Chief Bruyn wasn't an idiot. Just incompetent, at least when it came to issuing more than a speeding ticket. The town expected him to be tough, yet he wasn't a tough guy by nature. So he overcompensated. Find a private investigator crouched over a dead body? March her down to the station, interrogate her, and, hopefully, toss her in jail.
When he was about to make me go through my story a fourth time, I said, "Have you notified the Dallas Police Department?"
"Why would I--?" He stopped. A look of stark "oh, shit" terror, quickly hidden behind a scowl. "Detective Kennedy was off duty. I'll notify them in due course."
"A cop is never off duty." As he glowered, I dropped my gaze, just a fraction, and forced myself to add, "Or that's what I've heard."
The meek approach worked. He stepped out and told his officer to call the Dallas PD. Then he lowered his voice and told the officer to say Detective Kennedy had died of a fall, and they hadn't yet determined whether it was an accident or a homicide. Funny, he hadn't mentioned the accidental possibility to me. Is that why I wasn't with the sheriff's department? They thought it was an accident?
The officer came back and said the Dallas PD wanted to be kept informed. They also wanted to know if Bruyn had notified Detective Kennedy's next of kin.
"That would be his mother," I said, when that familiar look of blind panic hit Bruyn's face. "Not Claire's mother. She was his half sister on his dad's side."
My composure cracked a bit then, thinking of Claire, dead, and now Michael, too. Their poor parents. Michael coming to solve his sister's murder, then murdered himself and--
I took a deep breath. "Now, if you're done with me, I'll go back to my motel to rest."
"Like hell you will."
I fought to keep my voice steady. "You don't have enough to hold me. Your officer can drive me back and can park outside my door, and you have my word that I won't leave."
Bruyn crossed his arms. "You're not going anywhere. You killed a police detective."
"No, she didn't," said a voice from the door.
Jesse strode in, the younger officer at his heels, protesting that he'd tried to stop him. Jesse planted himself in front of Bruyn.
"The doctor's initial report found that Detective Kennedy seems to have died of a broken neck incurred in a fall. He was searching the warehouse, went to that second story, and fell backward off the edge."
"Fell?" Bruyn said. "Or was pushed?"
"Fell. There's only one way up. There's also only one set of prints, which I pointed out to the sheriff's department."
"I saw two sets--"
"On the first few steps. Savannah's prints, as I'm sure she'll confirm. She went up three steps, turned, and came back down." He glanced at me.
I nodded. "I heard a noise below. Turned out it was just a cat."
"The sheriff's department is holding the scene for their lab techs, but I'm sure when they arrive, they'll confirm only one set of prints upstairs. Michael Kennedy's. A tragic accident. But clearly an accident."
The phone rang.
"That would be the sheriff's department telling you to release Savannah," Jesse said.
I heard enough to know that they confirmed Jesse's story--one way up to the second floor and only one set of footprints. I still didn't believe Michael had fallen. Couldn't believe it. But I sure as hell wasn't saying so.
When Bruyn got off the phone, he said, "You're free to go. Just don't leave town. We'll be checking that second story, and if we find your prints up there ..."
"You won't," I said. "But I'm not leaving town anytime soon. I still have a case to solve."
AS WE GOT into Jesse's truck, I said, "Thank you."
"No problem."
"No, really. Thank you. You didn't need to do all that, and I appreciate it."
He fussed with his seat belt, clearly uncomfortable with gratitude, then put on a grin and flashed it my way. "Now you owe me. You realize that, right? If I ever get locked up in a small town, you've gotta come from wherever you are, whatever the hour, and investigate on my behalf."
"And the chances you'll be able to call in that chit someday are pretty good, aren't they?"
His grin widened. "Very good. Why else do you think I got you out of there?"
"Good call." I cracked the window and inhaled the night air, hoping it would settle my stomach. Then I glanced at Jesse. "Speaking of calls, I need to make one when we get to the motel."
"Lucas?"
"No, Adam. I need to keep him in the loop."
He frowned. "Lucas has him supervising you on this?"
"Not really."
"Good, because you clearly don't need it."
He was right. I didn't. And Adam really didn't need a 4 A.M. update. I just ... I'd just wanted to speak to him, I guess. It could wait, though.
THERE WAS NO chance of me sleeping, and Jesse seemed to realize that. He dropped me off at the motel and said he'd be back. I went in and sat on the bed. Just sat. Nothing else, unless you count thinking. Did a lot of that, as the world got too quiet again.
I thought of calling Adam. Bruyn had given me my phone back. I'm sure that wasn't standard procedure, but I hadn't been about to argue.
I won't say how many times I picked up the phone, finger poised over Adam's speed dial. I wanted to talk to him. More than that, I wanted to see him, and I knew that if I told him what had happened, he'd be on the road within the hour, no matter how much I argued.
He'd come, and I wanted that. God, how I wanted that. I wanted someone to hug me and tell me it was okay. Then I wanted to be distracted, to hear a story that would take my mind off Michael's death. Then, when I was ready, I wanted to be cheered up. Sympathy, comfort, support, and laughter. It was a lot to ask of any one person. But Adam could do it. He always did.
Which is why, every time I picked up that phone, I put it back down. If I was going to be the mature investigator Jesse thought I was, then I had to get through this on my own.
Forty-five minutes later, Jesse came back with beer and snacks. I told him I was convinced Michael's death had been murder after stumbling on a ritual in progress. The ritual going on that night might not have been a deadly one, but it had turned out that way.
Bruyn said Michael's cell phone hadn't been found with his body. While it was possible that he'd sent the message--Jesse said that the preliminary report on time of death didn't rule that out--I was betting that the killer sent it right after killing him. Then, when I'd arrived, he--or she--had called Chief Bruyn to report a disturbance at the warehouse. That to me was the most damning piece of evidence. Someone had brought the cops there just in time to catch me with the body.
Jesse absently twisted his beer can, still looking doubtful. "As someone who got arrested twice courtesy of a citizen who reported seeing me break into a place, I gotta say that I'm not convinced it wasn't coincidental. People notice, especially in a small town. But while I think Michael Kennedy's death was an accident, I'll consider the possibility that it wasn't. That possibility, though, means that you're in danger. We need to get this figured out ASAP. I'd like to stay and help. I know you didn't want that, but--"
"No, you're right. When Michael was here I was worried about the three of us tripping over each other, but now ..."
I trailed off and pulled my legs up, tucking them under me.
Jesse leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "How're you holding up? I know you liked the guy."
"I did." I took a deep breath. "Right now, though, I need to solve this case and catch his killer. So please don't suggest I go home."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good. Okay, next--"
A hard knock at the door.
"Ms. Levine?" a deep voice called.
It was the sheriff's department.
twenty-three
The lab techs had confirmed what Jesse said. One set of stairs. One set of prints going all that up. One set of prints at the top. Michaels death was being ruled an accident, though they took all my contact information,
just in case.
After they left, I kicked Jesse out. If he was working this case, he needed to go home, pack a bag, cancel appointments, whatever. He was reluctant to leave me alone, but I said I was fine. I wasn't, but he didn't know me well enough to tell.
By the time he left, it was after seven, which I figured was late enough to call a few of my shadier supernatural contacts out east. None had heard of either Cody or Tiffany. Never heard of Columbus, Washington. Never heard of Alastair Koppel and his commune. The only one who was any help was the last call I made, to a local witch, Molly Crane, who was up early getting her girls off to school.
Four years ago Molly had tried to kill Jaime Vegas. I'd intervened and left Molly tied up in a swamp. In the underbelly of the supernatural world, that marked the beginning of a working relationship based on mutual respect. A temporary gift of zombies a couple of years ago hadn't hurt matters. Molly liked me. Can't say I felt the same about her, but she was useful.
"If there's a witch living so close to me, then I should know about her," Molly said. "If I don't, she's not just flying under the radar, she's crawling under it. You said her magic looks old?"
"That's what I'm thinking. I was going to run it past Paige but ..."
Molly snorted. "Like Paige would recognize magic that wasn't pure as the driven snow."
Not true, but part of cozying up to Molly meant letting her disparage Paige and Lucas.
"That's kind of what I thought," I said. "And Paige hates me getting involved in anything dark ..."
Another snort. "E-mail me those pictures. I'll find your ritual."
THE MOTEL ROOM got too quiet again after that. I paced, struggling to focus on the case. I couldn't. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I headed out for breakfast.
I walked to the diner. It was a good hike, but I needed the air. As I approached the door, though, I slowed, and my stomach twisted. Word of Michael's death would have spread. There would be questions, probing questions, small-town curiosity spreading its tentacles. I couldn't handle that.
So I walked past. Got ten steps before the door whooshed open and Lorraine called out after me.
"Savannah? Hon? Nothing open down that way. Come on back and get yourself some breakfast."
When I turned to face her, she gave a sympathetic smile.
"Heard you had a rough night. Come and eat. On the house."
I struggled for an excuse. None came.
When I walked through the doors, every eye turned my way. The place was busier than I expected. With the local paper shut down, this was news central. And after finding Michael's body, I was the lead story.
No one said a word, though. After weak smiles and kind nods they all returned to their meals.
I sat at the counter and ordered breakfast. The questions came tentatively. Not "So what happened last night?" but "Are you okay?" and "I'm sorry about Detective Kennedy." They wanted to know what happened and knew it wasn't right to ask, so I told them.
When my meal arrived, they switched to other topics--local and area news, funny personal stories, whatever might take my mind off Michael's death. And over that meal, I mentally took back every nasty thing I'd ever said about small-town folks.
I'd ordered steak and eggs, and was complimenting Lorraine on her hash browns when her gaze moved to the front window. I looked out to see a young woman locking up a bike at the rack. She took an insulated bag from the carrier.
"One of the commune girls," Lorraine said. "We get our eggs and milk from them. This girl has come the last couple of days. She asked about you yesterday, whether you ate breakfast here."
It was the girl who'd seemed like she wanted to talk to me yesterday. Blue-streaked hair cut short and spiky. Studs in her nose and brow. A look that screamed attitude. Her face didn't, though. Soft features and anxious eyes said the tough-girl look was a desperate attempt to find something she lacked.
The girl ignored me as she unloaded the bag for Lorraine and took the money.
"Do you have a minute?" I said. "I'd love to buy you a coffee. Megan said it was okay to talk to me, but I still don't want to get you in trouble."
It was the right thing to say. The tough girl inside her squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.
"I'm not afraid of Megan. Alastair said we can talk to you or that detective."
I could tell by the way she said "that detective" that she didn't know Michael was dead. News didn't travel as fast when you lived up on Commune Hill. I didn't see any reason to tell her, so I nodded and sipped my coffee. She did the same, her courage melting again.
"So Alastair said it was okay?" I prodded.
She nodded. "He said if someone's preying on the girls of this town, he wants the guy caught."
"He thinks it's a guy?"
She frowned. "It always is, isn't it?" Her gaze and voice dropped in a way that told me everything I needed to know about this girl's damage.
I asked her name.
"Sylvia," she said. "But I go by Vee."
"Okay, Vee. How long have you been with the group?"
"Just over a year."
Meaning she'd known Tamara, the friend of Claire's who'd left in a hurry. Good.
"Did you know Ginny or Brandi?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"They never came up to the house?" I said. "Talked to Alastair, maybe?"
Her shoulders tightened. "Alastair's a good guy. He's helped me a lot. And, no, I'm not sleeping with him. He wouldn't let me even if I asked. I've--I've had problems. With that ... kind of thing." She cleared her throat. "His place, it's not what people think. Not what my parents think, that's for sure. Every couple of months they have this cult deprogrammer chick sneak into town to try to talk me out. It's bullshit. No one's holding me against my will. My folks blame Alastair because, otherwise, they'd have to admit that I've got a problem they can't shove under the carpet like they've done all my--" She stopped and took a deep breath. "Sorry."
"No reason to be. It's good to know what the members think of the group and Alastair."
"Alastair's great. Really great."
But I noticed she hadn't answered my original question. Had Ginny gone up to visit him at the house? I broached the subject again with Vee, but she was quick with her denials. Too quick. I filed it and let it go.
"Is there anything about the group that does worry you?" I asked.
She chewed her lip enough to flake the skin, then said, "Kind of. It's Megan. She--" She took a deep breath. "Look, I don't like Megan, okay? No one does. She's a bitch. The only reason she's still around is because she runs the business. And because Alastair ... well, he's kind of attached to her, you know. But I don't like her and I'd be happy to see her tossed out on her skinny ass. I'm telling you that now, because if you find out later that I don't like her, it'll sound like I was making this up."
"Okay."
She didn't go on right away. Drank half her coffee first, and I struggled not to fidget. Sitting for so long reminded me that I'd been up all night, and I found myself swallowing a yawn with every third breath until she finally blurted it out.
"Megan's a voodoo priestess."
I tried to look shocked. Probably did a decent job of it too, because while I knew someone up there was practicing Santeria, Megan was at the bottom of my list. If there's a type of person who picks up a religion like that, Megan definitely didn't fit it. Alastair did, though--he might seem distinguished, but he was nothing more than an old hippie, the kind of person who'd be attracted to a mystical religion.
"Voodoo?"
"Kind of. Claire said it wasn't voodoo but something else."
"Santeria?"
"That's it."
"So Claire knew."
"Yeah, but ... It was weird. She wasn't too fussed about it. She said she'd talked to a friend, who explained that it was just a kind of religion. It freaks me out, though."
"Do all the girls know about it?"
Vee shook her head. "I just told Claire because she
was my roommate, and she seemed smart, so I wanted to hear what she thought. I'm the only one who knows. Except Alastair. He ... he helps Megan sometimes. With the rituals and stuff. They do them in a room behind the shed, late at night, when everyone's sleeping. I saw them once. I think that's why Alastair likes Megan so much. She's cast a spell on him."
I struggled to keep a straight face and nodded. Why are humans so enamored with the myth of love spells? Even at my most desperate, I wouldn't have been tempted by a spell to make Adam fall in love with me. My ego is way too healthy for that.
I asked Vee what she'd seen. There was nothing, though, to suggest Megan and Alastair were more than typical adherents doing typical protection rituals, like the one in the shed.
"They do sacrifices," she said, when I didn't seem impressed enough. "That's what Claire told me."
"Animal sacrifices."
"So she said."
"You think Megan had something to do with the murders?"
She shifted in her seat.
"Did you hear anything that might suggest a ritualistic link?"
"No, but ..."
I waited. Nothing.
"But ..." I prompted.
"Alastair was gone the night those town girls died." She blurted it as fast as she'd told me about the Santeria. "I got up for a glass of milk. I don't sleep too well. When I was in the kitchen, I heard the door open. It was Alastair. He looked ... sick. He looked sick."
"Was Megan with him?"
"No, but do you really think she'd take care of the bodies? She had him do it. She killed those girls in a voodoo ritual, then she made him take the bodies into town. It wasn't his fault. He had to protect her."
There were a lot of holes in this theory. Still, it bore investigating.
"Did you tell anyone else?" I asked.
"Just my roommate. She left after that. I think it freaked her out."
Claire's friend, Tamara. I doubted it was a coincidence that Claire had ended up rooming with Vee. If the cult was as popular as they claimed, Tamara's spot would have been filled before Claire decided to investigate. She must have maneuvered to get the same roommate as her friend.
"What about Claire?" I asked. "Did you tell her what you saw?"
"No." The denial came fast. In other words, yes, she had and she feared that's what got Claire killed.