The Voodoo Killings (28 page)

Gideon’s lip twitched. “Perhaps I wasn’t specific enough.”

“I can’t
make
Max call me back.”

“If I was willing to wait for Maximillian to contact me, I wouldn’t have involved you.”

So the ghost was involving me? “I thought you were coercing me?”

He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Different time, different definitions. My message?”

I sighed. I did not have the time or the brainpower for this. “Look, I’m going to see Max in person tomorrow morning.” Gideon looked as if he was going to object, so I added, “I can’t just barge into Max’s house.” I may be a practitioner, but Max was voodoo. You don’t intrude onto a voodoo priest’s property without an invitation—not unless you want to spend money on removing the resulting curse.

Gideon’s brow furrowed in the mirror and I could tell he wasn’t impressed.

“Take it or leave it,” I said.

He stared at me with those cold black eyes and the temperature in the room dropped. Great, round two with the sorcerer’s ghost. I checked the room for any ropes or wires.

Then Gideon rolled his eyes. “Have it your way, practitioner. Until tomorrow. In the meantime? Get some sleep. You look like you’ve been dragged through the Otherside one too many times.”

I snorted. “I’ll remember that the next time I run into a flying
hair dryer cord. Would probably help if I didn’t have to pull a globe twice a day to look at bindings.”

Gideon stopped his fade into the ghost-grey fog. “Why on earth would you need to touch the Otherside for something as simple as looking at bindings?” He stared at me as if I was an idiot.

Stupid, self-absorbed ghosts. Dead for a few decades and they forget the living can’t see Otherside…“Umm, because otherwise I’d never see bindings?”

I didn’t know what the hell I’d said, but Gideon regarded me with renewed interest. “Is it possible you don’t know? Don’t bother answering, I can see from your face that you don’t.”

“Know what?”

“I suppose it makes sense that Maximillian wouldn’t bother teaching you how to do it, since he’s a medium. So you ‘pull a globe,’ as you say, every time you need to see Otherside?”

I think I preferred the pissed-off, homicidal Gideon. “All right, spit it out. What the hell has you so interested all of a sudden?”

He lowered his head and looked at me as if I were prey. “Just that there’s a much easier way.”

I frowned. Why wouldn’t Max have taught me that?

“You might even be able to persuade me to show you. I’m sure you have something you could trade.”

Lee’s warning came back with a vengeance.
He has a reputation for offering people things they cannot refuse
. “
Not
interested.”

“Surely you don’t think you can keep going like this? Let me guess—nausea comes and goes now, accompanied by sweats and thirst? No matter how much you sleep, you’re always tired? Don’t bother answering, I see it written across your face.” His eyes glittered black-grey. “I can help you with that.”

“Get out,” I said.

“How much longer do you think you’ll last? A month? A week?” His eyes narrowed. “I’d wager you can’t stop yourself anymore—”

“
Now
.”

He shrugged. “Live, die? Makes no difference to me. Let me know if you change your mind.”

He vanished into the fog.

I grabbed a towel and launched it at the mirror. Gideon was wrong. All I needed was a vacation, a few days off from tapping the Otherside.

And just how long did I plan to keep telling myself that?

“What the hell was that, K?” Nate’s voice was followed by his face materializing in my compact, like a normal ghost, one that I’d
actually
called.

“Just my stalker ghost trying to sell me snake oil.” I filled Nate in on the day’s plans, including that I needed him to keep an eye on Cameron over the next few hours.

“And don’t get attached to anything,” I said. Nate’d had a bit of a shoplifting problem as a kid…and as an adult…and as a rock star. Don’t ask. You’d think being a ghost and having difficulty picking things up would have fixed the problem, but it hadn’t. He could only go after tiny, relatively light stuff, like coins and cigarettes, but still. Lee’d resorted to threats to make him bring back all the glasses he’d lifted from Damaged Goods.

Nate ignored me and floated into the studio. “Hey, Cameron, what’s up? You’re looking better—Hey, what’s this?” he said, hovering in front of a painting.

“Cameron, watch your wallet and small paintings.” I stowed Lee’s two texts in my backpack in case I needed them for reference at the crime scene. “Cameron?”

“I know—don’t let anyone in and if I remember anything, write it down?” He looked up from the canvas. “What else should I do?”

“I don’t know, Cameron. Reminisce? Do whatever you used to do at home?” He just stared at me, bleakly. “Tell you what, your job is to sort through your stuff, pack some clothes and come up with plausible reasons for us to see your art dealer, got it?”

He looked as if he was about to argue with me.

“Come on, you’re a creative guy.”

“You want me to lie through my teeth?”

“If that’s what it takes. Nate can help you—”

“K, fuck off—” Nate said.

Cameron drew in a deep breath. “I’ll call and tell him I have a new piece.” He frowned at me and glanced back at his painting. “Granted, I’ll have to finish it first.”

I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door. “I have faith in you. Back by noonish. Call if you have any problems, and keep the door locked.”

“Hey, Kincaid?”

I glanced back over my shoulder, expecting another argument.

“Just…good luck with everything. I hope you figure out who’s killing these people.”

Well, that was unexpected. But kind of nice.

—

I kept my eyes on the floor as I rode the elevator down. Why do expensive buildings always cover the walls with mirrors? Do rich people actually like looking at themselves?

I stepped into the lobby and noted the new concierge at the front desk. I kept my head down and focused on the floor as I walked past him. I do not have the best of luck with security guards in places like this. Apparently I arouse suspicion. In the reflection of the window I saw that he stared at my back for my entire trip across the lobby.

I was about to push through the glass doors when I caught sight of someone sitting on a white leather chair in a small waiting area beside the doors. A tuft of neon-pink hair peeked over the top of a fashion magazine she was reading.

I strode over and planted myself in front of her. She didn’t look up. I cleared my throat.

Slowly she raised her face from the pages, then lifted an eyebrow as if in surprise. “My god, they let you in this building? Dressed like
that
?”

I smiled. Amateur. “You’ll have to be a hell of a lot more creative to get a rise out of me.”

She frowned, sat up straighter and crossed her legs, exposing a pair of spike heels I could only imagine teetering in. “Can I help you with something?” she said.

“Cut the crap. What are you doing here?”

Her eyes dropped to my muddy leather boots and lingered longer than I cared for.

“I have an appointment with a client this morning,” she finally said. “What are
you
doing here?”

“None of your business—”

The concierge straightened in his chair. “Is there a problem here?” he called.

Oh, for Christ’s sake.
I’d
actually come out of the elevator. I wasn’t slumming in the lobby reading a magazine….

Unfortunately, Neon fit in. I didn’t. Wealthy people concerned about the afterlife blow a lot of money on practitioners. Not the real ones like me, mind you. The whitewashed models, like Neon. Chances are good you don’t really want to know what your parents, deceased spouse or jilted friends actually have to say about you. Amazing what people will pay for someone to lie to them…

I also didn’t have any
proof
she was following me or had any other nefarious schemes cooked up.

I smiled apologetically towards the concierge. I’ve had practice over the years. “Sorry, sir, just catching up with an old friend.”

“This is a private building. Take your conversation outside,” he said, nodding at the door.

Neon smirked. I turned my back on her and managed a steady walk until I was around the corner and out of visual range. I took a deep breath to calm my temper and pulled out my phone. I don’t believe in coincidences. The fact that Neon was hanging out around Cameron’s building spooked me. Time to see if Max was answering his phone.

He wasn’t, so I left another message. “Max, it’s me. Things are getting awfully crowded this side of the barrier. Just get back to me before I have to knock down your door, will you?”

CHAPTER 17

THE LIVING AND THE DEAD

While Aaron made sure the coast was clear at the crime scene, I’d arranged to meet Sarah at the only coffee shop on Pioneer Square that still made a decent Americano. It’s harder than it looks. It’s not just adding hot water to espresso, there’s technique involved. I tugged my hood up before I headed inside.

I got in line and looked around for Sarah. I was at the cash register when I spotted her…on account of the fedora, leather trench coat and newspaper.

I shook my head. Why did I even bother trying to be inconspicuous?

As soon as my coffee was up on the bar, I headed to her corner and slid into the seat opposite. “You look ridiculous.”

Sarah lifted her head out of her newspaper wearing a big grin. “Oh, come on, Kincaid. Where’s your sense of fun?”

“I don’t know, Sarah. I just haven’t been having all that good a time recently.”

She was about to make a crack, then paused, taking in my pallor, the bags under my eyes, all the signs of wear and tear connected to too much Otherside. She just nodded.

Aaron’s partner was definitely the more senior of the pair. If she hadn’t crossed the forty threshold yet, she was close. Her red hair had begun to fade and she either couldn’t be bothered or didn’t see the point of remedying it with dye. Still attractive, just maybe not in a conventional way. Her most striking feature, though, was her size. She’d been an Olympic weightlifter in her youth, and she still had the physique. She easily outmuscled the majority of men on the force. Scratch that—she outmuscled most of the men in Seattle. Witnesses and suspects alike were so shocked by Sarah’s physical presence they spent the first minute or so in her custody stammering in an attempt not to spill what they knew. By the time Aaron stepped in, suspects were too intimidated to lie. Or lie well, at least.

I’d missed Sarah. We weren’t friends; the age difference and the fact she had a couple of kids meant we didn’t have much in common. But she was one of those people in a perpetually good mood, and I enjoyed her sense of humour.

The fact that Aaron, unlike the other men on the force, had never had a problem with Sarah had earned him a lot of brownie points with me when we first met.

Sarah stood up, came around my side of the table and wrapped me in a bear hug. “Kincaid, you’ve got no idea how happy I am to see you.”

This was well outside my realm of comfortable. I gave her an awkward pat on the back. “Uh, yeah. Nice to see you too—”

She released me and slid back into her chair like a cat. You’d think a woman her size would be awkward, but then she’d had to dodge all those barbells on their way down. I think the un-nimble weightlifters get weeded out.

“Is it that bad at work?” I said.

She snorted. “You never met Captain Marks, did you?”

I shook my head. “Seen him on TV and in the paper, though.”

Sarah’s face turned serious, an expression she usually reserved for the more gruesome murder cases. “The man’s an idiot, Kincaid. He wants us to ignore all paranormal cases.”

“He’s not an Orthodox Realist, is he? The ones convinced ghosts are a hoax?” Since the barrier was thinnest along the ocean coast and near
the Great Lakes, if you lived near them, you were used to the odd ghost. But if you grew up in the Midwest and the Prairies? No water, hence fewer ghosts. Orthodox Realists weren’t the first religious faction to claim there was no such thing as ghosts, but they were the most vocal. “This is Seattle. I mean, he has to have seen a ghost by now. Eventually he’s got to walk by the water at night. Just drag him down to the square in the rain and make him stand under the Pergola, problem solved.”

Sarah shook her head. “Naw, that’s not it. He believes in ghosts just fine.” She gave me a measured look. “His problem is with encouraging people like you to contact them.”

But that was just…stupid. Ghosts were just there. Whether people could contact them was beside the point. Charlatans had been conning people for centuries. At least I offered the real deal. “I’m guessing he’s never had to settle a will dispute. You have any idea how much time and money a zombie saves?”

“Preaching to the converted, Kincaid. He’s got this notion that if people just ignore the ghosts, they’ll go away.”

“Fat chance.”

“He’s a fanatic,” Sarah said. “He likened having paranormal consultants on staff to keeping drug dealers and whores around for information. Not that I’ve ever had a drug dealer or whore tell me where a dead body was buried that they
hadn’t
shot, but hey, there’s a first time for everything.” She blew on and then sipped her coffee. “He’s taking it upon himself to clean up the paranormal underbelly of the city.” She levelled her grey eyes at me. “He called you a paranormal terrorist.”

Great. Solve a bunch of unsolvable murders, and what does that make you? A terrorist. No point in calling it crazy, though. Crazy and stupid have one thing in common: they never listen. “How the hell did this guy get hired?
In Seattle
?”

Sarah laughed. “Trust me, Aaron and I asked the same question. He had enough pull to get the job despite his stance on the paranormal. His wife is the mayor’s sister.”

The wheels in my head churned. “Why haven’t I seen any of this in the newspaper? This is Seattle. Ghost and zombie mischief is
relentless. The first set of parents that go on TV whose kid is missing and they have to wait for the FBI to bring in a medium? It’ll be a media bloodbath.”