Veiled Magic (2 page)

Candles—check. Sage smudge stick—check. Portable digital recorder—check. Donata rearranged the items from her standard-issue Witness Statement Spell Kit until their alignment suited her. She'd done this magical work thousands of times over the last seven years, but usually under more controlled circumstances: her own ritual room in the precinct, with a picture of the deceased, a manila folder of information about the crime, and the reasonable expectation that no one would be coming anywhere near the area.

The Chief had cleared the room, then stomped off himself in pursuit of coffee, muttering under his breath how if he never saw her call a dead guy again it would be too soon. Cops might be comfortable with dead bodies, but that didn't make them comfortable with someone who talked to them. In short, she gave them the creeps. Even the Chief's curiosity over the questions he'd posed couldn't overcome his discomfort about the way she was going to get the answers.

That was fine with her. It was hard enough to summon the dead under the best conditions; too many uncontrolled variables in the midst of a crime scene was exactly why she usually did her job in the basement of the cop shop. Of course, then she was dealing with victims, who were usually stunned and in shock and wanted to talk. Clearly the Chief thought she needed to speak to the criminal while he was still on site. Maybe because she'd told him that she could get a stronger read from the dead man in the place where he died, which usually wasn't an issue with more willing witnesses. She shrugged and looked over at the body of the thief. If she were lucky, maybe he hadn't gone too far.

She lit the incense and placed it in the middle of her portable altar. Its resinous scent didn't do much to cover up the stench of death that lingered in the room, but at least it was a distraction. The swirls of smoke wound around the abandoned space. It was just her and the dead thief; even the body of the restorer, Farmingham, had been taken away. A special machine would capture the EVP recording the Chief needed to make a case against whoever had hired Marty Williams to steal the painting.

Once the criminal justice world had adjusted to the presence of Witness Retrieval Specialists—Donata had been a member of the first group to graduate from the police academy with the new specialization—they had made a few changes in the rules of evidence.

These days, Electronic Voice Phenomenon, or EVP, recordings were admissible in court when presented by a certified WRS officer. Since few people bothered to lie once they were dead, and a trained Witch-cop could usually spot when they did, it was generally accepted that evidence given by a deceased witness was worth its weight in gold. Defense attorneys still argued against it, of course, but Donata had rarely had a case based on her evidence tossed out of court, unless there was some other reason for dismissing it.

She turned the digital voice recorder on and set about creating the ritual that would summon back the ill-fated thief. She lit quarter candles in each direction: north, south, east, and west. As the wicks caught fire, she asked the element associated
with each quarter to come and protect her circle. First the power of Air, to the east, then Fire, to the south, Water to the west, and finally, Earth to the north.

As each element responded to her call, she could feel the energy of the circle grow, and her magic stretched and rose in response. When she finally called on Hecate, her personal matron goddess, the air practically crackled with power. The circle was cast, and she was in protected space. It was time.

She spoke the name of the dead man three times, firmly, while visualizing his face. The incense twisted and flowed before her, eventually seeming to solidify into the shape of a man. Marty “the Sneak” Williams “stood” on the other side of the table, looking dimly confused and a little peeved.

Donata figured his expression was probably habitual, although it might have had something to do with the fact that he was standing over his own dead body. Nothing ruins a day like staring down at your own corpse.

“Martin Williams,” she said formally, for the benefit of the recorder, “my name is Officer Donata Santori, and I am the Witness Retrieval Specialist in charge of your case. Anything you say can and will be used as evidence in a court of law, and I am recording this conversation in the pursuit of justice.” She paused, waiting for it to sink in. “Do you have anything you wish to say before you depart from this plane of existence?”

“Hey,” Marty said. “Ya mean I'm dead?” He looked down at his body lying on the floor. “Aw, nuts.”

Donata tried not to roll her eyes. The dead often took a while to adjust to the reality of their new circumstances, although most of them said something a little more profound than “Aw, nuts.”

“I'm afraid so, Mr. Williams,” she said. It always paid to sound professional and respectful on a recording that might end up being played in a courtroom. “You appear to have died in the commission of a robbery, during which you killed a man, a restorer named Clive Farmingham. Do you admit to these actions?”

Marty tried to scratch his head, although his fingers didn't quite make contact with the area where his skull would have been in life. Postmortem coordination was an acquired skill, for the most part.

“Um, wait—so I'm dead?” The thief was clearly not the sharpest pencil in the drawer. Donata could see why the Chief didn't think he'd come up with the plan to rob the museum. She stifled a sigh. These kinds of things took as long as they took. And let's face it—even though they'd called her in on a Sunday, which was supposed to be her day off, it wasn't as though she had anything important waiting for her at home. She could give the poor guy another couple of minutes to catch up.

“Afraid so, Mr. Williams.” She pointed at the stairs behind her. “Apparently you slipped on your way out and broke your neck. You didn't even fall that far; it was just a freak accident.”

“Man,” the thief whined, “I can't catch a break. Shit. I slipped on the freakin' stairs? Now I ain't even gonna get paid the other half of the money for the job.” The ghost slumped into a kneeling position, ignoring the body that used to be his. “Man. Life just ain't fair.”

Donata blew air out through her nose and crossed her arms in front of her chest. The guy was dead, and the only thing
he was worried about was not getting paid? He was really missing the big picture here. Still, it wasn't up to her to judge the dead. So she might as well get the information she needed.

“About the job, Mr. Williams,” she said, “can you tell me who hired you to steal the painting?”

The ghost shrugged ectoplasmic shoulders, making the incense swirl into and out of the shape of his body. “Yeah, sure. Damn guy got on my nerves anyway. Actin' like he was such a big shot.” He scowled. “Franco's his name. He's a procurer—you know, somebody wants somethin', he finds a way to get it for 'em. No questions asked, so long as you've got enough money. Then he hires guys like me to fetch whatever the customer ordered.”

A thrill of triumph ran through her. She'd gotten the answer to half of the Chief's questions already.

“So do you know who commissioned the crime?” she asked.

“Huh?”

She rephrased the question, using smaller words. “Who hired Franco to have you get the painting?”

Marty's face remained blank. “Uh, sorry. No idea. Not my part of the job. Franco just says go to the museum, get the painting, bring it back to him. That's all I know.” His expression turned resentful. “And he told me the museum would be empty, except for the guard. Shit. That stupid art guy wasn't even supposed to be here.” Smoke eddied around the edges of his form, starting to dissipate as the reality of his situation sank in. Donata recognized the signs; the spell would only hold the thief a little while longer.

“Okay, I understand.” She attempted to sound soothing, despite her distaste for the petty criminal's whining. Maybe he'd had a tough childhood or something. “Can you tell me anything about the painting itself?”

“You mean, besides how butt-ugly it is?” The ghost made a strange sound, like a snort with reverb. His voice was starting to echo a little as he slipped closer to the other side. “All I know is that Franco had a special order from a major player—somebody way out of his usual league. He was really stoked about it . . . even snottier than usual.” Marty shook his head regretfully. “Man, he's gonna be pissed I screwed this up. There was some big money involved.”

Donata figured she'd gotten enough information for the Chief—probably more than he'd hoped for. Certainly enough to make a case against Franco, even if they might never know why someone wanted this particular picture. Some collector, probably. Time to send poor Marty on through the veil. Maybe he'd do better in his next life. She thought he probably couldn't do much worse.

“That's okay, Marty,” she said softly, clicking the recorder off. The courts didn't need to listen to this part. “You don't have to worry about Franco anymore. You don't have to worry about anything. It's time to go home.”

She lifted her arms and wove a pattern of arcane symbols through the smoke, and the form began to waver and stretch.

“Home?” The thief gave her a hesitant smile, barely visible on his disappearing face. “Home?” A bright light shone behind him, and he vanished, leaving Donata standing in the circle with his corpse.

“Yes, Marty,” she whispered to the empty room. “Your work is done now.”

And so was hers. She'd done as the Chief had asked, and hopefully he'd be pleased enough to let her out into the field
more often. Donata thanked the goddess, dismissed the quarters, and snuffed out the candles; she couldn't believe it had gone so well.

“Ahem.” Someone cleared his throat behind her with an apologetic sound. “Miss?”

Aw, nuts.

*  *  *

When she turned around, the man she saw looked nearly solid, much more so than the ghost she had just been talking to. If she hadn't seen his dead body by the scarred workbench an hour ago, she might have had to look twice to be sure he was really a spirit. But under the circumstances, she didn't have much doubt.

“Clive Farmingham,” she said to the specter, “I did not summon you. You are free to go.” She waved her hand toward the ceiling. “The light awaits.”

Instead of disappearing as she'd expected him to, the ghost simply looked anxious, wringing his thin hands and scrunching up his brow as if trying to remember how to speak. Although he'd just done so a second ago. Donata sighed.
This
was why she did her rituals in a basement, damn it. Fewer uncontrolled variables. Obviously the spirit of the murdered restorer had somehow gotten caught up in her spell to summon the thief.

She moved back toward her makeshift altar, intending to recast the circle and send the restorer on his way. But when he stepped in front of her and lifted his hands in a pleading motion, Donata reconsidered. He was awfully solid for a new ghost. Must have had unfinished business—that sometimes gave a spirit unusual energy and strength of purpose. So instead, she concentrated on sending her own aura flowing toward his. As long as a ghost meant no harm, that was a safe and effective way to ease communication between the living and the dead.

Once she'd made it apparent she was paying attention, the dead restorer seemed to calm down a little. As her aura touched the wispy edges of his, she could hear his thoughts clearly enough—unfortunately, he was so upset, all she got were fragmented, incoherent bits and pieces. Some of it centered around the painting, but the rest were scattered memories of restoration technique, tools, and instructions, some guy named Ricky, and . . . pimentos? No, that couldn't be right, could it? Was the guy really thinking about his lunch?

Donata gathered her energy and sent it out toward Farmingham in soothing waves of blue light. Focusing on her own breath (since he no longer had any), she inhaled and exhaled a few times slowly. The serenity of her aura eventually leeched into his, and his frantic expression eased momentarily.

She sat down on the floor, motioning to a space in front of her. After a minute, Farmingham drifted over to join her, closing the space between their auras even more.

“There now,” she said, encouragement coloring her mental voice a bright orange, “isn't that better? Why don't you tell me whatever you have to say, and I promise I'll pass it on to whomever you want. Then you can let go and move on.” This was usually all most ghosts wanted: to say their final good-byes, leave a message for a loved one, or confess to some
perceived sin.

But Farmingham shook his head, transparent locks of graying hair flopping around his anguished face. He pointed one trembling finger in her direction.

Oh, for the love of the goddess.

“You have to tell
me
something?” This just didn't make any sense. She'd never even met the man before today. Not that you could exactly call this “meeting.” She tried again. “Is there something you need someone to know?”

The restorer pointed at the painting, still lying on the floor where it had fallen. “The painting, Witch,” he rasped. “You must not let them have it.”

“Them? Them who? Do you mean the thief?” She tilted her head in the direction of the body. “I assure you, he's not getting anything, except another spin around the karma wheel. The painting is going to a nice, safe evidence locker. Nothing is going to happen to it.”

If anything, her reassuring speech made Farmingham even more upset.

“No, no!” he wailed. “Pentimento. Ricky knows. Not again. The Burning Times. Ricky!”

Donata shook her head. What the hell was a pentimento? And what did it have to do with the Burning Times? A shiver ran down her spine, but she shook it off. This was getting her nowhere, and the Chief was waiting for her report about her ritual with Williams. She didn't want to screw up and end up stuck in the basement for another seven years.