The Hoodoo Detective Read Online Free Page A

cops are on their way over now.”
    Her lips thinned. “Pretty sure of yourself, weren't you?”
    “Come on, Riga. I know you're curious.”
    More importantly, her contract bound her to this madness. “Fine. And Pen goes back to California.”
    Wolfe blinked. “What?”
    “I don't want her around murders. She's not even twenty. It's too much. She goes home.”
    Sam took off his glasses and polished them with the hem of his golf shirt. “I'm sorry, Riga.”
    She drew breath to argue.
    “I should have thought of that myself.” He replaced his glasses and frowned. “I'm just so used to thinking of her as one of our cameramen... people. I didn't think. You're right.”
    Her shoulders slumped. “Great. Thanks. And... I'd better be the one to tell her.”
    “I can do it. The fact is, with our crew combining with Mean Streets, we've got more manpower than we need. It makes sense to send Pen back. She can get to work with the editing team. It’ll be good experience for her.”
    “I'm sure she'll see it that way,” Riga said dryly. When Pen found out, she’d go nuclear. “Wolfe, I'd like to see the video from the restaurant today. Before the murder.”
    “I thought you might.” He handed his camera to Sam and flipped on one of the monitors. “Here.” He stepped away from the narrow table, pulling back a folding metal chair.
    “Thanks.” By now, she knew a bit about the equipment and was able to maneuver through the footage. Wolfe had queued it up to their arrival at the restaurant – walking down the wide, brick entry, their fleet slapping lightly on the flagstones. They paused to speak with the hostess, and Wolfe panned the scene: the fountain in the center, surrounded by ferns. Seated diners. Some shots of the Supernatural Encounters crew joking around the table, and then a cut to Wolfe, jogging down the dark hallway, Riga silhouetted in the open alleyway door.
    She rewound the footage, played it forward at half speed.
    Her heart stopped.
    An old man sat at a table near the door. Bald, in his tweed jacket he looked like an aging professor. Gaunt face. Sunken chest. A smile cold as a reptile's, turning Riga's heart to ice. Beside him sat a younger, dark-skinned woman.
    The old man was a necromancer. The necromancer. The file in her hotel room was filled with details of his kills, and she wondered wildly if her interest had summoned him.
    “The Hotel Meurice,” the Old Man said loudly. He glanced at the camera. Smiled. “Such a lovely courtyard suite. Ground floor, naturally. Room 105.”
    So it was going to be that way, was it?
    The hotel phone by the monitor rang, and Sam stretched to get it. “Yes? Yes. Sure. Send them in.” He hung up. “The police are here. You ready for this?”
    “As I'll ever be.” Rattled by the video, she twisted the wedding rings on her finger.
    The heavy door clanged open. Two detectives walked in, jackets over their arms, sweat stains darkening the armpits of their button-up shirts. One was tall, lanky, saturnine. He shook hands with Wolfe, towering over the cameraman. The other officer stood a couple inches shorter than Riga. He was muscular, his neck lost in the cords of muscle in his shoulders. Detectives long and short, she thought, wondering what metaphors Dirk had made of that team.
    The taller one looked about, his hawk nose flaring. “Dirk’s not here yet?”
    Sam rose, hand extended. “Er, no. But our consultant…” He motioned toward her. “Riga is ready.”
    The shorter one shrugged, crossing the room, and shook Riga's hand. “Don't know what Dirk could tell us anyway. He's not the supernatural type.” He held out a manila file folder to her, and for a bad moment she thought he'd taken it from her room upstairs. “Dirk said you were aces at this sort of thing. We called the references your show gave us. They all agreed.”
    Riga quirked a brow. Dirk had said?
    Laying the folder on an empty table, she opened it. She sucked in her breath, blew it out. The