The Hoodoo Detective Read Online Free Page B

photo on top showed a man hanging upside down, fingertips scraping the parquet floor. The furnishings behind him were French Revolution opulent – a baroque mirror that had just caught the flash of the camera, a gilt armchair. The victim carried extra weight, and gravity pulled his folds of flesh toward his chin.
    “A traitor's hanging,” she said.
    “What?” The tall detective came close, leaned over her shoulder. He smelled like sweat and soap.
    “In Renaissance Italy,” Riga said, “traitors were hanged upside down. Most occultists know this – it's the root of the Hanged Man in the tarot deck. The tradition never quite went away. After Mussolini was executed, his body was hung upside down for public display.”
    She pushed that picture to the side and looked at the next, swallowed. A sigil, white against the dark wood of the floor. She'd seen it before, drawn by men associated with the old man. And he was here now... “Chalk?”
    “Looks like it,” Detective Short said. “You recognize the symbol?”
    Necromancy. The word stuck in her throat. “It's a sigil, a magical symbol, as you've probably guessed. It's old, at least Renaissance.” She laid out the rest of the photos – more sigils. “I don't have these memorized, but I believe they spell the name of a demon.”
    “So whoever killed him was calling a demon?”
    A shot from farther back that took in the scene in its entirety. A circle had been drawn on the floor, the sigils around it, the man dangling in the center, lines of chalk crossing the circle. “It appears to be a necromantic sacrifice,” she said. “These are typically done to gain power. Was he an important or wealthy man?”
    “Yeah,” Detective Long said. “A local playboy. What do you mean, necromantic?”
    “Necromancy. It's a broad term for death magic. It could be as innocent as speaking with the dead or as dark as using death to power one's spells.”
    “Magic spells?” Detective Long's brows rose. “Really? You believe this crap?”
    “Your killer may,” she said. “He knew what he was doing. But...”
    “But what?” Detective Short asked.
    “I could tell you more if I saw the actual crime scene. Is it possible?”
    The detectives glanced at each other.
    “Yeah,” Detective Short said. “Tomorrow morning.”
    Pen slipped into the room.
    Gathering up the photos, Riga returned them to the folder, closed it. She pressed her fingers on the top as if the contents might fly away.
    “We've already discussed this with the police,” Sam cut in. “We'll be with the Mean Streets team as they check out the scene of the crime.”
    Pen hurried to Riga. She bounced on her toes, and Riga noticed she wasn't wearing a bra beneath her black t-shirt. When had that started? The cops watched with interest.
    “It's true?” Pen asked. “We're joining Dirk Steele and the Mean Streets crew? That is so awesome!” She grinned at Wolfe.
    He looked quickly away.
    Sam coughed, glanced at the cops. Short drew the folder with the photos from beneath Riga’s hand.
    “Um, Pen,” Sam said. “There's something we need to talk about. Since we're joining up with Mean Streets , we're going to have to cut back on our camera staff. It's nothing personal, just the budget. So I'm sending you back to L.A., where you can work with the editing crew, be their shadow.”
    Pen's face fell. “Back to L.A.? But...” She drew a sharp breath, eyes widening. Jaw jutting forward, she spun on her aunt. “You're behind this, aren't you?”
    Sam shook his head frantically.
    “I suggested you go home because I don't want you around a murder investigation,” Riga said. “But Sam's not lying about the budget issue. That's the only reason he agreed. He wants you here.”
    “I can't believe you'd do this to me! You know how important this job is!”
    “Which is why you'll continue it in Los Angeles.” Riga tried to ignore the two cops.
    “Los Angeles isn't where the action is!”
    “Pen,” Sam said.