Voodoo or Die

by Stephanie Bond

  "It looks so innocent here," he observed. "But chances are there are still people walking the streets of Mojo who should be behind bars."

  "But the investigation is continuing, right? Isn't that part of what the task force is doing?"

  "Yes." Then Zane shook his head. "But that museum is a four-story crime scene. The team has a monumental task ahead of them."

  "So," she said as casually as she could manage, "what brought you to Mojo?"

  His wide shoulders lifted in a slow shrug. "The job sounded interesting. I wanted the chance to work closely with the task force. Did you know that over twenty thousand people were reported missing last year in this country?"

  She blinked at his intensity. "I... guess I've never thought about it."

  He pulled the car to a stop in front of the doctor's office and turned off the engine.

  Suddenly panicked, she said, "You don't have to go in." She jumped out and retrieved her briefcase. "I'll get a cab back."

  "I'm here," he said abruptly, emerging from his side. "Might as well meet the town doctor. I can write up the report on Steve Chasen's accident while I wait."

  She manufactured a wobbly smile. They walked up to the door where a faded sign announced Dr. Jonas Whiting, M.D. Zane looked down and frowned, then used the toe of his black boot to disperse red dust on the concrete.

  "What is it?" Gloria asked.

  "Brick dust—an old voodoo myth says to spread it in front of your door to ward off evil spirits." He shook his head as he held open the door. "Don't tell me even the town physician buys into this stuff."

  "It seems harmless," she said, surprised by how defensive she felt about the townspeople and their beliefs.

  "It's not harmless if it creates hysteria or prevents people from taking true security precautions."

  He seemed so intent she remained silent. She walked under his arm, reminding herself that she shouldn't be looking for ways to engage him in conversation or to challenge him—the more distance she put between herself and Zane Riley, the better.

  At least until she could figure out what to do.

  The most obvious choice was to hightail it back to New Orleans... no, she'd have to move farther away from Zane. Knowing he was only a few miles down the road would torture her. No one would question her decision to leave, considering what had happened this morning. She wrapped her good hand around the injured one—it was really throbbing now.

  The doctor's office was a little on the shabby side, full of mismatched chairs and odd tables cluttered with dated magazines, and nearly empty. A wiry, quiet-looking woman whom Gloria didn't recognize sat in a chair and appeared nervous when they walked in. Her gaze darted to Zane and froze, then she looked down, fingering the pentagram earrings that swung from her ears.

  The receptionist, a chubby, effervescent brunette wearing an inspiring amount of makeup and a badge that read Brianna, was on the phone—a personal call, from the sound of it.

  "When? Are you sure? Is he okay? Omigod, are you sure?" She glanced up and raked her gaze over Zane and his uniform. "I'll call you back," she said into the mouthpiece, then banged down the phone and flashed an inquisitive smile. "Hi, there."

  Gloria smiled and opened her mouth to speak.

  "Hello," Zane said, leaning in. "I'm Chief Riley, and this is Gloria Dalton. There was an accident at Ms. Dalton's office involving broken glass, and her hand was cut. I thought the doctor should take a look at it."

  Maybe it was the pain in her hand or the aftermath of the accident or the frustration of being so close to Zane, but Gloria's anger spiked at his controlling attitude. "Chief Riley," she said tightly, "my hand was cut, not my tongue."

  He glanced at her in surprise, then frowned briefly. "I'll wait over there."

  "Thank you."

  When she looked back to the receptionist, Brianna's purple-shadowed eyes were wide, surrounded by tarantula lashes. "You're the new attorney, aren't you?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "And that's the new chief of police?"

  "Er... yes."

  "And the accident he was talking about was the car driven clean through the plate-glass window down at the Charmed Village Shopping Center?"

  "Yes."

  "Is Steve Chasen really dead?"

  "I'm afraid so. Was he a friend of yours?"

  "Not really. My friend Melissa used to date him, and he was kind of a butthole." Then she blanched. "But I'm sorry that he's dead."

  Gloria coughed lightly. "Is the doctor available?"

  "Yeah—he's giving Elton Jamison a shot of steroids for a rash. Ms. Davidson there is waiting for an anti-inflammatory for her knee, but I'm sure she won't mind if you go in next, seeing as how you're bleeding and all."

  There were certainly no medical secrets in Mojo.

  "Have a seat and fill this out," Brianna said, handing Gloria a form attached to a clipboard. "Here's a pen."

  "Thanks," Gloria said, her stomach churning. Forms made her nervous—a paper trail of information that could be cross-referenced against other information and possibly used against her. She preferred asking others to fill out forms.

  Thinking how surreal the day had been, she opted for a seat a couple of chairs down from where Zane had planted his big body. The lady with the knee problem—Ms. Davidson?—was staring at her, and she realized her clothes and hair were covered in dust from the debris of the crash. She gave the woman a wan smile, then turned her attention to the form.

  The first part was fairly uncomplicated—name, address, phone number. Under Date of Birth, she listed the date on her new birth certificate, the one that the witness protection program (WITSEC) had provided her. She truly had to focus when she wanted to remember her original birthday.

  Under the Sex column, she was tempted to write "long overdue" but sighed and checked the box for female.

  She glanced at Zane under her lashes, conceding that today was the first time in a long time that she'd felt female, that she so vividly recalled a period in her life when she had given and taken physical pleasure with abandon, before she had assumed a clandestine identity and tucked into herself. Plus, there was nothing like death to make a person feel alive. She attributed some of her new self-awareness to the shock of the accident and the palpable pain in her hand.

  Emergency Contact. Gloria wet her lips—her former boss in New Orleans? Her landlord? At moments like this, she felt so alone. She'd give anything to know where her mother was.

  After living and relocating together many times, the last contact Gloria and her mother had had was eight years ago, after someone had broken into her mother's home in Arizona. She'd called Gloria to tell her that she was leaving WITSEC. Her mother had felt Gloria would be safer if they broke off contact altogether. Gloria hadn't been given any choice in the matter, hadn't been able to say good-bye in person. And since her mother had also broken contact with their handler, a U.S. marshal named George O'Connor, Gloria had no idea what had happened to her, if she was dead or alive.

  It was like a cancer, slowly ravaging her heart.

  She wrote down Penny Francisco's name and cell phone number as her emergency contact. After checking a few boxes attesting to her general good health, she handed the form back to Brianna, who was on the phone again.

  "No, he's dead, I tell you. Because his boss is here and just told me so." She covered the mouthpiece to speak to Gloria. "You can keep the pen—I sell Lucky Lady cosmetics and my phone number's on there. Give me a call if you ever want a makeover. I have just the thing for those dark circles under your eyes."

  "Uh... okay."

  Brianna turned her attention back to the phone and made a token attempt to lower her voice. "I'm serious, she's standing right here in front of me. Her hand got sliced open when he plowed through the window."

  Gloria returned to her seat, thinking she might have made a big mistake by moving to a place where everyone knew everyone's business. She sighed and lowered her head in her hands—she couldn't get her mind around the fact
that Steve Chasen was dead. And that Zane Riley was alive, sitting a few feet away.

  "Here you go," he said, his voice startling her.

  She lifted her head and looked at the form Zane extended to her.

  "Report for your insurance claim."

  She smiled in gratitude but froze when his hand brushed hers and she realized he was staring at her intently. "What?"

  He shook his head. "Sorry. For a second, you reminded me of someone I used to know."

  Her heart skipped a beat and her breath stalled in her lungs. Her mouth watered with longing to tell him who she was, but her handler had prepared her for moments like this. For hours they'd rehearsed what she would do if she crossed paths with someone who'd known her in her previous life, and what could happen to her if she wasn't convincing.

  She forced air into her lungs and a smile to her dry lips. "I get that a lot—I guess I just have one of those faces."

  A slight frown crossed his face, then he nodded.

  "Ms. Dalton?"

  Gloria turned her head to see a sandy-haired, pleasantly handsome man in a white lab coat smiling at her and holding her form. Another man, presumably the unlucky fellow with the rash, ducked his head and walked toward the exit.

  "Yes," she said, standing.

  "I'm Dr. Jonas Whiting. Come on back and I'll take a look at your hand."

  Zane's radio crackled, and he answered it. "Three-car pileup on the exit ramp," a staticky voice said. "You'd better get out here, Chief."

  He glanced at her.

  "Go," she said. "I'll be fine. And thank you for the ride."

  He stood and nodded curtly. "Call me if you remember any details about the accident." Then his mouth twitched downward. "Any logical details, that is."

  Gloria frowned at his implication, but he had already turned and was halfway out the door. She stooped to retrieve her briefcase, where she'd stowed the voodoo doll he had so thoroughly dismissed. She didn't believe in voodoo either, but neither did she believe in coincidence.

  Although it was an almost inconceivable coincidence that she and Zane had wound up in the same place at the same time.

  The thought that she might not like the brusque, cynical man that Zane Riley had turned out to be slid into her mind... and she couldn't understand the disappointment that accompanied the notion. It wasn't as if they had a future. Or even a present.

  Only a past that she had to pretend she didn't remember.

  Chapter 5

  "That's about as good as I can make it look for now," Elton Jamison said, standing back and jamming his hammer into the tool belt that dragged the waistband of his grimy jeans down to alarming depths.

  Gloria looked at the town handyman, vaguely wondering what kind of a rash he had, where it was, and if it was contagious, before looking back to the patched-up storefront of her office.

  A network of two-by-fours and sheets of plywood replaced the once-gloriously gilded window. The door frame had been salvaged and repaired. The rough, unpainted hollow-core door didn't offer much in the way of curb appeal, especially since Elton had spray-painted Lawyer Here on its surface, free hand.

  But it was operational, and at least the supporting structure hadn't been compromised.

  And he'd spelled lawyer correctly.

  She manufactured a smile, conceding the day's events were catching up to her. "That's fine, thank you, Mr. Jamison."

  "Folks around here call me Elton," he said, scratching his belly through his shirt.

  "Okay... Elton. What do I owe you?"

  "I'll settle up with Mayor Mona," he said, then turned to watch a long black car pull into the parking lot. "There she is now."

  Gloria's pulse kicked up a notch as the tall, severe woman parked and climbed out of her car. Mona Black gave her the creeps.

  "Good grief, what a mess," the woman said, stepping over debris Elton had stacked in piles. "It's a wonder someone wasn't killed."

  Gloria raised her eyebrows at the woman and felt obligated to say, "But Steve Chasen was killed."

  Mona gave a dismissive wave. "I meant someone besides him." She put her hands on her hips and sighed. "What's the total, Elton?"

  He scratched his man boob. "I need to do some figurin'. I'll get it to you tomorrow or day after."

  Mona nodded, then looked at Gloria. "Has all this scared you off yet?"

  What an odd choice of words. Gloria moistened her lips. "No. I mean, it's not as if any of this was planned, right?"

  "Right," Mona said, then gestured to Gloria's bandaged hand. "Are you okay?"

  "Fine. Dr. Whiting cleaned the cut and gave me a few stitches."

  "Good. Well, I guess you got your first case."

  "Pardon me?"

  "I'm suing Steve Chasen's estate for damages to my building," Mona said. "Can you take care of that for me?"

  "Uh, sure," Gloria said, flummoxed by the woman's callous behavior. "Mona, do you know anything about Steve? Does he have family here?"

  "Not that I know of, although I didn't know him very well."

  "I understood he'd worked for your son for a couple of years."

  "Yes, but the extent of my acquaintance with the man was when he answered the phone."

  "If it turns out he doesn't have family, I'd be happy to make the funeral arrangements," Gloria offered. "It seems like the least I can do."

  "You should check with the new chief of police," Mona said. "He'll probably be the one to track down the next of kin."

  "I've met Chief Riley," Gloria said, wondering if she was destined to keep crossing paths with Zane. "I'll... check with him."

  "You let me know if you change your mind about the lease," Mona said, walking back toward her car. "No one would blame you if you left, you know."

  Gloria stared after her, perplexed... although hadn't the same thought crossed her own mind?

  "Death is a bad omen for business," Elton offered.

  "Thank you, Mr. Jamison, for pointing that out."

  He scratched his underarm. "Folks around here call me Elton."

  The headache that had been drilling at her temples all day jackhammered its way to her frontal lobe. "I'm going home, Elton."

  "You moved into the old Gallagher house, didn't you?"

  She sighed—did everyone know where she lived?—then nodded.

  "Here's the key to the lock I put on your new office door," he said, handing it over. "I'll throw all this stuff in the Dumpster, and I'll be back to fix everything proper when the supplies get in."

  "Thank you," she murmured, thinking that some things were easier in a small town. In the city, she'd have to wait for building permits and all sorts of paperwork delays.

  "Just watch your step around town, Ms. Dalton."

  She frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Bad omen," he muttered, then stooped to begin picking up the building debris.

  Gloria squinted at the strange, pot-bellied man and glanced at her watch—6:00 p.m. The day had evaporated. What she had hoped would be a joyous new beginning had instead turned into a nightmare of an ending for Steve Chasen, made even more sober by the fact that people in town seemingly dismissed the young man's abrupt passing. On her way to her car, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed directory assistance to be connected to the police department.

  "Mojo Police Department."

  "Chief Riley, please."

  "Just a moment."

  After more than a few moments' wait, Zane's voice came on the line. "Riley here."

  She closed her eyes against the surge of emotion his voice triggered. "Chief Riley," she said carefully, remembering that her handler had said that some people might be able to recognize her voice without the distraction of her altered appearance. "This is Gloria Dalton."

  "Hello, Ms. Dalton," he said, sounding preoccupied. "I hope your hand is okay."

  "Yes, thank you, just a few stitches. I'm calling to see if you were able to contact Steve Chasen's family."

  "He didn't have any that we've been able
to locate. I didn't find references to relatives in his briefcase or wallet or in his car. Do you know if he had a cell phone?"

  "Yes, he did."

  "Have you seen it?"

  "No."

  "That might be our best bet. Would you be willing to go with me to his house tomorrow and help me look through his personal affects?"

  "I... don't think I'm the right person for that job."

  "You're his boss."

  "But I barely knew him. Surely there's a friend—Marie Gaston seemed to be acquainted with him."

  "No offense, but she doesn't seem like the most stable person to me. Plus, I'd feel more comfortable if a legal-type tagged along just to cover me."

  "Okay," she said reluctantly, already looking forward to and dreading the time with him. "Were the doctors able to determine what might have happened?"

  "Since he went into cardiac arrest in transit, the theory is that he had a heart attack just before the crash. Makes sense, considering what you said about him accelerating into the window. Is the front of your building secure?"

  "Yes, I'm leaving now, and the handyman is cleaning up."

  "I'll send an officer by there to keep an eye on things throughout the evening."

  "Thank you," she murmured, soaking up his voice.

  "Just doing my job. Is there a number where I can reach you tomorrow?"

  She hesitated, then gave him her cell phone number, reminding herself that the less mysteriously she behaved, the fewer red flags she would raise.

  "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

  "See you tomorrow," she said, then slowly disconnected the call.

  So casual, as if it were perfectly normal for her to be having a conversation with Zane after a fourteen-year absence. She drove to her rental house in a daze, holding herself rigid, like in the days when she and her mother had first fled their New Jersey home and she'd been afraid to move, afraid to speak in case she drew undue attention to them...

  Her gaze flew to the rearview mirror, expecting to see a car driven by a masked, dark-coated figure, like the man who had kicked down their front door, shot her father before he could stand, and calmly told her mother that if she testified in a racketeering and money laundering case against Bernard Riaz, someone would come back and finish off her—and her kid.