The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 2

  “Riga, this is Sharon. Donovan asked me to call.”

  Her hand tensed on the phone. “How is he?”

  Cesar shot her a quick glance.

  The lawyer sighed. “You know Donovan. He’s giving everyone hell. We’ve got you on the visitor list at the jail, and you should know – it’s a short list. Can you come by this afternoon? One o’clock? They’re being held at the sheriff’s station.”

  Riga felt light with relief. Donovan. She’d see him. Then she parsed what Sharon had said. “They?”

  “They’ve arrested an accountant, too.” Sharon paused. “I’m not representing her.”

  Of course. Isabelle had mentioned the accountant. “What’s the accountant saying? Why has Donovan been implicated?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about it.” Her voice sounded regretful. “Mr. Mosse will fill you in. Are Cesar and Ash with you?”

  “Yes, do you want to talk to them?”

  “No. Just wanted to make sure they’d found you. Look, I probably don’t have to say this to you, but if the press comes at you, don’t say anything, not even ‘no comment,’ okay?”

  Absently, Riga agreed, and flipped the phone shut.

  “New orders?” Cesar said.

  “I’m on the visitor list for this afternoon.” She shifted in her seat so she could watch both Cesar, driving, and Ash in the rear. Beside him, the gargoyle weighed the seat down, the stone making a deep well in the leather. Ash rested his arm on Brigitte’s shoulders, his long fingers beating a tattoo on her skull.

  “I’ll take you,” Cesar said.

  “What do you know about what’s happening?” she asked.

  Cesar cleared his throat. “Uh, you know Sharon’s hired a P.I.?”

  “Yeah. What are they saying at the casino about this? There must be some speculation.”

  Cesar braked as a snow-crusted Honda slowed in front of him. “Mr. Mosse is well liked, for a boss.”

  “But?”

  “The casino’s been having problems. You must know that.”

  “All the casinos have been having problems up here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you saying you think he had a motive?”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Cesar, just tell me.”

  “Look. I like Mosse. I think he’s a good guy. But the general impression is that he sometimes skates close to the edge when it comes to the law.”

  Riga closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the seat.

  Cesar was right. Donovan was no boy scout. But he wasn’t a criminal, either.

  Logical. Be logical.

  She had to admit, yes, she could have made a mistake about him. There could be a side to Donovan she hadn’t seen. Or, he was being set up, and the accountant was in on it. So the accountant would be one focus of her investigation. The other would have to be Donovan – either he was guilty, or someone at the casino hated him enough to put him in the frame.

  Riga opened her eyes. The plan, loose as it was, grounded her.

  Cesar turned the car into the casino lot, maneuvered into the rear loading dock, past an armored car, stacks of boxes, and the word “traitor” scrawled in black paint on the cinderblock wall.

  A chill swept through Riga. The public judging had begun.

  Ash was at Riga’s door before she had a chance to unbuckle her seatbelt. She grabbed her leather satchel, let him help her out of the car.

  He reached back into the passenger seat, and lifted the gargoyle into his arms. “Remind me why you need this?”

  Riga turned up the collar of her jacket. “It helps me think.”

  “This way.” Cesar headed for the concrete steps that led into the square mouth of the loading bay.

  A woman in a red suit stepped from behind the concrete wall, a paunchy casino guard trotting at her heels, yipping.

  “Miss Hayworth,” she said, “can I get a statement?”

  The guard panted, gut heaving, belly straining against his blue shirt. “Sorry, I couldn’t get rid of her.”

  Ash placed one hand in the small of Riga’s back, prodding her forward.

  The reporter sidestepped Cesar. “Miss Hayworth, a representative from the FBI has said Donovan Mosse is being investigated for money laundering. Do you have any comment?”

  Riga clamped her lips together.

  “Miss Hayworth, is there any truth to the rumor that the money laundering is connected to financing terrorism?”

  Riga paled, jolted. Terrorism? That was actually in question? She looked through the woman.

  Cesar stepped between them, while Ash pressed Riga from behind.

  “Mr. Mosse is a wealthy man. Would you say engaging in money laundering represents an excess of greed?”

  Riga raced past, blasting through the fire door and into a service corridor. Her nerves jangled as she crossed the threshold, and she stumbled to a halt.

  Something was off, badly. The air was thicker, heavier; she was drowning in it.

  Ash jostled her from behind.

  She reached out with her senses, trying to understand, and felt... Panic. Loss. Anger. A weight of misery emanated from the fabric of the building, smoky, choking, leaving a psychic soot.

  She’d felt this sort of thing before – at crime scenes, hospitals, old battle grounds. Never at the casino.

  Cesar clanged shut the door behind them, and the sound echoed down the corridor, mingling with the distant ringing of slot machines.

  “Get her up to the penthouse,” he said to Ash. “I’ll make sure no one follows.”

  Ash made to put a hand on her arm, but she evaded his touch, hurrying down the dimly lit hall, her boots rapping upon the concrete floor. It might have been a well-meaning gesture, but she was tired of being pushed about like a leaf in a storm.

  Her fists clenched. She could see the picture the media was painting of Donovan: a corporate fat cat who’d do anything for an extra buck, up to financing terrorism. It would fit like one of his tailored suits, because casinos had a tinge of sin about them. And even after he was cleared, the muck would stick. The scandalous headlines would be remembered, not retractions or acquittals. If the truth wasn’t brought to light fast, he’d be ruined.

  She smiled bitterly – so much for objectivity. In her heart and mind he was innocent. Not a good perspective. She’d have to be careful. If Donovan was being framed, it was someone on the inside.

  Shock and fear sank beneath the waves and fury surfaced, a dominant sun, scorching, blinding, and comforting.

  “This way.” Ash motioned her down a junction in the hall.

  A translucent woman in gray pushed a janitorial cart past them, and automatically, Riga stepped aside. The casino was full of ghosts – gamblers who wouldn’t leave, staff who wouldn’t quit. Donovan had recently gained the ability to see them and begun trying to cross them over – a last service to guests and loyal employees. Ash walked through the figure, unaware. The ghost turned her head and glared, indignant, eyes burning and yellowed with jaundice.

  The private elevator stood open, a guard waiting inside the door. He peered anxiously past them, down the hall. “You’re clear.”

  Ash didn’t respond, jerking his head for Riga to get in.

  The doors slid shut, and she sagged against the elevator walls. She needed quiet, to be alone, to think, to plan.

  “Seriously.” Ash shifted the gargoyle to one arm, and with the other pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of his parka. “What’s with the damn gargoyle?”

  “If you’re getting tired, I’ll carry it.” Riga held her arms out, knowing it would piss him off. “I know it’s heavy.”

  “I got it,” he grumbled.

  She dropped her arms to her sides.

  He dialed with one hand, held the phone to his ear. “Cesar? We’re in.” He nodded, pocketed the phone. “He’ll be up shortly.”

  The elevator slowed, halted, the doors sliding open.

  She stepped into the foyer. A cha
ndelier made of antlers twinkled from the high, beamed ceiling, and she imagined Donovan standing beneath it, the lights gleaming off his ebony hair. This was his place. It felt hollow without him.

  “Put the gargoyle anywhere,” she said to Ash. Riga’s cell phone rang, and she fumbled for it in her jacket pocket, recognizing the number – her teenage niece, Pen. “Hi, kid.”

  “Riga, Mom and I were watching the news this morning and... Is it true? Has Donovan been arrested?”

  “Yes.” She let her leather bag fall to the wood plank floor.

  “What are you going to do? I told Mom he didn’t do it, but the stuff they’re saying... I mean, it’s more speculation, you know? Like, could it be he was laundering money for terrorists? And there have been rumors about organized crime around casinos. So the newscasters didn’t out and out say it, but they sort of made you think... Are you okay? Are you coming back to San Francisco?”

  Ash placed the gargoyle on a narrow side table.

  “I’m okay,” Riga said. “I’m staying here.”

  “Well, if you need anything...”

  Riga smiled. “I’ll call.”

  They made desultory conversation, then said their goodbyes and hung up.

  “You going anywhere before one o’clock?” Ash said.

  Riga shook her head.

  “Then I’m going downstairs, to security. Cesar will be back to take you to the sheriff’s station.” He turned on his heel and left her.

  A translucent form drifted upwards through the floor in front of a totem pole. The ghost was barely recognizable as female, her skin charred and flaking, her dealer’s uniform tattered and dark with scorch marks. Sections of hair and skin were missing, exposing bits of skull, glistening whitely. For some reason, Donovan felt a special attachment to this ghost, and had been working valiantly to help her cross over, to no avail.

  “Hi, Gwenn.”

  The ghost hissed through her teeth, and drifted sideways, through a wall decorated with antlers.

  Riga frowned. Gwenn was a spectral regular in the penthouse, and chatty, pleasant, earthy. What had happened?

  A thump from behind the closed door of Donovan’s study made her start.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Chapter 3

  She burst through the study door.

  The study was Riga’s favorite room, perhaps because it was her fantasy study, perhaps because it felt the most like Donovan. Like the rest of the penthouse, it was styled in American Craftsman. Tall bookcases lined its walls.

  Two men looked up from high leather-backed chairs before the stone fireplace, and for a moment, Donovan was there. And then the image wavered, resolved itself. Not Donovan, a distorted reflection – his cousin, Reuben Mosse. He had Donovan’s raven colored hair, but thinner. Donovan’s green eyes, narrowed. His square jaw made pugnacious. Donovan was broad shouldered, and Reuben thin, bony, ascetic.

  Reuben brushed his hand over his head. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.” Riga tried to hide her disappointment, school her face into a neutral mask. She felt foolish, still disoriented by the double image.

  The muscular Asian man in the chair beside him lurched to his feet, placing a glass filled with amber-colored liquid upon the end table. His suit was rumpled, his face drawn.

  “Riga! I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Finn. We met at Thanksgiving.”

  “Of course I do.” She shook his hand, and his roughened calluses scraped her palm. They weren’t the hands of a pencil pusher, but Finn was the casinos’ Chief Financial Officer. “It’s nice to see you again, Finn. How’s Candace?” Finnegan Yamamoto was related to Donovan by marriage to one of Donovan’s young cousins.

  He released her hand, and slipped his into the pocket of his suit jacket. “Worried. Angry.” He glanced at Reuben. “I need to get back home. Candace hasn’t seen me since yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” Riga asked.

  “The FBI.” Finn rubbed his shaved head, discovered the glasses there, and frowned. “They brought me in for questioning yesterday afternoon, and only let me go an hour ago. I haven’t been home yet.”

  “That’s a long interview.” Riga’s forehead puckered. As CFO, he’d be in a key position to provide the authorities with information about any money laundering, and had to be a person of interest. Unless he was testifying against Donovan, too, had cut some sort of deal.

  “I’d still be there if it weren’t for Sharon,” Finn said. “They don’t have evidence against me, but they’re pushing hard. They think I’m covering for Donovan. I’ve got more interviews scheduled with them tomorrow. They want me to testify against him, but I don’t know anything. I’m not sure the investigators care.”

  Riga shifted, uneasy. Something felt wrong, off. She cast about with her senses, walked to the desk beside the windows, overlooking the mountains.

  It was clean. Donovan always had papers lying atop it.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Has someone been in here? Where are his papers?”

  “The FBI took this place apart last night,” Reuben said, his lips pursing. “They made off with several boxes of papers. The cleaning crew restored the room this morning.”

  The muscles in her face tightened, but she said nothing, and took a seat on the leather couch, facing the fireplace.

  Reuben put his glass down with a clatter. “Is there a reason you’re here, Miss Hayworth? With Donovan off the premises, I would have thought you’d be at home. Your own home.”

  “Isabelle and Sharon thought it would look better if I stayed at the penthouse. By the way, I noticed some graffiti at the service entrance.”

  Reuben shrugged. “Facilities aren’t my problem. And if it’s at the service entrance, I frankly don’t care much – as long as the guests don’t see it.”

  “The press sees it.” And Donovan wouldn’t have let the vandalism go, she thought. “Graffiti tends to attract more.”

  Reuben’s narrow face darkened. “As you are neither part of the family nor management, I don’t think it’s any of your affair.” He stood. “And now if you’ll excuse us—”

  Finn coughed. “I need to get home to my wife. Riga, if you need anything, let me know. Excuse me.” He turned to the door.

  “We’re not finished here, Finnegan,” Reuben snapped.

  “I am.” Finn didn’t look back, closing the door behind him.

  Reuben whirled on Riga, his crimson necktie flying. “Do you think this is a joke?”

  “Donovan’s in FBI custody. I’m not laughing.”

  He drew close to her, forcing her to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “This all began when Donovan met you. His strange behavior, the secret trips, and now this.” His voice shook with rage. “You could wreck everything.” He pushed past her, knocking into her shoulder. The door banged shut behind him.

  Chapter 4

  Riga sat at Donovan’s desk, tapping on her laptop, glad she hadn’t left it at the penthouse yesterday. The feds probably would have made off with it as well.

  Brigitte fluttered to the mantel. “What are you doing?”

  “Researching money laundering, Finn Yamamoto and Reuben. If someone framed Donovan, it was an insider.”

  “If? You have ze doubts?”

  Riga’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “I call myself a metaphysical detective. I search for the underlying, true nature of things.”

  “Ah... Things, not people. For who can know ze true nature of a human heart?”

  “I’m not sure it’s possible to know.” She angled the computer toward the gargoyle. “But Finn’s an interesting character to speculate about. Did you know he was a world class violinist as a child?”

  “And now?”

  Riga pointed with a pencil to the decade-old article on the screen, the photo of an acne-scarred boy in a bow tie. “He had a breakdown as a teenager, and quit the field. His parents were accused of pushing him too hard. It was a scandal for a day, then forgotten.”


  “You think he is unstable?”

  “I think he’s remarkable.”

  “So you have learned nothing.”

  Riga raked a hand through her hair. She’d been at the computer for hours. “I’ve learned about all sorts of ways to launder money. And that Reuben’s wife seems to enjoy the spotlight. Her photo shows up in half a dozen recent society spreads.”

  “But not Monsieur Reuben’s?”

  “No.”

  Brigitte tossed her head. “Nothing.”

  Riga checked her watch, and folded the laptop shut. Perhaps it had been a fruitless exercise. But it had gotten her through the morning.

  When she emerged from the study, she found Cesar standing in the foyer, frowning at the totem pole. He jerked his hand at the grimacing raven at the bottom. “I don’t think he likes me.”

  “Maybe he smells your dog. I heard Monster killed a Canadian goose last week.”

  He followed her to the elevator, hit the button with his thumb. “He killed it. I ate it.”

  “Really? How was it?”

  “Plucking it was a pain, but I made some damn good sausages out of it.”

  The elevator doors slid open.

  “You make your own sausages?” Riga couldn’t even imagine that process. She stepped inside, and nodded to today’s elevator man, built like an F-150 truck.

  “You are a man of many parts,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “I’m an open book. Trouble is, no one wants to read it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. So, Sharon’s going to meet us outside the station. I’ll get you past any press, and she’ll take you inside.”

  Riga nodded, and they fell silent.

  Today, she didn’t care if the press followed her – there would be media at the Sheriff’s station anyway. They battled their way through the melee of reporters at the casino, and took Cesar’s SUV. It still smelled heavily of wet dog.

  The snow along the side of the highway had begun to melt; the macadam gleamed blackly. They drove through town: country stores, hotels, and an old photo shack with a palm painted on the side, the herbalist’s shop. Glimpses of the lake flashed past, blue between the dark pines, and a stand of aspen, white, barren, skeletal against the snow. The sun hung, a flat, lifeless disk in the sky.