Voodoo or Die

by Stephanie Bond

  Gloria's eyebrows shot up—was she? She looked around at the chaos and conceded until she had the chance to look through Steve Chasen's things or until she heard from George, she had to have something to occupy her mind. "Tell her yes, if she can come by tomorrow afternoon."

  Diane pressed the button beside the blinking light. "Ms. Linder, would tomorrow afternoon work for your schedule? Two o'clock it is." Diane returned the phone to its cradle and smiled at Gloria. "I could work for you on a trial basis. I should be frank—I need a job."

  Gloria bit her lower lip, then nodded. "Okay, I'm not sure how things are going to shake out around here, but we can give it a try." Gloria extended her hand, and Diane stared at it before clasping her hand, gently at first, then more firmly. To Gloria's discomfort, moisture gathered in the woman's eyes. "Thank you," she said.

  "You're welcome," Gloria said, hoping she wasn't setting up the woman for disappointment. Then a memory chord vibrated in her mind. "Davidson... why am I thinking that I ran across a client file with your name on it?"

  "You did. I was fired from my teaching job because the school board accused me of being a witch."

  "A witch?"

  Diane nodded. "I never mentioned the Wiccan religion while I was in the classroom, but a parent saw me wearing my pendant off-hours, and that's all it took for the rumors to start flying." She smiled. "Actually, according to the stories, I could fly."

  Gloria crossed her arms. "You can't be fired on the basis of your religion."

  "I know—the school board manufactured a charge about my performance record and budget cuts. I came to Deke Black to see if he would help me to get my job back, but in the end, he wasn't willing to take the case."

  The sense of justice that her mother had instilled in her rose to the surface. "Did you find another attorney?"

  "Not yet," Diane said, her voice hopeful.

  Gloria realized she'd walked right into the woman's plan and laughed. "Once things settle down, I'd like to hear more about your situation."

  "Okay. For now, I'll make an Open sign for the door and start cleaning up in here."

  While her new employee busied herself with a broom, Gloria took the chance to look through Steve Chasen's desk but found it amazingly... empty.

  The drawers contained a few office supplies, a Mojo phone book, and a flyer about the fund for the families of the victims of the museum. The items on the top of his desk—a Rolodex, a pencil holder, a notepad—had been strewn during the accident, but again, no personal knickknacks, no photos. A two-drawer metal file cabinet sat next to the desk, but it contained blank forms and boilerplate agreements that Deke had apparently used often in his practice. In the office's assets that she'd purchased from Deke's estate, only one computer had been listed—the dated model in her office, which she had no intention of using except to extract client records on an as-needed basis.

  She frowned and pushed to her feet. Whatever Steve had been doing on the sly, he didn't appear to have left a paper trail at work—which eased her fears only a tiny bit.

  A knock preceded the front door opening. Gloria looked up to see Zane standing there, his shoulders spanning the door frame. Her heart bumped against her breastbone when his gray eyes landed on her. Suspicion lingered there, as if he didn't trust her but had to.

  "Ready to go?" he asked without preamble.

  Gloria hesitated to leave her new employee alone.

  What did she really know about the slight Diane Davidson, who looked between her and Zane as if she suspected something was going on between them? Then Gloria consoled herself with the knowledge that the desk and file cabinet in her office was locked, and that the computer was password-protected. What harm could the woman possibly do? She was becoming paranoid about everyone around her.

  In fact, distrust seemed to runneth over in Mojo.

  She told Diane she'd be back shortly, then retrieved her purse and briefcase and met Zane at the door. How ironic that he was looking for her and she was standing close enough to smell the spicy scent of his aftershave. He had no idea who she was, yet she could tell him that he'd gotten the scar on his chin while catching a pass during the homecoming game of her sophomore year.

  "Are you feeling well?" he asked with a little frown.

  "Just a touch of dizziness," she said. "It'll pass." She made her way to the cruiser, but he beat her there and opened the door for her. She slowly slid inside, thinking that riding shotgun with Zane was becoming a habit. She fastened her seat belt, then looked at the steely profile of the man next to her, dismayed when her heart swelled to bursting.

  Her mother had told her that was why the witness protection program had been especially hard on her—because Gloria was a creature of habit.

  Which, when it came to Zane, meant only one thing where her single-minded heart was concerned: uh-oh.

  Chapter 8

  "Wasn't that the lady from the doctor's office?" Zane asked as he pulled out of the parking lot.

  "Yes," Gloria said. "Her name is Diane Davidson."

  "Davidson? I know the name. She's filed a stack of vandalism complaints."

  "Vandalism?"

  "Apparently someone's been targeting her house with graffiti."

  "She practices the Wiccan religion—I guess that doesn't sit well with some locals, considering she was fired from her teaching job."

  "I could see why that would spook folks who are tired of all the hocus-pocus in this town."

  Gloria frowned. "She seems like a nice lady."

  "But you barely know her." He lifted his eyebrow. "Are you always so trusting?"

  "No," she said honestly, "but I feel like I'm a pretty good judge of character." Except when it came to her paralegal, she thought, squirming. "Have you found out anything else about Steve?"

  "No. I'm assuming he didn't have a will on file at the law office?"

  "No, I checked." She swallowed. "There was nothing... relevant in his briefcase?"

  "No." He jerked his thumb toward the backseat, and she turned to see the briefcase lying on the seat. "It was empty, except for high-end merchandise catalogs. Your employee had good taste—in fact, that's a pricey briefcase for just toting around catalogs."

  "I removed a few client folders from his briefcase before I gave it to you," she said in the dead man's defense. No need to raise his suspicions about Steve Chasen until she found out what she needed to know.

  "So how do you like the Gallagher house?"

  She pivoted her head. "Does everyone in this town know where I live?"

  "Probably," he said smoothly. "If you're going to stay in Mojo, you'd better get used to people knowing your business. I've been here a month and people know what kind of underwear I wear."

  "Boxers, white or blue," she said. A split second later, she realized her lapse and nearly swallowed her tongue.

  His eyebrows flew up. "You already heard, huh?"

  "I... uh..."

  He gave her a wry smile. "I drop off my laundry at the cleaners, and next thing I know, people in line behind me at the grocery store are mentioning my unmentionables."

  She manufactured a smile and shifted in her seat, trying to recover from her unbelievably sloppy blunder. She was going to have to be careful; a few hours around Zane and all her careful training was forgotten—she'd regressed to her former life without a second's pause.

  "I didn't mean to embarrass you," he said.

  "You didn't," she said quickly. Great—he thought she was a prude. Ironic, considering he was the only man who'd ever made her body respond with a simple glance or a brush of his hand. She turned to look out the window so she could clench her jaw for strength. The situation was so bizarre that she had to choke back a hysterical laugh.

  "I think this is the address," Zane said, then pulled into the driveway leading to an unremarkable but pretty brick ranch house in a pleasant-looking neighborhood.

  Brown leaves had accumulated in the flower beds, where a few evergreen bushes offered peeks of color. Gloria
wondered distractedly if she'd be around in the spring to see the flowers in the beds around her rental house come to life. She had entertained thoughts of looking for her own place by then, but now...

  She glanced at Zane's profile. Now everything had changed.

  Reminding herself not to tilt her head at a severe angle that might trigger another Meniere's attack, she carefully emerged from the car.

  From a distance Steve Chasen's house looked surprisingly abandoned a mere twenty-four hours after his death: The curtains were drawn, curled leaves and a few sticks had caught on the doormat, two bundles of newspapers lay at the foot of the steps.

  Zane stopped at the mailbox at the end of the driveway and retrieved a handful of envelopes, fliers and catalogs. When they reached the steps, he scooped up the rolled copies of the Post, then handed the bundle to her while he unlocked the door with a stainless C initial key ring that she assumed was Steve's. The wood door stuck, so Zane put his shoulder into it until it swung inward. He stepped in first, swiping his hand along the wall until he found a light switch.

  When the lights came on, Gloria gasped. She'd expected to find bachelor furniture in a dreary decor, not sleek designer furniture surrounding a wall-mounted plasma television. The tinted-glass cabinets on either side held an impressive collection of stereo equipment. In the corner atop an L-shaped wooden desk sat a large flat-screen computer monitor, with two CPU towers, printers, scanners, and an array of other top-of-the-line peripherals.

  Zane released a low whistle. "How much were you paying this guy?"

  "Not enough to afford these kinds of toys," she murmured. "Maybe he's living on a trust fund."

  "Or maybe he was simply living beyond his means."

  Gloria swallowed. Or off the proceeds of his blackmailing scheme? She held up his mail. "Should we go through it?"

  "Can't," he said with a frown. "Got to get a court order to open his mail. But if we find something that's already open and looks like it's from a relative, we can take a peek. Let's look around."

  She followed him from room to room full of luxurious furnishings: pool table, baby grand piano, rice-carved four-poster bed, a mahogany armoire stocked with crystal decanters and bottles of expensive liquor. Zane stopped next to the telephone. "There's a message."

  Gloria's heart sped up. He pushed a button, and a male voice came on the line. "Hey, man... I got what you want, and it's good. Call me."

  She swallowed hard. Was it the voice of the man contracted to get "info" on her?

  "It's a Baton Rouge area code," Zane said, then picked up the receiver and dialed the number.

  "He didn't really sound like a friend," Gloria said quickly, while memorizing the number herself.

  "He's the only lead we have at the moment," Zane said, then frowned. "Line's busy."

  Gloria exhaled. "Let's see if we can find an address book on his desk," she said to distract him. She was sweating as they went back to the living room, wondering what they might find and how Zane might react if he stumbled onto any of Steve's research regarding her. Questions swirled in her head as to who Steve's "informant" might be: Who knew her past, and how had Steve connected with the person?

  Zane located a black address book on the desk and flipped to the C's. "No other Chasens listed," he murmured, then turned to the front. "And no one listed under the emergency contact." He glanced at the computer. "Maybe he keeps his contact list online."

  Panic infused her chest as he pushed the button to boot up the machine. Crazily, she considered confessing on the spot, but she reminded herself that if Zane knew who she was and thought she was in danger, he might endanger himself trying to help her. Confession was a last resort.

  His cell phone rang, and he answered while the computer screen flickered on and icons began to appear on the digital desktop.

  "Riley," he said, then frowned. "Okay, I'll be right there." He put the phone away. "Sorry, but I have to go back to the office for a meeting with the task force."

  She gestured toward the computer. "I can stay and look for a family contact on his computer. I'll call a cab to get back to the office."

  He worked his mouth back and forth. "How about if I come back in an hour to pick you up?"

  "That's fine, if it isn't too much trouble."

  He made a rueful noise. "I just want to be able to make the notification of next of kin as soon as possible. I've searched Social Security and DMV records, and there's no relatives listed anywhere in his files."

  "Maybe he's an orphan."

  "Maybe. If I can't get away, I'll send one of my officers to pick you up."

  She nodded, eager to be alone with Steve's computer, but nursing guilt over the trust Zane was placing in her hands. He leveled his gray gaze on her, making her lungs constrict painfully. Electricity crackled in the air between their bodies. Tense seconds ticked by, and pressure built in her muscles as she held herself rigid. Any questions she had about their enduring physical chemistry were erased.

  Or was she reacting from fear of being revealed?

  She wavered, crazily hoping he would suddenly recognize her and she could fall into his arms and...

  And what? Pick up where they'd left off... as kids? A lump lodged in her throat as the enormity of the chasm between them began to sink in.

  Confusion clouded Zane's eyes—he was aware of the magnetism between them but apparently didn't want to act on it. A muscle worked in his jaw, and his lips parted, as if he was going to say something.

  Gloria waited... one second... two...

  Zane averted his gaze and cleared his throat. "Let me know if you find anything."

  She maintained a tight smile until he turned and his wide shoulders disappeared through the door. When it closed behind him, she expelled a noisy sigh, puffing out her cheeks. That had been close.

  Breathing deeply to regain her bearings, she waited until she heard his car engine start. Then, with her nerves jumping, she sat down at the computer keyboard. As soon as she hit a key, though, a box for a password popped up.

  Gloria muttered a curse, then began trying common preset passwords like test, password, changeme, and various forms of Steve's name. She followed up with days of the week, months of the year, the name of the town. Nothing worked. The only good news was that if she couldn't get in, chances were no one except a hacker could, and she suspected that the police would utilize other means to find Steve Chasen's next of kin.

  She sat back in the chair. Maybe she was safe from whatever information he had contracted on her. Then she glanced toward the phone—unless Steve's informant decided to cash in on the blackmailing business himself.

  She went through the desk drawers and CD storage cases but didn't find anything of note except receipts for groceries, a haircut from The Hair Affair, and a twelve-week package at Sheena Linder's tanning salon. In one drawer she found a stash of snacks, including a couple of the fund-raiser chocolate bars, which she assumed he'd removed from the box on his desk at work. And, surprisingly, in a top drawer, she found a picture of Marie Gaston, a black-and-white photo of her standing outside, looking away from the camera, her hand cupped over her eyes. It was a close-up, but Gloria noticed something in the young woman's hand on the edge of the photo. Squinting, she brought the photo closer—a broom?

  Then she recalled seeing Penny sweeping the sidewalk in front of the door of the health food store. It seemed that someone had captured Marie unaware... almost as if she had been under surveillance.

  Gloria bit into her lip. Had Steve taken the photographs in the files she had at home—and this one—or had he hired someone to take them? And did Marie know that he had been spying on her?

  She returned the photograph, then opened a large lower cabinet to find an industrial-sized paper shredder with blades that looked powerful enough to shred a cardboard box. The bulging plastic bag beneath the blades helped explain why Steve's personal files were so clean.

  Tamping down pangs of guilt, she went into Steve's bedroom and opened his closet
door. Clothes—nice clothes. Designer, many with the tags still attached. And stacks of shoe boxes, all brand names. But there were no boxes of files, no secret paperwork. She opened an armoire to find more state-of-the-art television and stereo equipment. The drawers revealed nothing except his preference for porn magazines—he appeared to be into soft-core bondage.

  She bit down on the inside of her cheek. Was it possible that Steve Chasen had been involved with the atrocities that had taken place in the voodoo museum?

  A crashing noise from a far room made her jerk her head around.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears—it sounded like a window had been broken. A burglar? Or perhaps someone whom Steve had been blackmailing, who'd had the same idea she'd had about finding files now that Steve was dead?

  Throat convulsing, Gloria made her way slowly to the hallway, then paused when no other sound seemed forthcoming. Maybe it had been an errant baseball, or a tree limb blown against the window. She crept to the living room and picked up her purse, pulling out a can of pepper spray so old she wasn't sure it would even work. Dubiously armed, she inched her way toward the hallway and the room from which the noise had come. It was a bedroom, if she remembered correctly, a catchall for boxes of upmarket merchandise like DVD recorders and video cameras. As she neared the closed door, she held her breath, listening for any sound that would send her in the opposite direction at the speed of light.

  Hearing none, she put her hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly. Just as she pushed the door open, a pile of boxes went tumbling to join the one that had fallen next to the window with the broken pane. Gloria shrieked as a howling black furball raced toward her, streaked through her legs, and disappeared down the hall. When her vital signs returned to normal, she sagged in relief.

  Apparently, Steve Chasen's next of kin was a cat.

  She walked into the room to examine the broken window. Cold air whipped through the hole, which was easily large enough for a person to climb through. When she turned, she spotted three large clear bags of shredded paper. Whatever Steve had been up to, he certainly had covered his tracks.