Free The Hoodoo Detective by Kirsten Weiss

started the genre of the hero private investigator.”
    “Now you're just showing off,” Dirk said.
    “What's potassium nitrate used for?” Detective Short asked.
    “It's also known as saltpeter,” Riga said. “And it's a common ingredient in hoodoo magic, though it can also be used for preserving food. But put together with these other ingredients, this looks like a hoodoo kitchen.”
    “But you said it could be used for preserving,” Dirk said. “Maybe he liked making jam.”
    “Find me some jam, and we'll talk.” Riga stalked past him, found the hallway and a curving staircase.
    Detective Long leaned over the upstairs banister and peered down at her. “Bedrooms are up here.”
    “Find anything?” She climbed the stairs, Wolfe at her heels.
    Long pointed at an open door.
    Wolfe followed her inside a pastel blue bedroom with white molding. The furniture was heavy, antique, but simple in design.
    She trailed her fingers across the rough, white coverlet, and caught a flash of tangled bodies – black and white – of sweat, of sex.
    The walk-in closet was half empty and held only men's clothing. She extended her senses, but felt nothing more – no tugs of magic, no premonitions, no chills or changes in air pressure that might signal the introduction of the supernatural, another world.
    Slowly, Riga walked to the tiled bathroom. The shower door was clear glass, heavy, expensive. On the soap dish was a pink razor.
    “There was a woman here,” she called over her shoulder.
    Long materialized in the doorway beside Wolfe, and the cameraman took two steps back, trying to capture a better angle.
    She pointed at the razor.
    “Maybe he liked to shave in the shower,” the detective said.
    The cell phone in her pocket buzzed. She drew it out. A message from Donovan: FLIGHT DELAYED. ON MY WAY. BE SAFE.
    Riga stared at the text, chest weighted. She cleared her throat. “There's no mirror in the shower. That's a woman's razor.”
    I'LL BE WAITING, she texted back.
    She returned to the bedroom, opened the bureau drawers. The right drawers were empty. The left were filled with men's socks and briefs.
    Long's footsteps were muffled on the thick rug. “Any signs of the occult?”
    “Not here.” She went to the window and stared out at the street. The hoodoo hit man had confined his activities to the kitchen. Easier cleanup, and the stove was there. It was what she'd have done, though she couldn't remember the last time she'd actually brewed a potion. A jar of salt set in moonlight to cure was as far as she usually went in that direction. “Why am I here?”
    “What do you mean?” Long asked.
    “I don't understand why you've brought me here. You didn't seem to put much stock in the hoodoo hit man theory.”
    “Not until I learned Turotte was at the restaurant where he died.”
    “At the... The hanging victim was there? When the hit man was killed?”
    “We don't know he was a hit man.”
    “He said he was.”
    “People say they're a lot of things.”
    “He wasn't lying about the hoodoo,” Riga said. “The man who attacked me in the hotel, did he say what he was after?”
    “He's not talking. Probably just a mugger.” Long gazed at the bed. “No wife, no kids. What a crummy life.”
    The room suddenly felt close. “I need some air.” She walked downstairs, onto the front porch. Two kids rolled past on skateboards, wheels rattling, dreadlocks flying behind them.
    A male voice whip-cracked. “Riga!” The bodyguard, Ash, strode through the gate. If there was such a thing as a perfect body, Ash had it. Impossibly tall, with long, powerful muscles, he took the three steps to the porch in one stride.
    His toffee-color eyes flashed with annoyance, a spark against his dark skin. “You shouldn't be out here, not alone.”
    Wolfe opened the door, stuck his head out.
    “I wasn't alone,” she said.
    Ash flicked a dismissive gaze over the cameraman, but he extended a hand to Wolfe.
    “Good to see you again,”