The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7) Page 3

  The other side of the room stood in sad contrast. A rumpled, beige hospital blanket lay over Mrs. Norton’s roommate. No flowers. No photos.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, Riga helped remove Mrs. Norton’s shoes, slide off her pale green cardigan, get into bed.

  “Thank you,” Jalonik said. “I’m sorry I didn’t say that sooner, I was just so… We’ve had patients wander, but never actually leave the building. Not under my watch.”

  “May I come back and visit? I’d like to bring flowers. For both of them.”

  She inclined her head. “It’s best to make arrangements in advance. If you come, call me at the front desk.”

  Had Riga imagined her subtle emphasis on the word “if?”

  Riga left, thinking hard.

  She hadn’t seen a single ghost, and the facility had been operating since the 1970s.

  Riga kept the dollar.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Thoughtful, Riga walked out of the rest home. Clouds massed above the mountains, the wind bending the tops of the pines, tossing her hair. The alpine weather had shifted quickly, and Riga rubbed her bare arms, wishing she’d thought to bring a jacket.

  Turning toward the building, she reached out with her senses and collided with a thick miasma of fear, pain, confusion. In short, normal. This was a hospital of sorts, and one where there was no real hope of leaving on one’s own two feet. Misery imprinted itself into the fabric of the building, and anger flared in Riga’s chest. It shouldn’t be like this. The elderly shouldn’t spend their final days locked away, fearful and forgotten.

  Riga’s mouth tightened. There was a more pressing issue to deal with. Why hadn’t she seen any ghosts? Spirits were just about everywhere, and in a building this old, especially a rest home, there should be at least a dozen. Pushing her aura out, she probed deeper.

  A faint tingle of darkness, sweet and heady, glided across her skin in a sultry caress. She shivered, her heat rising, and pulled away. There was dark magic in the building, necromancy most likely, and it called to her. She’d thought she’d gotten past that, and shame twisted her gut.

  Riga shook herself. There were more important issues at stake. The taint had been weak — masked by the general ill feelings in the building? Or was the black magic small potatoes, a nurse dabbling with an Ouija board or a southern conjure curse?

  She crossed the macadam, weaving around a Jeep. Mrs. Norton had given her a list of three potential suspects. She’d start with them. And then she’d return, ostensibly to visit Mrs. Norton and her roommate. She should find out more about Mr. Norton. Had his death been natural? She squeezed between a dented yellow VW Beetle and a Prius. Unhooking the outside pocket of her satchel, she reached for her keys, and a shadow fell across her.

  She looked up and locked gazes with eyes of dark fire. A demon.

  The man was tall, over six feet, and broad shouldered, bald. He wore the uniform of a nurse, complete with white, thick-soled shoes.

  The lot was full of cars, empty of people.

  She was alone with him, with it, on her own.

  Do you believe in evil?

  His brows lowered, his hazel, now utterly normal eyes, narrowing with suspicion. And yet Riga couldn’t forget that first, unguarded moment, that not-quite-human gaze, liquifying her bones.

  Swallowing, she forced her limbs into herky jerky motion. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t notice you.” Gripping the keys to still her trembling fingers, she turned as if to sidle past him, one hand going behind her back for the gun.

  It wasn’t there.

  Her jaw tightened. She’d left the Glock at home.

  He planted his hand on top of the VW, blocking her. “Have we met?” A gold watch flashed on his wrist, the same kind of watch her husband wore. It cost more than her car.

  Thunder rumbled, faint, echoing off the mountain. The dramatic soundtrack struck Riga as funny. She bit back a semi-hysterical laugh.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s my first visit to the Sunset Towers.”

  Hatred flickered, half-hidden behind his eyes.

  She forced a smile.

  “But you know me,” he said.

  “Nope, sorry.”

  His hand shot out, and she lurched away. But he was too fast, his broad fingers digging into her forearm, squeezing, separating muscle from bone.

  She cried out. Lifting her elbow, she turned away from him and rolled her elbow over, putting pressure on his wrist.

  He released her and cursed.

  She reached for the in-between, for escape. It slipped sideways, out of her grasp.

  The man swung.

  Riga lifted her elbow, ducking, and his fist clipped the top of her head, rocking her sideways.

  She grabbed his arm, pivoted and kneed him in the groin.

  He doubled over.

  Riga ran. Her car was too far. He was too close, on her heels, his ragged breathing audible over the thundering of her heart. The shadow of the rest home chilled her skin. She’d never make it to the safety of the building, the nurses.

  Following an instinct she didn’t question, she plunged into a stand of pines separating the parking lot from a timbered mini-mall next door.

  She raced across the lot and ducked into the first open door she came across, a liquor store. Whirling, she locked the door, backed away.

  A pimply clerk raised his chin from his hand, elbow propped on the counter. “Did you lock the door?”

  “A man attacked me. He’s outside. He may have followed—”

  “You can’t lock the front door. It’s for safety reasons.”

  Hands shaking, she drew her cell phone from her bag. Donovan, she had to— She glanced out the front window.

  The man stood outside, grinning. His pupils expanded like a cat’s. He grabbed the door, rattled it. As long as he didn’t have a gun, she was safe inside. She resisted the urge to stick out her tongue.

  The clerk frowned, put down his comic book. “Is that the guy?”

  Gold Watch yanked on the door. Metal shrieked against metal. The glass cracked, fragmented, rained to the ground. He wrenched the frame off its hinges, tossed it aside.

  She swore, skipping backwards, and knocked over a rack of potato chips. What the hell? “Call the cops, he’s—”

  Gold Watch moved in a blur, stood before her, one hand around her neck, choking her, lifting her onto her toes.

  She kicked out, catching him in the thigh, and even as she cursed herself, she understood that he’d been playing with her. If he could move at that speed, he could have caught her easily as she’d streaked across the lot. But he’d chosen to finish her here, to give her that moment of illusion that she was safe.

  “Hey!” The clerk aimed a shotgun at them both. “Drop her.”

  Gold Watch wrenched her forward, grabbed her somewhere she wouldn’t tell Donovan about, and pitched her away.

  Helpless, she sailed through the air and flew into a bank of glass-walled refrigerators, hit the linoleum floor hard. Pain wracked her back, left her gasping. Glass tinkled onto the floor.

  A gunshot thundered. Glass exploded.

  A distant voice in her mind told her to move, and she raised her head.

  The man with the gold watch wrenched the shotgun from the kid’s hand, spun it like an actor in a spaghetti western, and shot the clerk.

  Blood spattered the liquor bottles behind the kid. He fell behind the counter.

  She screamed. “NO!”

  Gold Watch racked the shotgun and turned to her.

  She scrambled to her feet, running low behind a metal shelf lined with packaged road food — crackers and cookies and candy.

  Fear thundered in her ears. Get away, get away, she had to get away. But with his speed, he’d catch her no matter how fast she ran.

  Desperate, she reached for the in-between. And it came to her. Reality slipped sideways. The colors faded, the liquor store dissolving into a black and white sketch. Cold power hooked her gut. She let it t
ake her, and the liquor store was gone.

  Colors, sounds roared in on her, and she was back in the world. A gust of alpine wind stung her cheeks, and she flinched, her hair lashing her cheeks.

  She crouched on a double yellow line, her fingers pressing into warm, black pavement, bringing her back to this reality.

  The grill of a yellow Buick bore down on her. A horn blared. The car swerved, screeching to a halt on the soft dirt shoulder.

  The taxi driver lumbered from the cab, cursing. “What the hell, lady?”

  Riga limped across the highway to his car, each step ripping an arc of pain along her spine. Frantic, she rummaged in her oversized purse for her phone. The phone was gone. She hadn’t remembered dropping it. “You got a phone? Are you taking passengers?”

  He scratched his rounded stomach. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. You could have been killed! What were you thinking sitting in the middle of the highway?”

  “I need to call the police.”

  “I’m not a payphone.”

  “Then take me to the police station. Please.” It wasn’t far. She blanched. Her phone. Would Gold Watch be able to track her through it, find her home?

  “You need the police? Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  He studied her, and his expression softened. “You don’t look so good. Were you in a car accident?”

  “I witnessed a crime. Please. Can you take me?”

  He tweaked his thumb toward the cab. “I hope you’re a good tipper.”

  She hauled herself into the cab. It was her fault the clerk was dead. She should never have gone in there, sought the safety of crowds.

  “A man’s been shot,” she said. “Please, if you have a phone, it could save his life.”

  “Battery’s dead,” he said.

  She slumped.

  “But I’ve got a radio. Where’s the emergency?”

  She told him, and he barked instructions into the radio, glanced in the mirror at her. “Dispatch will call 9-1-1.”

  Riga braced her elbows on her knees and raised her hands to cradle her aching head. She stilled. Blood coated her palms. She must have cut them on the glass. The adrenaline rush ebbed and more areas of pain made themselves known. Her neck. Her elbows. Her knees.

  If only she’d been able to flee through her escape hatch sooner. But since the twins had been born, she hadn’t been able to control her movement through the in-between. Now, she could only slip through in moments of heightened fear and stress. She should have worked harder to relearn that skill. Now the killer, whatever he was, had her phone.

  They drove past the Sunset Towers, and she sat up straighter.

  In front of the mini-mall, Gold Watch stood on the sidewalk. He stared in the opposite direction, down the highway.

  She sucked in her breath, unable to throw herself to the seat before the cab flashed past. Don’t see me.

  The highway curved, moving away from the lake and deeper into pine forest. She braved a glance through the rear window. A green SUV with a canoe roped to the roof followed behind. No supernatural bad guys.

  Carefully, she leaned against the seat, praying he hadn’t seen her in the cab. Gold Watch was more than man, and she didn’t understand what he could do, couldn’t assume she was safe.

  Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the sheriff’s station, a mix of wood and cinder block. On a pole beside the station, an American and a Nevada flag snapped in the breeze.

  Paying the cabbie, she stepped out, scanned the lot. If someone had tailed them, she hadn’t spotted it.

  A half dozen uniformed cops hurried down the steps of the police station. The sheriff followed, a wide-brimmed hat shadowing his lined face.

  She made her way to him. “Sheriff.”

  He held up a beefy hand. “Not now, Mrs. Mosse. I’ve got a—”

  “The liquor store shooting.”

  He stopped, his gaze searching.

  “The killer is over six feet tall, I’m guessing six-three, six-four. Bald, muscular. He took the clerk’s shotgun and used it on him. He’s wearing a nurse’s uniform, and a very expensive gold watch. I think he’s affiliated with the nursing home next door. And he’s stronger and faster than he should be.”

  He turned to one of the cops. “Our shooter may be on drugs. I’ll be along shortly.” He jerked his chin toward the station. “Inside.”

  She followed him up the concrete steps.

  He held the wood and glass door open for her, following her into the waiting area. They wove through a wide room filled with desks and cops. He led her down a corridor and into his office.

  Shutting the door behind him, he pulled out a faux-leather chair for her. It caught the Indian rug covering the linoleum floor, bunching. He kicked it flat, walked around his scarred, wooden desk, and sat. On the desk, a framed photo sat with its back to Riga, and she knew it was of the sheriff’s family.

  “Sheriff, I dropped my phone somewhere. It might be in the liquor store. If that guy finds it, he may be able to figure out who I am, where I live.”

  “I’ll send a car to your house.” He slid his phone across the desk to her. “Call them.” Sheriff King got up, left the office.

  She dialed her husband, one of two numbers she had memorized.

  “Mosse here.”

  “It’s Riga.”

  “Riga,” his voice warmed. “I didn’t recognize the number.”

  “I’m calling from the sheriff’s office.”

  “Are you all right? Are the twins—”

  “We’re fine. The kids are at home, with Pen, safe. A clerk was just shot in a liquor store. I was a witness. The only witness.”

  King returned to the room.

  “There’s more,” she glanced at King, “but I dropped my phone at the scene when I ran. I’m afraid the shooter may be able to figure out where we live.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Donovan said, brusque. “You’re with King?”

  “Yes. The twins are home with Pen and Ash.” She was repeating herself, fear jumbling her thoughts.

  “They’ll be fine. I’ll come get you.”

  “No.” She just wanted her children safe. “I’m safe here. Go to the twins.”

  “Riga… I’m glad you’re all right. Come home. I’ll meet you there.” He disconnected.

  She handed the sheriff his phone. He took it with two fingers and wiped it with a tissue from the box on his desk.

  Riga winced. She’d left the phone bloody.

  He scrubbed his hand over the graying, five o’clock shadow. “What happened?” he asked.

  She told him, starting with Mrs. Norton.

  While she spoke, he opened a desk drawer and pulled out a first aid kit. He balanced the kit against his gut, opened it, and drew out antiseptic and cotton pads. “Your hands.” The sheriff set the kit on the desk and took her hand, daubed at the blood.

  She bit back a yelp of pain and kept talking, leaving out most of the paranormal aspects. He didn’t want to hear them, but he needed to understand there was more to this case than a simple liquor-store robbery. They’d worked together in the past. He might be able to help her now.

  “You recognize the shooter?” he asked.

  “No-o,” she said slowly. Though she’d never met the man before, she’d recognized whatever had been inside him. Nausea rose in her throat.

  “Because from what you say, he was interested in you from the start.”

  She stared at the Indian-print rug lining the floor. “I didn’t think he’d follow me inside the store. It was a mistake.” And it had cost an innocent young man, a man who’d tried to help her. If he died, she would never forgive herself.

  If? Of course he’d died. The kid had taken a shotgun blast, point blank. Muscles jumped beneath her skin. She tried to swallow, but her throat clenched, choking.

  The sheriff’s phone rang. He set aside the first aid supplies and took the call. “King here… Yes… Keep loo
king.” He hung up. “They found your phone under a refrigerator.”

  She sagged. “Thank God. And the clerk?”

  He shook his head.

  She blinked rapidly, couldn’t breathe. The boy was dead.

  “The store must have video—”

  “It’s gone. The killer knew right where to find it. Good thing we’ve got you as a witness.”

  She laughed, low and harsh. “Good thing? That S.O.B. wouldn’t have gone in there at all if it wasn’t for me. If it wasn’t for me, that kid would be alive, reading his comic book, dreaming about the moment he could clock out.”

  “Enough. I need your help. You said the killer was wearing a gold watch. Did you recognize the brand?”

  She cleared her throat, gave him the name. “The cheaper versions go for around thirty thousand.”

  “Unlikely gear for an underpaid nurse.” He checked his own watch, a Timex with a tarnished metal band. “I’ll round up a sketch artist for you to meet. It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest. He can come to your house. He’ll come with an officer and a witness statement for you to sign. They’ll bring your phone after it’s been checked for prints.”

  “Thanks. It’s hard getting out of the house with the twins. I appreciate it.”

  He snorted. “Are you kidding? They’ll be able to dine out on that for weeks. Everyone wants to see inside that mansion.”

  “It’s not a—” Riga flushed. She’d already begun taking the lakefront estate for granted. It was so easy to get sucked in, to forget that that aspect of her lifestyle wasn’t normal. But nothing in her life was normal. And now someone else was dead.

  “You arrived by taxi,” he said. “I assume you’ll need a lift home.”

  And the sooner the better. Her throat thickened. She shouldn’t have left the twins this long. She shouldn’t have gone at all. If she’d just said “no,” just let Ash or one of the guards drive Mrs. Norton back, the kid in the liquor store would still be alive.

  But no, she’d been eager for any excuse to get out, to be a detective again. And she’d known the situation could have been dangerous. There was always that possibility. Mrs. Norton had warned her.