The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth)

by Kirsten Weiss

  He jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, hunching his shoulders. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay after your run-in with Reverend Carver.”

  She stared at him, silent.

  He flushed. “And to ask you something.” Night looked pointedly at the door. “Got a minute?”

  Riga ignored the hint, leaned up against the wooden railing. If he wanted to talk, they could do it outside. The cold might shorten the process. A low growl issued from below them and Riga started away from the banister.

  “What the…?” Night backed up against the door.

  A brindled dog slunk up the stairs, head lowered, growling. The thing was as big as Night and shaggy as a bear – the dog she and Donovan had seen earlier? It was also scary as hell.

  Night was on his toes now, arms raised. He laughed weakly. “And me without my pepper spray.”

  “Heel,” she commanded, pulling the voice deep from within her chest.

  The dog sat down and cocked its head inquiringly at her.

  She reached slowly into her bag and pulled out a pack of beef jerky, broke off a bit, fed it to the animal. It devoured it in one snap of its jaws, then snuffled at her hand.

  Night relaxed, his hands dropping to his sides. The dog’s head swiveled toward him, and it bared its teeth.

  Hastily, Riga fed it another strip of jerky. “Good boy. Or whatever you are. That’s a good dog.”

  “Christ, what is that thing?”

  “It’s hard to say in the dark, but I think it’s a Caucasian Sheepdog, an Ovcharka. The Russian military uses them. They’re pretty rare.”

  “Good.”

  “What did you want to talk about, Deputy?”

  He edged away from the dog. “I checked on that French guy, Lefebvre, with the Paris police. Sounds like he was a nasty piece of work. You really think one of his servants did this?”

  “It’s a theory,” she said cautiously.

  “So why would one come here? Now?”

  That was the question. Night was smart, Riga realized. She’d have to be careful. She looked down and ruffled the thick fur around the dog’s neck. There was no collar; the fur was matted as if he’d been roaming free a while.

  Night waited, then when he saw Riga wasn’t about to respond, said, “You said Lefebvre tried to call a demon on you. What did he think would happen?”

  “He thought I would die.”

  “But you didn’t. What went wrong?”

  Riga raised an eyebrow. “What went wrong was Lefebvre was a psychopath. You don’t really think he could call a demon, do you?”

  “No! Of course not,” he said quickly. “But you hear about the Catholic church exorcising demons, possession… There has to be something to it.” Night shifted his weight and the porch boards creaked beneath him. “And if it is one of his people who’s doing this, I need to understand what’s driving him. Why do you think he’s killing these women?”

  “Power. He thinks the ritual killing will give it to him.”

  “What sort of power?”

  “Magical, but ultimately it comes down to power over others, the power to make things happen.”

  The dog bumped against her leg, a gentle nudge that nearly knocked her off her feet.

  “How would he get it?” Night asked.

  “Lefebvre was a necromancer. He used death to fuel his magic and in his sick little world, you got a lot more power from sacrificing a person than a chicken. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Night nodded, looked down at his feet. “The Parisian cops told me when they went through the ruins of his house, after the fire, the place was a real horror show. Bodies in the basement, the works.”

  Riga paled. “There were other people there? Killed in the fire?”

  A wave of nausea rose from her stomach. She swallowed, trying to control it. Lefebvre had started the fire, but it had been a result of their fight and she hadn’t tried to stop it. The destruction of his home and his terrible works seemed like a neat solution at the time. She hadn’t known there’d been other people inside; she’d been too busy fighting and running. Riga gripped the banister behind her, swaying on her feet.

  The dog whimpered, lay down at her feet gazing up at her.

  “No, they were already dead, dismembered. That didn’t happen in the fire. Hey, are you okay?”

  She sagged against the banister. She wasn’t responsible, thank God. Riga nodded. “Dismembered… post-mortem, I hope?”

  “Don’t know. You don’t look so good.”

  “It just made me think. Someone came after me with an axe once. It really sucked.” Actually, it had been an angry mob, but Night didn’t need to know that. Riga had never liked slasher movies but had developed a virulent hatred of them since. Torture porn.

  Night’s brow creased. “You were in Europe then, weren’t you? When Lefebvre’s house caught fire?”

  “Romania. Anything else?” she asked.

  “Why? Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?”

  “The casino. I’ve got a date.”

  His face took on a shuttered expression. “Mr. Mosse,” he said neutrally.

  Riga nodded. She straightened away from the banister.

  “How’d you get involved with a guy like him?” he blurted.

  Riga’s body stiffened at the remark. “People keep asking me that.”

  “Hey, I understand what he sees in you.” His gaze fell to the creamy expanse of her neck. “But you seem like a straight shooter.”

  “And Donovan Mosse isn’t?”

  “There’s a lot of organized crime in gaming, money laundering.”

  “What makes you think that’s going on at his casinos?”

  He shrugged, and took a step off the porch, putting them at eye level. “Be careful, Miss Hayworth. I’d hate to see something happen to you.”

  Riga bit back a retort as he walked to his pickup truck. Her breath came in angry puffs, steaming the air. Organized crime my ass, she thought.

  Chapter 14: Nine Lives

  The dog leapt to its feet and stared intently into the darkness. With a howl it bounded off the porch and down the street in the opposite direction of the disappearing taillights of Night’s pickup. Riga shook her head. Dogs.

  She got into her car and pulled slowly out of the drive. There wasn’t enough snow to warrant chains and her Lincoln Town Car didn’t have snow tires. But the roads could ice over quickly and Riga wasn’t used to driving in slick conditions.

  The headlights of a car parked on the street behind her flashed on. Riga’s eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, marking its progress as it followed her onto the highway. It was too dark to make out what kind of car it was. Her hands tightened on the wheel.

  When she turned into the parking lot of the Fortune Teller’s Café, the car continued past. Riga realized her shoulders were hunched to her ears and tried to relax. She parked, then sat in the car for a moment, rolling her head, releasing the muscles in her neck, feeling twinges along her spine. Riga had controlled the demon, but there had been a physical cost.

  She stepped out of the car and her feet skidded out from under her. Riga gasped and caught herself on the door before she could hit the ice. Pain arced through her torso. It felt like she’d been kicked there and she probed the spot gingerly with her gloved hand.

  She glanced around, embarrassed, but no one was there to see her pratfall. The fluorescent ceiling lights shone in the Fortune Teller’s Café, and Christmas bulbs glowed in a cheerful blur of red and green behind the steamy glass. But the café looked empty, and the dark shop windows next door gave the place a deserted aura. A beat up red Honda crouched forlornly at the rear of the lot. Tara’s car?

  Riga removed a tactical flashlight from her leather satchel and carefully walked across the lot, wary of another slip on the ice.

  The café’s glass door was locked, a “Closed” sign dangling from its inside handle. Riga knocked on the glass, her breath frosting the night air. The skin at the back
of her neck prickled and she turned, slowly scanning the parking lot.

  It was empty.

  A copse of pines threatened the edge of the lot, looming silhouettes against the night. Had a shadow shifted beneath them?

  The door rattled, startling her, and she whipped around. Tara stood framed in the glass door. She unlocked a series of bolts with keys from a ring weighted down with Ankhs and other mystical symbols. Tara shot the last bolt, and pulled the door open, stepping aside so Riga could enter. Tara’s eyes were red, her round face blotchy from crying.

  Riga stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. “What’s wrong?”

  Tara hugged her, and Riga awkwardly returned the embrace. The woman was chin height to Riga, and her graying hair had escaped its braid, tickling Riga’s nose.

  The woman choked on a sob and stepped away, hurrying to the counter for a tissue. “Riga, thanks for coming. It’s Pyewacket.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Someone – some bastard, has killed him. I found him on top of the dumpster behind the store.” Tara began crying in earnest now, loud, hiccupping sobs.

  Riga’s mind raced. “Pyewacket, your… cat?” she guessed.

  Tara nodded. “He was strangled.”

  Riga stiffened, feeling a swell of anger. “That’s awful,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. Where is Pyewacket now?”

  “I didn’t know what to do. That’s why I called you. Maybe it was silly, calling a private detective over a cat, but it seemed so malicious. I just panicked. Pyewacket is still there.” She nodded toward a rear door.

  Riga gestured with her thumb. “May I…?”

  Tara nodded and reached for another tissue.

  Riga slipped down a short, narrow hallway stacked high with cardboard boxes and out the rear door, which she left propped open with the rubber doorstop. Energy savings be damned, she wasn’t going to get locked outside. The shops backed up against a thin strip of macadam, which ended in the pine forest.

  The dead cat lay on top of the bin, its fur matted with blood, a sharp wire knotted around its throat. Riga felt a surge of hatred toward whoever had done it and forced herself to look closely, swallowing the bile which rose up inside her. There were no signs of torture, aside from the mode of death itself. The wire seemed ordinary enough. Riga took her better-than-Swiss army knife out of her satchel, flipped open the wire cutting attachment, and snipped a length of the wire, then deposited it in one of the baggies she’d gotten in the habit of carrying with her to handle evidence.

  A branch cracked. Her eyes searched the darkness and she strained to hear. She saw no one, heard no echoing footsteps.

  Riga backed inside and locked the door, double checking that it was shut tight. When she returned to the café interior, she found Tara slumped in a chair by the same table Riga had sat at with the other Tea and Tarot members.

  “I don’t think Pyewacket suffered much,” Riga lied. “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  Tara blew her nose. “No. Should I call the police?”

  “I don’t think the police will be able to do much for you, but yes, you should file a report.” She pulled out a chair and sat down beside her. “You never know, there might have been other incidents.”

  “Will the police want to see Pyewacket? As evidence?”

  Riga doubted it. “Best to just call and find out.”

  Riga pretended not to listen as Tara made the call. The café owner had to repeat her story three times, but eventually she was connected to Deputy Night. Riga heard her promise to come down to the station the next day and file an official report.

  Tara hung up the phone and looked at Riga, her hazel-colored eyes dark with pain. “He doesn’t need to see Pyewacket.”

  Riga said nothing.

  “I can’t just throw Pyewacket in the dumpster,” Tara said brokenly. “He was like family to me.”

  “Have you got an empty box? Maybe some old towels to line it with?”

  Tara nodded, and shuffled behind the counter. She bent down behind it and reemerged with a half-empty box of industrial paper napkins and two cheerfully printed tea towels. She pulled the napkins out and Tara pushed box and towels across the counter toward Riga. “Thank you,” she muttered.

  Riga returned to the garbage bins and wrapped Pyewacket in a towel, then carefully lowered him into the box. The cat was stiff and cold.

  She returned indoors, the cat inside the box, its flaps folded discreetly shut. “Tara, who might have done this?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Did anyone have it out for Pyewacket?”

  “He was a cat! Cat’s don’t make enemies!”

  Riga had an elderly aunt who would beg to differ, and had a running battle going with the neighborhood cats who liked her garden too well. “Okay, then if not Piewacket, this was directed at you.”

  “Me? That’s ridiculous! What are you saying?”

  “Killing someone’s pet is the act of a disturbed person.”

  “Well, I know that! You’re a detective – is that all you can tell me?”

  Riga forced a smile, tried to quash her annoyance. Tara was upset. Allowances should be made. “Should I help you take this to your car?”

  Tara sniffed, and nodded. “I guess I’ll bury him in my yard. He loved climbing the trees.”

  Tara struggled into her long parka, then closed the café. Riga shifted the box in her arms, waiting.

  As they walked to Tara’s Honda, Riga asked, “When’s the last time you saw Pyewacket?”

  “I fed him this morning. Then time got away from me – the morning rush, lunch… I never had to worry about him. He was so independent, always took care of himself.”

  “Do you know someone named Lynn Chen?” Riga asked abruptly.

  Tara opened the door to her car and turned, her brows sketching upward in surprise. “Lynn? Sure. She’s an energetics worker, specializes in Chi Gung. She comes to our meetings sometimes but she lives in Truckee, so it’s hard for her to get over here. Why?”

  Riga stared, thunderstruck. It had been a shot in the dark; she hadn’t expected Tara to actually know Lynn. But it made sense that the killer would strike magical practitioners. He’d believe the power he’d absorb from the murders would be stronger, infused with his victim’s energies.

  “Tara, the police just found her body. Lynn is dead, murdered.”

  Tara stepped away from her, bumping against the car door. Her eyes widened with confusion, her mouth made an O. “What? Lynn? What are you talking about? She can’t be dead! I saw her last month! She was at our meeting.”

  Riga just looked at her.

  “But it can’t be,” Tara continued. “She must have done something, made someone angry.”

  Riga knew this was normal, a defense mechanism, but it irritated her, nonetheless. After someone was killed, the people close to the crime often looked for reasons it was the victim’s fault. After all, if the victim was to blame, had done something wrong, the survivors were safe. She watched Tara grope for an explanation.

  “She was having an affair,” Tara blurted. “I did a reading for her about it. He said he was going to leave his wife, but I could see he wasn’t.”

  “Do you know his name?” she asked, feeling suddenly weary. It pained her to think of Lynn having a personal life, friends, lovers, dreams that now wouldn’t be fulfilled.

  “No. He was a banker, one of her clients, or she was one of his. That’s all I know.”

  “Two members of Tea and Tarot are dead and now you’re being harassed. Audrey was right. There may be a connection between the harassment and the murders. And now someone’s killed your cat. This is an escalation and I don’t like where it’s going.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just – no one’s bothered Lily. And I never heard Lynn complain of harassment. You’re seeing connections that aren’t there.”

  “Maybe. But if I’m right, the consequences could be pretty awful. Is there so
mewhere you can go? Just get out of town for a bit to get away from all this? Take a vacation?”

  “I’m not leaving.” Tara straightened away from the Honda. She snatched the box from Riga’s hands. “I’m not letting whoever did this win. They’re not going to scare me off. This is just – you’re just paranoid.” She breathed heavily. “It’s not your fault, you’re a PI, that’s what you’re wired to be. But just because–”

  “Just because two people in the Tea and Tarot group have been murdered and someone killed your cat?” she asked, frustrated. Why couldn’t Tara see that this was a threat?

  Tara piled into the small car, her bulky parka billowing around her. “Thanks for coming by Riga,” she said, her voice icy. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Tara, wait—”

  The woman slammed the car door shut.

  Riga cursed under her breath. Denying the existence of a threat wouldn’t make it go away. It just made Tara more vulnerable. She watched Tara’s car swing out of the parking lot. Her rear tires skidded on a patch of ice, slewing sideways, before her taillights straightened out and were absorbed into the highway traffic.

  She walked to her Lincoln and got inside quickly, feeling better once the doors were locked shut. Her head throbbed and she felt a surge of anger – at Tara, at herself. At least she had tomorrow to look forward to – a day off, to spend with Pen and Donovan. Riga pulled into the traffic more slowly, feeling her tires spin briefly beneath her. Her gaze darted to her rearview mirror, but in the darkness she couldn’t tell if she was being followed; it was impossible to differentiate between one pair of headlights and the next. Still, she had a nagging feeling she was being followed, a feeling which grew the closer she got to the casino.

  The parking lot at the casino was full, forcing her to park at the rear, in the shadows beneath a stand of tall pines. She could have let the valet deal with it but she didn’t like other people driving her car and didn’t like having to wait for the valet to retrieve it for her.

  She exited slowly, careful of whatever injury she’d done her torso. Snow slid off the branch of a tree making a soft flump upon the ground, and she jerked in response. Pain flared in her side.