The Hoodoo Detective (30 page)

“Have you heard anything?” he asked.

“Yes. Come up and bring Angus and Dirk. But no camera teams. In fact, no cameras at all. Or sound equipment.”

“Dirk won't like it.”

“This isn't reality TV anymore. It's reality. And it's Pen.”

“Right.” He hung up.

“We can't trust Dirk,” Donovan said. “He's too cozy with the local police. If Jenny wasn't lying, word of what we're doing may get back to her.”

“We use Dirk to follow Hannah's trail.”

Donovan nodded. “It'll keep Dirk out of our hair, and we might learn something useful. But it could be dangerous. How do we know Hannah isn't a trap, rather than a blind alley?”

“We don't. But Dirk's a big boy, and he's got zero magic to tempt a necromancer. I say we lay out the risks, and let Dirk decide.”

“Let me decide what?” Dirk, wearing a tight white t-shirt and jeans, ambled into the room. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Wolfe and Angus followed. “Your boys at the door let me in. Looks like quite a party.”

“What have you heard?” Wolfe's five o'clock shadow had gone on ten, and his rumpled t-shirt had a manky smell.

“We got a call from the kidnapper,” Riga said, “and I spoke to Pen. We'll get another call sometime today.”

Wolfe jolted forward. “We've got to call the cops.”

“The kidnapper said they've got people on the police force,” Donovan said. “If it gets back to the kidnapper we've brought the cops in, they'll kill Pen.”

“So we just wait and do what they say?” Wolfe asked.

Angus shook his head. “Is it possible? That they've got someone on the police force?”

Dirk barked a laugh. “Possible? It's a sure bet. This is New Orleans, Louisiana. This place is to corruption like Vegas is to showgirls. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if my guys on the show were on the take.”

Wary, Riga eyed him. How much did he really know? “We do have some leads. It may be possible to get a jump on the kidnappers.”

Dirk pulled a slender cigar from his breast pocket and jammed it in his mouth.

Peregrine eyed him beadily. “I hope you're not planning on lighting that.”

He bowed. “I would never smoke in the presence of ladies. Now what do you need?”

“Hoodoo Hannah,” Riga said. “She's a local hoodoo queen. A contact has suggested she might be involved, and she's dropped off the grid. I'd ask Angus and Wolfe to try and track her down, figure out if she could be a part of this, but she knows them. We met her on the show, before we joined
Mean Streets
.”

“Oh yeah, your haunted TV thing. But why would this Hannah be involved? You do think Pen's going missing is connected to the killings, don't you?”

“Hannah was married to the hoodoo hit man,” Donovan said. “A fact she kept secret. It's a connection.”

“Hell, yes it is.” Dirk chewed the unlit cigar. “What do you need from me? To follow her?”

“This contact isn't reliable,” Riga warned. “Following Hannah could be risky.”

Dirk shrugged. “I live for danger.”

“I mean it Dirk,” Riga said, her voice hard.

“I get it, Riga. And I want to help. Really. So should I follow her?”

Riga hesitated, nodded. “Without the cameras.”

His cigar drooped. “But without the cameras,” Dirk said, “it's like it didn't happen.”

“Pen may not be part of your crew,” Angus said, “but she's a part of ours. Pen comes first.”

Dirk ran a hand through his golden hair. “All right. I get it. Brotherhood of the Guild and all that stuff. Where should I start?”

“She's at a gumbo restaurant on Decatur,” Dot said.

He shot her a look. “If you've got eyes on her, why do you need me?”

“Oh!” Dot fluttered her hands. “I just saw her there. But what was I to do? I could hardly... what do you call it? Stake her out?”

Dirk nodded, seeming to accept the lie.

Donovan scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Dirk. “Here's her home and shop address, in case you miss her at the restaurant.”

The actor raised the paper in a salute. “Tallyho.” He strutted out of the room.

“Is Hannah really a suspect?” Angus asked. “Or did you just say that to get rid of him?”

“A little of both,” Riga admitted. “The occultists who've been getting killed have been meeting on new moons, like tonight, in local cemeteries. We think that's where Pen will be taken.”

“Why?” Angus asked.

“Long story, and we've got little time,” Riga said. “The problem is, there are lots of cemeteries in New Orleans.”

“We'd like you two to visit the cemeteries,” Donovan said, “interview the groundskeepers about any vandalism – particularly occult activity – and any patterns that they've seen regarding when it occurs. While you're there, get a feel for the places. See if any of them strike you as potential points for an exchange tonight.”

Riga tore a sheet of paper in two. “Here's a list. It will go quicker if you two split up.”

They drafted a list of interview questions and agreed that Wolfe and Angus would go in as themselves – part of the
Supernatural Encounters
crew. When they were satisfied, the two young men left, the door slamming behind them.

“Planning is all very well and good,” Dot said, “but you know as well as I, that when that call comes, we'll be flying by the seats of our collective pants.”

Riga ripped the paper off Ash's package, lifting free one mirror, and another. They glinted beneath the overhead light. “Anyone got a hammer?”

Riga stared out the hotel window, her image a reflection against the black night. Behind her, in the living area, her colleagues gathered. Wolfe and Angus spoke by the bar in low tones. Her aunts sat on the couch, saying nothing. Ash wrestled a chew toy from the dog. She wasn't sure who had brought the squeaky toy, but Oz seemed to like it.

Resting a hand on her hip, Donovan pressed a kiss to her brow. “We're as prepared as we'll ever be.”

Angus and Wolfe's recon of the cemeteries had helped confirm Metairie and St. Louis No. 3 as probable locations. But there was so much that could go wrong.

Riga's phone rang. The room stilled. She let it ring again, picked it up. “Riga here.”

“It's Dirk.”

She slumped. “Dirk. What have you got?”

“Nothing. I lost her.”

She stiffened. “You lost Hannah? Where?”

“In the City Park. If you ask me, it's a good place for a rendezvous.”

“The City Park,” she hissed to Donovan.

He pulled out a city map and pointed at a rectangle of green. “It's not far from St. Louis No. 3.”

“What do you want me to do now?” Dirk asked.

“Find a nearby coffee shop and wait. We'll send someone to you.”

“Gotcha.” Dirk hung up.

Dot and Peregrine stood.

“We'll go,” Peregrine said. “If the scoundrels are about, we'll sense them.”

“Right,” Donovan said. “Call us if you find anything.”

“We know what to do,” Dot said.

“Er, maybe I should drive you?” Angus said.

The older women shot each other amused looks. “Certainly, young man. If you think you can keep up.”

The older women left with Angus.

“You sure your aunts are up for this?” Wolfe asked.

“No,” Riga said. “But right now they're the best people for the job.”

The dog yipped and rolled onto its back.

Wolfe paced.

Riga leaned into Donovan. If this was her show, she'd plan her ritual for midnight, and keep them guessing until just before that time. Which meant they'd have a long wait.

Fifteen minutes ticked past.

The phone rang.

“Your aunts?” Donovan asked.

“I don't recognize the number.” She put the phone on speaker. “This is Riga.”

“Riga?” Pen's voice cracked.

Riga clenched the table's edge. “Pen. Are you all right? Where are you?”

“I'm okay. I'm—”

Silence.

Then, “Miss me?” Jenny asked.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to keep your phone on you, walk out of the hotel right now, and go to your car. Drive east. And go alone. Remember, someone will be watching.” She hung up.

“You heard.” Riga scooped up her purse.

Donovan nodded and raced from the room.

“What about us?” Wolfe asked.

“Ash put a tracker on my car,” she said. “Stick with him, but stay well back.”

Whining, the dog lumbered to his feet.

“Take Oz,” Ash said. “I doubt 'come alone' applies to dogs.”

Riga whistled, and the dog bounded after her.

They took the stairs to the underground parking garage. She made a business of getting the dog into the car, adjusting her seat, mounting her phone on the dash. Her gaze darted about the garage. Was someone here, watching? Shaking her head, she started the car. It didn't matter.

She drove up the narrow ramp and pulled into traffic. The cars crept past throngs of pedestrians, slowed by the evening Bourbon Street jam.

The phone rang. Riga put it on speaker.

“A dog?” Jenny asked. “Really?”

“I couldn't find a sitter.”

“Turn left at the corner.” Jenny hung up.

Jenny led her on a twisting route through New Orleans, past streetcars and cemeteries, through slums and parks. Either Jenny was trying to disorient her – keep her from realizing the destination until it was upon them – or she was making sure Riga wasn't being tailed. “Either way, it's working,” Riga muttered to herself.

“What's working?” Donovan's voice floated from the back seat.

“I don't know where we are. I never really got my bearings in this city. You'd think I could use the river as a landmark, but it never works. How are you doing back there?”

“It's gotten me in a contemplative mood, hunched on the floor, staring at the ceiling.”

“You did say contemplative and not comfortable, right?”

“Definitely not comfortable. But it doesn't sound like your caller knows I'm with you.”

“Fingers crossed it stays that way,” she said. “What are you contemplating?”

“Our plan of grabbing Pen and running to the nearest police station to let the cops deal with the cleanup.”

“It was your plan and the most reasonable one we could come up with.”

“You've been reasonable through this entire affair, up until threatening to gut Jenny.”

“A calculated threat.”

“Was it? To save Pen, I'd gladly kill the people who have her.”

“People? So you agree there's more than one person involved.”

“You're changing the subject.”

“You're asking if I can go through with what we agreed, or if I plan on going further.”

Donovan didn't respond.

“The Old Man isn't going to stop coming,” she said. “He's been nibbling around the edges for months. And if he retreats to lick his wounds – even in jail – he'll be back. But I don't have any plans to murder him.”

“He’ll use Pen against you.”

“He already has.”

“You know that isn’t what I mean.”

The phone rang. Another turn. Another direction. She braked, drove onto a freeway on-ramp.

“You're speeding up,” Donovan said.

“Freeway.”

“How do you think they're tracking us? A device on our SUV?”

“Probably. I used one on Dirk’s van.”

Another call. “What now?” Riga asked.

“Exit. Stay on the line.”

“I'm staying on the line and exiting,” Riga said.

Jenny directed her beneath the freeway. Riga's headlights illuminated a row of concrete support pillars and a low wall. “Take an immediate right, then a left, then right, and turn into the cemetery. Park in the lot. Walk in.” Jenny hung up.

Riga maneuvered through the open gates into a parking area overhung with trees. “Metairie Cemetery.”

She turned off the ignition. The car ticked, its metal contracting. Oz whined, nosed her shoulder.

“Damn,” Donovan said. “Your aunts are in the wrong place.”

“We knew having us all together was a long shot.”

“I don't like this. We can call it off. I'll go instead.”

“No. It's me they want.” She grabbed her flashlight, leaving it dark. Hair rose on the back of her neck. “And they're watching.”

A long moment of silence. “I'll give you five minutes, then I'm following.”

She glanced into the rearview mirror, a futile gesture as Donovan was ducked behind the seat. “I love you.”

“Hold that thought for after this is over.”

Her smile was quick, tense. She opened the door and stepped out. Oz bounded from the car, sniffed the tires.

“If you need to go,” she said, “now's the time.”

The dog shook itself, his collar jingling, and gave a low woof.

“All right then.” Stomach tight, ears and eyes straining, she paced toward the darkened cemetery. The gates shouldn't have been open at this hour, and she wondered about security, groundskeepers.

A line of pavement, gleaming gray, unfurled before her. She stopped at the invisible line where the cemetery entrance road met the parking lot.

Extending her senses, she pushed her awareness out and felt nothing. No magic, no beat of life. She tested her own magical shields, a glowing globe that only she could see, and sent them extra energy from the above, the below, the in-between.

On the freeway, a truck rumbled past. She gripped the flashlight, her palms slick on the cool metal.

The dog growled. Even in the dark, she could see the ridge of fur on his back rise.

Stretching before her, rows of crypts stood sentry, lining the narrow road. She stepped into the graveyard.

A lurch, a crack. A shadow descended, plunging her into pitch, and magic rose, surrounded her, a seething stew.

She found the energetic cords that grounded her, red ties extending from her solar plexus into the earth. The world tilted, rushed back.

Greenish lights flared low in front of the crypts, lanterns forming a parade route for Riga and the dog. The vaults glimmered subtly, as if their stone had turned to living skin.

In still air, the tree branches shifted, leaves sliding and clicking over one another, a plastic sound. But the freeway noise had vanished. Had she changed or had the world metamorphosed?

Oz growled.

She laid a hand on the dog's muscular shoulders. “We're not in Kansas anymore.”