubby yards drifted slowly past. “Someone on the inside has been feeding Gregorovich information. And someone left that poppet under my bed.”
A long pause. “Vasily’s superstitious. Everyone knows that. But a poppet?”
Her mind raced. “Look, Ash is protecting Pen. He needs to know this. It could be nothing – I don’t like guilt by association. But I don’t want Thomas anywhere near her, not when she’s alone.”
“I’ll tell Ash as soon as I get off the phone with you,” Cesar said. “Then what?”
“I’ll need to talk to Thomas.”
Another pause. In the background, the ringing of slot machines. “Maybe Ash and I should interview him.”
“Why?”
“No offense, but you’re not exactly menacing. Trust me, we’ve handled this stuff before.”
“You’re not going to go Jack Bauer on him?”
“Nah. Just talk. Man to man. We’ll clear it with Mr. Mosse first.”
“No! I mean, I’ll talk to him first, explain what’s going on.” She winced. Donovan wouldn’t have a second thought about this, but she didn’t know how his father would react, wanted to explain things herself.
“Whatever. I’ll call Ash. Let me know when you get the sign-off.”
“Mr. Mo—Donovan will call you.”
She hung up, dialed Donovan’s father, explained the situation. He agreed to call Ash, and give him the go ahead.
“What was that about?” Dora asked after Riga had hung up.
“We ran a second background check on the staff. One of the guards may have a connection to Vasily.”
Dora tapped an unlit cigarette on the arm rest. “Why is Vasily so interested in you?”
“Good question.”
The cab slowed, stopped in front of a squat house with peeling paint. Its sagging shutters gave it a depressed look, as if the house couldn’t bear to face the dried weeds, the dented Honda, the pile of scrap metal in the front yard.
Burrs stuck to Riga’s khakis as she walked down the overgrown path to the front door. She examined the scrap pile more closely – a dismantled swing set topped by a rusted tricycle.
Dora sucked on a cigarette, exhaling lustily. “Doesn’t look like Faith’s doing too well. Could work to our advantage.”
“Christ, Dora.”
The editor zipped her blue leather jacket up to her chin. “I’m just saying.”
Riga stepped onto the porch, and it creaked beneath her boots.
Dora took one last inhale, then mashed out the cigarette on the porch railing. She deposited the butt neatly into an Altoids tin, put the tin in her purse.
Riga knocked on the door.
Sounds of movement in the house, a shadow behind the door’s fisheye lens, locks unbolting.
The door inched open, and a blue eye peered through it, wary. “Yeah?”
“My name is Riga Hayworth. I’m being stalked by Vasily Gregorovich.”
The blue eye stared at them, unblinking. The door shut.
“Well, that was smooth.” Dora jammed her hands in her jacket pockets. “Nice work.”
A chain rattled against the door, and it swung open.
Faith was slim, blond, haggard. She plucked at the collar of her red turtleneck, her fingers moving with stiff, jerking motions. Riga ran her gaze over the woman. Faded jeans, a size too big. A crook in her nose from a break.
Taking a step back, Faith pulled the door wider.
Riga and Dora walked inside.
The room had a dorm feel, with impressionist posters on the walls, and cheap, unmatched furniture. A milk crate sat before a wingback chair, doubling as a footstool. Greedily, Dora took in the casino logo ash tray. The place stank of cigarette smoke, and Riga’s eyes watered.
Faith jerked her head towards the couch. Dora brushed crumbs from the worn velvet cushion and sat down, Riga beside her.
Faith took a pack of cigarettes from the top of a widescreen TV. “Mind if I smoke?”
“It’s your house,” Riga said.
“I’ll join you.” Dora fished her own smokes and lighter from her bag, lit up.
Faith walked to her and bent low. Her fingers were long, lumpy – calcium deposits from past breaks. Dora lit Faith’s cigarette, snapped the lighter shut.
Faith inhaled, and blew two jets of smoke from her nose. “I’d hoped someone would have killed him by now.”
“No such luck.” Dora coughed.
“Let’s make our own luck,” Riga said.
Faith laughed. “You planning on killing him?”
“You’re the second woman this week who’s asked me that.”
“What’d you tell the other woman?” Faith asked.
Riga unbuttoned her navy pea coat, and propped her elbows on her knees. “Tell me about Vasily.”
“Why? Sounds like you’re getting to know him pretty good.”
“I want to know how to take him apart.”
Faith sat in the lounge chair and kicked her feet onto the milk crate. She nudged the ashtray aside with one heel. “If I knew the answer to that…”
“You must have thought about how to do it. Afterward,” Riga said.
“Sure, I had all sorts of revenge fantasies. They all ended with my body dumped in the desert. Listen, you want my advice? Run. Just run.”
“Sounds like good advice,” Dora said.
“Who’s she?” Faith jerked her head towards the editor. “Your mother?”
Dora made a face. “How old do you think I am?”
“Did Vasily have any enemies?” Riga asked.
Faith held the inhale, smoke curling inside her parted mouth. She exhaled. “What do you think he’ll do to me if he finds out I’ve been talking about him?”
“He won’t find out,” Riga said.
Faith’s head slumped to the side. “And how’re you going to guarantee that?”
There was no way. Riga couldn’t protect Faith, couldn’t guarantee word wouldn’t somehow get out. And her word meant nothing to Faith. Riga looked down at the shag carpet, an ugly burnt orange. Someone had scorched a cigarette hole in the spot by the toe of her boot.
“How do you know Vasily didn’t follow you here?” Faith continued.
“He didn’t,” Dora said.
“Yeah, that and five dollars won’t get you a cup of coffee in this town,” Faith said.
“I’m going to kill him,” Riga said.
“What?” Dora yelped.
Faith rocked forward, avid. “How?”
Riga slipped her aunt Dot’s curved blade from her sleeve,
flipped it into her palm.
“Jesus Christ.” Dora leapt from her seat. “You got that on the plane?”
Faith rumpled her hair. “Vasily’s not a little fish, but he’s not a kingpin either. There were always people gunning for him, trying to move up the ladder by knocking him off. At least, that’s what he told me.”
“I could have told you that,” Dora snapped.
Faith’s face tightened. “Look, Vasily pays his people well, but doesn’t exactly inspire loyalty. At some point, everyone’s his enemy.”
“Did you ever hear him talk about an occult group?” Riga asked.
Faith’s lip curled with derision. “Oh, yeah. When he wanted to show off, he’d always talk about the people of power he knew. At first, I thought he just meant other mobsters, guys who owed him favors. But he was big into that occult shit. And when he talked about that kind of power, his voice would change, you know? His voice would change when he talked about his powerful friends.”
“Ever meet any of them?”
“No. Vasily kept business and pleasure separate.”
This was going nowhere. “If he were to password protect something, what password do you think he’d use?”
“It was always changing,” Faith said.
Damn, damn, damn.
“He used my name once,” Faith continued. “Did something funny to it, but it was my name.”
Riga’s heart thumped. “And he showed it to you?”
“He was proud of it. Wanted me to know how much faith he put in me. Get it? Faith?” She rolled her eyes.
“And you said he did something funny with it?” Riga leaned forward. “What exactly?”
“I can’t remember. Exactly. Why are you asking me about passwords?”
“They’re a window to how a person thinks.” Dora blew a smoke ring, punctuated it with a second, smaller halo. “There’s the guy whose password is always abc123. Generic. And then there’s the guy who’s password is his anniversary. Romantic. Or his mom’s birthday. Weird or touching – you choose. You can learn all sorts of thing from a man’s password.”
“I guess that made Vasily a romantic then.” Faith touched her cheekbone, frowning. “If you find beating the hell out of someone romantic.”
“How’d you get away from him?” Dora asked.
Faith ground out her cigarette. “I lived. I just… lived.”
4 The Infernal Detective Page 22
