The Gone Dead Train (27 page)

The old woman slipped the money in her bra and eyed Frankie. “
No tenemos su libro
,” she said, waving Frankie toward the door.

Frankie slipped two twenties from her pocket and held them for Ovia to see.

“But I have a terrible problem. Will you help me?”

The woman sneered. “A spirit follows you. His hand is at your throat. He blames you . . . an accident.”

“Is he here now?” she asked, trying not to be a little spooked. Ramos had mentioned the accident, too.

Ovia's eyes roved over the room. “I will send him away.”

“Great. Do that. But this is a different problem. I want to give a man
un gran susto
, a big scare, with a curse. Can you do this? Make this live man go away? Never come back?”

Ovia jutted her chin out with pride. “I can make him go away. Sure.”

“Can you make him leave this world?
El ebo muerte
?”

The woman's gaze rested on the money. “It will cost much more.”

“I asked Dr. Ramos to make a death spell, but now I see that you control the cauldron and the spirits. I'm impressed.”

Ovia stepped closer. The odor of stale cigar smoke wafted from her dress. “I am Tata Nkisi, a
mayombero
. You know this.”

“And your death spells work.”

Ovia nodded. “I made two spells last week.”

“I'd like to speak with the person who bought the spells.”

Ovia showed her teeth, shook her head. “
No sé el nombre
.”

“You don't have a name? Was this a man or a woman?”

“A woman came to
la botánica
.”

Frankie handed one of the twenties to her. “Tell me about the woman.”

Ovia stashed the money inside her dress then stretched to hold her hand high above Frankie's head, indicating height. “
Una iniciado en la Santería. Seis necklaces
.”

Tall, a Santerían believer, and she wears six necklaces, Frankie thought. Five for the necklace initiation ceremony, one for a specific orisha.

“Is she black or white?”

“Mulatto,” Ovia said.

“From the islands?”

Ovia waved away the question. “You want my help? No more questions.”

“How much money for the
ebbo
I described?”

“Fifty dollars.”

“And if Dr. Ramos makes the curse? Is it more?”

Ovia flattened her hands and moved them back and forth. “Ramos cannot help you.” She pointed to her chest. “Only me.”

She was selling black magic out the back door. She picked up clients at the salon and got her supplies from Mystica. Rare items she must take from Ramos's pharmacy and replace them before he missed them.

If she were to believe Ovia, Sergio Ramos did not practice the black arts. But was he aware that his housekeeper did?

Voices came from the backyard, then footsteps on the porch. Ovia snatched the second bill from Frankie's hand.

“You want
el ebo muerte
? The doctor cannot know.” She drew a strange pattern in the air over Frankie's head and stepped back as if satisfied.

Ramos came through the door. His hair was damp-combed off his face, and the aroma of aftershave followed him into the room. Of course. He would need a barber's help.

“My driver recognized your car, Ms. Malone,” he said. “Have I forgotten an appointment?” He extended his hand then frowned and touched her bandaged wrist. “You've hurt yourself.”

“She came for a book,” Ovia said. “I told her to go.”

“The book is on my desk,” Ramos said. “
To Kill a Mockingbird
is a favorite of mine, an attorney who stands for justice when no one else will.”

“I considered practicing law because of Atticus Finch, but I chose to be a police officer instead.”

She laid her badge wallet in his hand. Presenting her badge in an unofficial investigation was a risk, but it put muscle behind the questions she wanted to ask.

Ramos thumbed the shield, his eyes coming up, hidden by the glasses, but she could tell he was gazing at her. “Now I understand why you always carry a gun. I recognized the smell of the cleaning oil for your weapon.”

“You and I attended a funeral for two men.” She pulled the plastic-wrapped conjure bag from her back pocket and pressed it into his hand. “Someone used their belief in Santería to scare them to death.”

Ovia reached to snatch the bag away, but Ramos clamped his hand on her wrist. “Do not speak, Ovia. And do not leave the room.” He opened the conjure bag, dumped its contents, and ran his fingers over the dust. “Eggshell. Coal dust. Wasp nest. Guinea pepper. Rock salt,” he recited quietly.

“I found the bag near Red Davis's body,” Frankie said. “He suffered a heart attack on the spot. We believe someone chased Little Man. He broke his neck in a fall. Both men died in terror. I saw it on their faces.”

Ovia spat at Frankie's feet. “This one is bad. You've seen her spirit man.
Está furioso
.”

Ramos spoke to Ovia in heated Spanish. They went back and forth for a while, Ovia gesturing at Frankie in an attempt to shift blame. Ramos pointed at a chair, his voice thick with emotion. “
Siéntese y no hable con la señorita
.”

Ovia collapsed in the chair, defeated.

Ramos turned back to Frankie, stiff with formality. His conversation with Ovia had unnerved him.

“You were counseling both men,” Frankie said. “The conjure bag and unusual components that you keep in your home were found near the body. This looks bad for you.”

Ramos tilted his head, impassive. “I was not involved in these deaths, but I am responsible for the members of my household. To that end, I may be culpable.”

“Were you involved in the making of this curse?”

“No.”

“Did Ovia make it?”

He looked over at the old woman. “She won't say.”

“She claims to have sold curses to a woman last week. I need that name. And I need anything Mr. Davis told you that might lead to his killer.”

“I will speak to Ovia when you are gone. And I hold Mr. Davis's privilege to confidentiality, so I can tell you nothing.”

“Red and Little Man had their lives taken from them. As professionals, you and I have a duty to stand up for them. Tell me. What do you think Atticus Finch would do in this situation?”

Ramos looked surprised. He thought a moment, then a smile played over his lips. “You would have been a gifted attorney, Ms. Malone. Please, join me in my office. We have things to discuss.”

He took her hand. “But first we must treat this burn.”

“What makes you think it's a burn?”

“I'm a witch doctor, am I not?”

T
alk to witnesses at the scene of an accident, and every one of them gives you a different version of events. There are as many sides to a story as there are people involved.

Billy sat in his car near the stone entrance to the Waters Trace subdivision wanting to get out of the car and kick the shit out of one of those pillars. He smacked the dashboard instead. Everyone he talked to was working their own agenda. Take Pryce, a man Augie had helped in every way he could, but to hell with Augie Poston. Pryce didn't give a damn about his murder. In the meantime, the killer was slipping away.

He pulled himself together and started down the list of Pryce's witnesses. He got voice mail on all three. He called Frankie. She answered on the first ring.

“I met with Walker Pryce,” he said before she could speak. “If you're driving, pull over.” He heard the click of her blinker.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Pryce was performing open-heart surgery onstage at the Met. He has witnesses, and you're angry about it.”

“I just knew Pryce was our guy. And he's mixed up in this somehow, but it's possible he's not the killer.”

“What happened?”

He watched a dump truck rumble along the highway beside the subdivison. He was gripping the steering wheel, needing to cool off.

“I called and suggested I stop by. Before I got there, he had his hands on my work history and the detail of Augie's investigation, including the fake cameras at the DeVoy. He was so far ahead of me I choked on his dust. We had our talk. I didn't get much. On the way out, he gave me the numbers for three alibi witnesses and said not to get back in touch until I was satisfied he wasn't Augie's killer.”

“Cocky son of a bitch.”

He started to tell her about Pryce's drag queen drama but decided to give out that information on a need-to-know basis. “The only reason he agreed to talk to me was to get his hands on the rest of the surveillance shots. He claims to have a copy of the one Augie stole from me but says Augie kept the original.”

He heard Frankie breathing into the phone, thinking. “Is it time to pull Dunsford in on this?”

Oh hell
, he thought.
The voice of reason is stepping in to save our careers
. “We're in the clear except for my interview with Pryce, which is borderline. Neither of us has broken the law.”

“Let me think. What were you and Freeman doing last night that was so illegal you couldn't tell me about it?”

“That was different. If we find real evidence . . . material evidence, we'll put it in Dunsford's hands.”

“The photographs
are
material evidence.”

“Got damn it
, Frankie. If we give Dunsford those pictures before we prove he's mishandling these cases, we'll lose our leverage and both of our jobs.” His tone was nasty, demeaning.

“Watch it,” she said then stopped. “No, you're right. Absolutely right. Where are you now?”

“Near Pryce's house. He's expecting someone to come by. I'm hanging around to see who it is. Frankie?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry about the bad attitude.”

“Understood. We're both under pressure. By the way, the PI report came in while I was doing that NCIC check on Pryce.”

“Anything significant?” he asked.

“Hold on.”

He heard her unclip the seat belt and the sound of papers rustling.

“He contacted Red's music publisher. Red's manager worked the early contracts, so the manager got the biggest cut. There're still royalties coming in, but a couple of years ago the publisher lost track of Red. No forwarding address. He was probably afraid Cool Willy would find him.”

“Is there a new recording contract in the works?”

“They said fans want original recordings from the older artists, not new music.”

That tanked his explanation for the business deal Red had bragged about. He heard more paper shuffling on Frankie's end.

“Here's something. Cool Willy is rebranding himself with his legal name, ‘William Cooley.' The limousine service is legit. He claims he's walking away from drugs and hookers.”

“Nice try. You can dress up street trash, but it's still street trash.”

“The PI thinks he's setting up a money-laundering operation.”

“That sounds right. What else?”

“The girl seated at the piano is Theda Jones, the daughter of one of Cool Willy's chippies. Her mother is African-American, her father, a Japanese tourist. The girl's a stunner, with real talent at the keyboard. At fourteen she won a partial scholarship to the Montague School, outside Baton Rouge, a prep school for musical prodigies. To make the program, she had to come up with ten grand of her own money. Instead of helping, Mom let Willy get his hooks into her. He set her up as a call girl for the johns who roll into the Quarter for medical and corporate conferences. Theda was his off-the-menu specialty, very high dollar. The girl realized he was making too much money to let her go back to school, so she tried to get away. She played piano in the cocktail lounge of the blues club where Red and Little Man headlined. The club owner said Cool Willy started pressuring him to fire her. When things got heated, she disappeared.”

“Any idea where she went?” he asked.

“I think I know. Ramos let me review Red's file this morning.”

“You went to Ramos's today without telling me?”

“You went to Pryce's by yourself. I can handle myself, Billy.”

She explained how the housekeeper had been selling black magic out the back door.

“What's Ramos's part in this?” he asked.

“The old woman acted guilty as hell. Ramos appeared to be shocked.”

“What's your gut say. Is he involved?”

“You're always bringing up my gut,” she said.

“Instinct is a big part of this work.”

“We've been over this. And quit being such a jerk.”

He gritted his teeth. Pryce had taken a bite out of his ego, and he was unloading on her.

“Ramos took responsibility for his housekeeper's actions, but said he wasn't involved. Even the housekeeper said he wouldn't make a death curse. I saw no indication in Red's file of a problem between them. Deductive reasoning says Ramos isn't the killer. No guts involved in that thought process, I might add.”

He grinned into the phone.

“Red told Ramos he was supporting someone in Boston. He used the phrase ‘old fool love.'”

“Now it's coming together,” he said. “Red and Little Man sent the Jones girl to Boston. Cool Willy found out, beat the crap out of them, and broke up their instruments. They ran to Memphis and stayed under the radar by not playing on Beale Street so Cool Willy couldn't track them down.”

“You think Cool Willy and Jones are tied into their deaths?”

“Willy is a contender. Jones, I don't know. It doesn't make sense. Red spent every cent to keep her in piano strings. But I'd still like to question her.”

The young woman he'd seen getting out of the car at the funeral home had to be Jones. The hat she wore blocked her profile. He could kick himself for not recognizing her. He might have made the connection if he hadn't been so focused on Augie at the time.