Free The Hoodoo Detective by Kirsten Weiss Page B

shrugged. “You heard the man. No cameras. And no audio.”
    Riga unclipped the black box from the back of her waistband. Detaching the microphone from her blouse, she handed it to Angus.
    His round face wrinkled in a frown.
    Ash stepped forward.
    “And no extras.” Long glanced at Sam. “Stay out here with your client.” He followed the chief inside.
    The muscles bulged in Ash's neck and shoulders, and he opened his mouth to argue.
    Riga touched his arm. “It's okay,” she said beneath her breath. “The place is surrounded by cops.”
    “Cops don't prevent crime,” Ash said. “They're just the cleanup crew.”
    She shook her head.
    “Ladies first.” Dirk bowed, making an after-you motion with his hand.
    Dark magic, the scent of rot and blood, oozed through the front door. Her stomach roiled. A drop of sweat stung her eyes. She closed them, taking a breath, imagining the shield around her filling with golden light. The image faded, her shield splintering.
    This would be bad.
    “Having second thoughts?” Dirk asked.
    “None.” She walked inside and air conditioning blasted her, raising gooseflesh.
    In the distance, a dog barked in an endless, steady rhythm. The interior was modern, high-ceilinged, with glossy white walls and black furniture.
    Dark magic, sickly sweet, tugged at her, pulling her in all directions but the one she wanted – out the front door. She ached with a fever, felt a strong pull to her right. Feet leaden, she allowed herself to be drawn to a black-painted curio cabinet in the foyer. Metal implements, thumbscrews, a leather-bound Malleus Maleficarum – the witch hunter's bible – open to a woodcut of a woman on a pyre. The objects weren't magic, but they were cursed, haunted. She couldn't imagine keeping them in her house.
    “Okay,” Dirk said from behind her. “That's creepy as hell. What are those things?”
    The chief appeared at their elbow. “The victim collected this crap – old instruments of torture.”
    “Fun hobby,” Riga said.
    “Yeah.” The chief worried the unlit cigarette between his fleshy lips. “Well, it got him in the end. They tell you it was a decapitation?”
    She nodded.
    “I hear it's not your first.”
    Her shoulders twitched. There'd been another case, not quite a year ago. “You talked to the cops at Tahoe.”
    “It's the only reason you're here. This way.”
    He led them into a living room, black and white and red. For a moment, she thought a decorator had broken the monochrome color scheme, and then realized what she'd been resisting. Blood was splashed across the white walls and throw rug like a sick Jackson Pollock painting. Shiny spots of blood flecked the black leather couches. And in one corner stood a guillotine, the headless body of a man squatting behind it. Blood trailed across its blade.
    Her stomach turned over, lunch pushing its way up her throat. She looked up, struggling for control. Blood dripped from the vaulted ceiling.
    The dog kept barking.
    “A guillotine?” Dirk choked out. He looked as green as Riga felt.
    “It belonged to the victim,” the chief said.
    “Who is he?” she asked.
    “Jordan Marks. Trust fund baby. His head's over there.” He pointed.
    Riga forced herself forward. A black, side table sat against one wall. On it, black taper candles burned low. Had the killer brought them? Or were they part of the victim's decorating scheme?
    She took in the details, trying to separate them from the whole, trying not to look at the head centered between the candles. Blood pooled around the severed neck, and tarot cards had been laid in a circle around it. Symbols had been painted in blood on the cards.
    “These are the same symbols as those from the prior murder,” Riga said.
    “You said they spelled out a demon's name,” Short said. “Is it the same?”
    “Yes,” she said. “Nwyrk. According to my research, he grants power – physical, magical, social.”
    “So our murderer is killing for power?” Short asked.