The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 3

  They didn’t have far to travel to the sheriff’s department. Three SUVs sat parked outside it, along with TV vans with logos on their sides and dishes on their roofs. A gaggle of reporters clustered around Sharon, standing on the wooden front steps, looking cool and brittle in a navy-colored suit and long gray coat. A flag hung limp from a pole beside the station, a mash-up of wood and cinderblock.

  Cesar opened his door. “Come on. Let’s go while they’re distracted by the lawyer.”

  Riga nodded, swung her legs out, and dropped to the pavement. She clutched the door, feeling a sudden, unreasonable urge to dive back inside. Her palms were sweating.

  Cesar strode around the side of the SUV, taking her arm. “Stay close.”

  They crossed the parking lot, the heels of Riga’s boots rapping hollowly upon the pavement, and her dread grew. There was something in the air, a sense of malice. Like hospitals, there were emotional auras attached to police stations. The emotions, however, were tainted with rage, violence. She took a breath, relaxed her gaze, and probed the emotional tangle. A movement on the left caught her eye – two tall men in dark coats with a slight, pretty blond between them, moving purposefully towards one of the parked SUVs.

  Cesar stopped short, swaying. Then he shook his head and continued on. “So they’re moving her today.”

  “Her? Who? Do you know her?”

  “I know she’s a lying bi—”

  A gunshot shattered the bright afternoon sun.

  The woman’s head exploded in a red haze of blood and bone and brains. Her blond scalp arced weirdly through the air, and Riga watched its path, transfixed, horrified.

  The woman’s body jerked backward and collapsed.

  Cesar drove Riga to the ground even as her knees buckled of their own accord. He grabbed the scruff of her collar, and pitched her into the shadow of a news van.

  Rolling upon the icy gravel, she didn’t register the cold of the pavement, the pain of the fall.

  “Stay down.” His voice was rough, tight, and he shoved her further beneath the vehicle.

  She heard cloth tear, felt pressure on the small of her back. Her view narrowed to Cesar’s chest, to dark pavement, to the grimy underside of the van. Riga closed her eyes, and waited for the next shot, waited for the impact, waited for the screaming.

  Gravel dug into her cheek.

  She trembled, her breathing short and loud.

  And then the waiting ended.

  Screams. Doors slamming. Angry shouts.

  She’d been here before, but it had been hot then, oh, so hot, the metal of the car burning her flesh, dust and smoke choking her nostrils. Riga imagined she could smell it now, and wrenched herself back. She had to be present, to get out of her head, to stay alive.

  “What’s happening?” Her voice was steady. Good.

  “Don’t move,” he snarled.

  She couldn’t move if she wanted to, not with Cesar’s bulk pressed against her, driving her further beneath the van. It wasn’t high enough to accommodate her, and the pressure on her back increased. But the pain was better than a gunshot wound. Her mind flew back to that moment, the woman’s head exploding like a melon, the jerky cascade of her falling body, the FBI agents moving toward her, too late.

  Her breathing came short and fast. She was panicking, her mind going to black. She had to pull herself out of it, think of something good, think of Donovan.

  God. What if it had been Donovan?

  Her heart constricted. He was safe. He had to be. She was going to meet him inside. They hadn’t moved him. There had only been the one shot. He was safe.

  Breathe, just breathe.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there. It seemed hours.

  Cesar finally, warily, let her up, his movements jerky, his face strained and pale, his grip on her arm bruising. “Goddamnit,” he said. “Goddamnit. Goddamnit.”

  She ached. She ached from the force of the fall, from being hurled into the lee of the van. But most of the ache was psychic, a cavity of shock and fear had been torn in her chest. It gaped, and in spite of the crystalline sky, the warm sun glinting off the snow, a chill wind blew through it.

  Chapter 5

  “In your own words, tell me what happened when you left the casino.” Sheriff King’s face was lined, weary, but his pale blue eyes glittered like marbles. He shifted in the chair, and its legs groaned against the linoleum floor.

  This was an interview, not an interrogation, but she’d had dealings with King before, and their relationship was uneasy. She shivered. Chill flowed from the walls of the cinderblock interview room, seeped up through the linoleum floor. Riga pulled her suede jacket more tightly about her. “When can I see Donovan?”

  “You’re not getting in today. Not after what happened.”

  She nodded, smothering her disappointment. Donovan might be the next target. She should be glad they were taking his security seriously. But her need to see him had taken on frantic dimensions.

  “So,” the Sheriff said. “The casino?”

  She glanced at Sharon, beside her in a hard metal chair. The lawyer nodded imperceptibly.

  Riga turned her glass of water, making a new ring of moisture on the wobbly table, and took him through it – fighting her way through the press, driving to the station in Cesar’s SUV, walking through the lot, and then the shooting.

  His beefy hand clenched and unclenched around a ballpoint pen. “What did—”

  The door behind her banged open, and she turned swiftly in her chair. A solid-looking man filled the doorway, his rumpled trench coat splattered with dark stains, his square face bleak, angry.

  The Sheriff scraped his chair back. “Agent Dolan—”

  A pulse beat in the agent’s jaw. “I want in on this.” Stiff-backed, Dolan strode into the room.

  The Sheriff lowered his head, as if preparing to charge, but Riga didn’t see fight in his eyes. She saw sympathy.

  “Let’s step outside,” Sheriff King said.

  Dolan leaned forward, pressing his palms into the table, veins bulging in the backs of his broad hands. “You and I both know why Sandra Michaelson was shot. This is a federal case. We have jurisdiction.”

  “Most likely.” The Sheriff’s voice was a low growl. “And you’re a witness.”

  Dolan jerked a thumb at Riga. “I know who she is, and I know you have a past relationship with her. I’m sitting in on this one.”

  “Past...?” The muscles in King’s face tightened. “You’re out of line,” he barked. “Outside.”

  Dolan slammed his fist on the table.

  Riga’s water glass tumbled on its side, crashing to the floor before she could react.

  “Out of line?” Dolan roared. “Which one of your men leaked Sandra’s transfer to Gregorovich?”

  The Sheriff whipped around the table, and jammed his forearm into Dolan’s neck, driving the agent against the wall.

  “Out. Side.” He jerked his head toward the door, released the agent, and stalked from the room.

  Dolan slumped against the wall, rubbing his neck, turning his head, testing, assessing. He shot Riga an angry glance, and followed King.

  Sharon let out a low whistle, but when Riga made as if to speak, she shook her head. The Sheriff had warned them the interview was being recorded. Riga glanced up at the video camera in the corner of the room.

  “We should talk tomorrow,” Sharon said casually.

  “I’ll call you.”

  The Sheriff returned twenty minutes later, alone, lowering himself into his chair. “Sorry about that. His witness was gunned down in front of him. Feelings are running high. Now, let’s run through it again, in your own words.”

  Finally, the Sheriff released her, shivering, into the Tahoe twilight. Clouds massed in the bruise-colored sky, lit from beneath by the setting sun.

  Cesar handed her into his SUV, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes limned with red. They were silent for a time, each lost in their own thoughts. Between the pines, the
lake flashed, a bowl of fire ringed by purple mountains.

  “Who’s Gregorovich?” Riga asked abruptly.

  Cesar’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Lots of guys named Gregorovich. Where’d you hear the name?”

  “An FBI agent said someone in the Sheriff’s department must have leaked Sandra’s transfer to Gregorovich.”

  He nodded. “Then he was probably talking about the local mob boss, Vasily Gregorovich.”

  “They must think Gregorovich is on the other side of the money laundering, the guy someone at the casino was laundering the money for.”

  “Maybe. If you can trust the intel. Why would an FBI agent let that slip in front of you?”

  “He was having a bad day.” She thought of the stains on the agent’s coat, the woman’s blond hair flying through the air. It must have been a wig; they’d disguised the accountant to get her out.

  But Cesar had recognized her.

  “What do you know about Gregorovich?” Riga asked.

  “The usual rumors – loan sharking, money laundering, drugs, murder.”

  “Any unusual rumors?”

  He glanced sidelong at her. “He’s a regular Marquis de Sade with women.”

  “You warning me off?”

  “Is it working?”

  “You can save your energy,” she said. “I’m just a metaphysical detective. I don’t investigate organized crime or UFOs. What else?”

  “He likes to gamble, is a regular at the local casinos. And he’s superstitious. When he’s gambling, he won’t use the front entrance, carries a lucky charm, won’t cross his legs or take fifty dollar bills. I heard he nearly beat a guy to death for whistling in his office – some Russian thing.”

  “So what’s his lucky charm?”

  “A tarot card,” he said. “Supposedly, he got it from a gypsy, carries it around with him.”

  They drove into the casino lot, the lamps flickering to life as they rolled down empty parking rows. Reporters surrounded the entrances. Cesar pulled into the loading bay.

  Bone weary, Riga didn’t react to their shouted questions, didn’t protest when Cesar pulled her roughly through the throng.

  She crossed the threshold of the casino, and that familiar weight of sorrow and anger descended. She struggled through it, walking through psychic molasses. At the junction that would take them to the penthouse elevator, she stumbled to a halt. “Cesar.”

  He turned swiftly. “What’s wrong?”

  “Where’s the accounting department?”

  “Accounting and finance knocks off at five.” He checked his battered watch. “Their offices upstairs will be closed by now. Teller operations are ongoing though.”

  “Sandra, the woman who was killed today, was an accountant, wasn’t she? Not a teller?”

  He turned, walked down the other junction, and she followed. “Yeah,” he said. “She was accounting, used to be a teller, worked her way up. That’s how I met her. When I started here, I helped protect the money, got to know the tellers.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “Sandra Michaelson was my ex-wife.”

  Riga stopped short. “Oh, God. Cesar, I’m so sorry.” She wondered at his discipline in the parking lot, the self-control it had taken to see, to know there was nothing to be done, and to continue with his job, protect Riga.

  He didn’t break his stride, and she broke into a trot to catch up with him. “I’ll get drunk later. My job now is to find the S.O.B. who killed her.” He whirled on Riga, his broad-carved face dark with anger. “And if it’s Mosse...”

  Her nose was inches from his chest, and she stepped back, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “We both need to know the truth,” Riga said quietly. “No matter what the consequences.”

  “No matter what? You’ve got a lot to lose.”

  “Not if Donovan’s innocent. Not if we can find the real killer.”

  “We? What about the other P.I.?”

  “Since I don’t have a client, it’s still his case. If I find anything, I’ll turn it over.”

  He gave her a skeptical look. “And you believe it? That Mosse is innocent?”

  “You did too, until this afternoon. Why has Sandra’s killing changed your mind?”

  He turned, striding forward, and Riga again hurried to keep pace. “You want faith? Go to church. But I hope you’re right about Mosse.” He stopped before a gray service elevator, jabbed the button with his thumb. “It will be harder to get my hands around the killer’s throat if he’s already in custody.”

  The doors slid open. She followed him into the elevator, studying the set of his shoulders, his twitching fingers dangling by his sides. “I’d like to talk to you more about Sandra later.”

  “We can talk about her now.”

  Riga paused, feeling her way. But there was no way to sugar coat the questions. “You said she was a liar. Why?”

  “Lying was always easier than the truth for Sandra. She told people what they wanted to hear, but of course the truth came out eventually. She was weak, jealous, suspicious. Like an idiot, I thought that meant she loved me, that she had something to be jealous of. But she was just projecting her own flaws.”

  “Another man?” The elevator lurched upward and Riga’s stomach twisted.

  “Another woman.” His statement was cold, flat.

  Riga took the hint, and didn’t react. “Who?”

  “A waitress. She was here for some winter work, some skiing, some sex. Sandra moved on in the spring, but our marriage was over by then. I’ve seen her with others since – men, women. She told me she was bi, that it didn’t have any effect on her feelings for me.”

  “It must have been awkward,” she said, “the two of you both working here.”

  The elevator shuddered to a halt and the doors slid open.

  “Color me stubborn.” He motioned her into the green-carpeted hallway. Square windows exposed the darkened offices behind. “I wasn’t going to lose a sweet gig because of her, and I guess she felt the same.”

  She followed behind him, her feet sinking into the vine pattern imprinted on the thick carpet. That strange psychic miasma was here too, and she realized she hadn’t felt it in the penthouse. “Who can we talk to about her? Who might she have confided in?”

  Cesar stopped before a polished wooden door. “Me. But she didn’t. This is accounting.” He jiggled the knob. “Locked. Teller ops are just down the hall. Want to talk to them?”

  She shook her head. “I need to understand how the money laundering was done first.”

  Then what was she doing in a closed accounting department? She stared at the door, disgusted with herself. She’d dragged Cesar up here on a fool’s errand. Sandra’s murder, Donovan’s arrest – she was losing focus, no longer able to compartmentalize feelings and facts. Feelings were taking over. She couldn’t let them. “I just wanted to be able to find the place.” She blinked rapidly. “Is there a water fountain up here?”

  “There’s a cafeteria down the hall on the right.”

  “I’ll be right back.” A tide of dark emotion threatened her, and she hurried away. She wasn’t going to cry, not in front of Cesar, not here. Roughly, she pushed open the door to the cafeteria. It clanged against the rear wall, and a ghostly female figure jumped, dropping an armload of files, scattering papers beneath a circular table.

  Riga stopped short, caught the door and shut it gently behind her.

  “Oh! What are you doing in here?” The ghost knelt, her movements hampered by her pencil skirt, and began gathering the translucent papers and binders, the tips of her fingers dipping through the floor tiles.

  “Sorry,” Riga said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  The ghost looked up. “It’s okay, forget about it.”

  Perhaps, she thought, one of the accountants had stayed late after all – late, departed, deceased. “Who are you?”

  “No.” The ghost shook her head, flinging ringlets of brown hair about her face. “No. That’s no
t it. I can’t—”

  Riga grimaced. The ghost wasn’t responding to her, she was reliving something, unaware that she was dead, unaware of Riga’s presence. Until she became more conscious, she would be stuck here, unable to move on. Riga couldn’t help her until she was ready.

  The ghost rose, adjusted the wire rimmed glasses on her nose. “It’s theft. It’s money laundering. It’s just wrong.”

  Riga froze, her heart thumping. “Money laundering?”

  The ghost went to the counter and lay the files beside a coffee maker, straightening them. She brushed a stray bit of neutral-colored lipstick from the corner of her mouth, pushed a wisp of dark hair behind her ear. “Look. Just... I don’t want to talk about it again. Let’s forget about it.”

  Was the ghost responding to her or not? “What’s your name?” Riga asked futilely.

  The ghost spun around, her mouth sagging. “What? Of course I won’t! I wouldn’t dream...” Her expression hardened. “Are you threatening me? Because if you are, I’d like to know exactly what you’re threatening me with.”

  Riga closed her eyes, calling in the above and below, projecting peace and calm toward the ghost, cool blue energy. Calm down, friend. It’s okay. When her eyelids blinked open, the ghost was gathering her files from the sink.

  “I said I wouldn’t.” The ghost walked through the counter and disappeared in the wall.

  “Wait!” Riga raced into the hallway and veered left, in the direction the ghost had taken.

  The office beside the cafeteria was lit, full of tellers at desks, counting machines, computers. The door was locked, and required a key card for entry. She pounded the glass with the palm of her hand in frustration, watched through the window as the ghost passed into another wall. “Who are you?” she shouted, frustrated.

  Startled tellers glanced up from their tables. A beefy guard inside the door slid off his stool, yanked the door open, frowning, his hair shaggy, his eyes pinched.

  She took a quick step back, hands up. “Whoops, wrong room.” She stepped on a foot, bumping into something solid, and whirled around. Cesar.