Voodoo or Die Page 24

During the short drive, she scanned both sides of the street for the black cat but didn't see him. She sent a hope skyward he hadn't fallen into the hands of someone who might use a black cat for some kind of evil perversion.

  They arrived at the Mojo police station and entered through a back door. It was a small but bustling office, busier than when she'd been there while Penny had been questioned for Deke's murder. She remembered that night with a shake of her head—she'd been scared silly for Penny, and she'd advised her to call someone other than her divorce attorney. Gloria had never defended anyone in a murder investigation. But Penny had insisted Gloria be present while she was interrogated, and Gloria had been baptized by fire.

  She'd heard the police force had been beefed up since the voodoo museum scandal. And a quick glance around proved Zane had instigated equipment upgrades in the short time he'd been in charge. A couple of young men were installing what looked like a high-tech scanner. One of the men looked up and waved to her. She squinted in confusion, then recognized the teenager from Tam's Electronics—Mike? No... Mark.

  She lifted her hand and thought of the little things she'd left undone—the repairs to her office, the broken copier, the unlettered plate-glass window.

  Pieces, perhaps, that would help launch someone else's dream after she'd been relocated to a place far away from Mojo... far away from Zane. She glanced sideways at him, noticing how the officers and other personnel perked up when he approached. She suspected he was a demanding boss, but fair. And from what George had told her about his achievements in law enforcement, it was clear that he was highly respected. He smiled at a couple of employees, sending jealousy spiking through her chest, because he hadn't directed one of those amazing smiles in her direction since... since he'd confirmed who she really was.

  B.J. Beaumont came walking down the hall toward them, powder-sugared beignet in hand. He slowed to talk to Zane. "I might bring you in on a conference call later if you don't mind."

  "Glad to help," Zane said. "I'll be in and out of interviews today, so have someone track me down. You remember meeting Gloria Dalton."

  "Yes, of course, Penny's friend," B.J. said, wiping his hand on his jeans before extending it to her. He looked sheepish. "Um, if you see Penny, you don't have to mention the donut."

  Gloria smiled. "I won't."

  Zane led her farther down the hall into a corner office with glass on two sides and his nameplate on the door. "You'll be staying here today," he said, then gestured to a couple of stiff-looking upholstered chairs. "Sorry it's not more comfortable."

  "It's fine," she said quickly.

  He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "Do you want something to eat? Coffee? There's usually something up front."

  "I'll take some coffee."

  "How do you take it?"

  "Cream, if you have it."

  "Have a seat and I'll see what I can do."

  She watched him walk toward the reception area, her chest swelling with pride at the man he had become—doing good things, making a difference. She wanted to ask him a thousand questions about his life, but he seemed determined to stay behind the wall he'd erected since her confession.

  He came back shortly, carrying two cups of coffee. "I promise this is better than mine," he said, handing one to her.

  She smiled. "Thanks."

  He studied her face but didn't return her smile. "Stay put. Guy Bishop is here. I'll check in with you after the interview if I have a chance." He picked up the blue folders and headed toward the door.

  Gloria pressed her lips together. "Zane."

  He turned back, his expression impatient.

  "About those pictures of Guy and... Deke. No one has to know about them, do they?"

  Zane's mouth twitched downward. "Only if Guy Bishop committed murder to keep them hidden." He stepped out of the office, then closed the door behind him.

  She expelled a long sigh, then turned to take in the details of Zane's office. The furniture was simple and functional—a desk, an upholstered swivel desk chair, the two chairs on her side of the desk, and waist-high cabinets on two walls. There was no artwork or other personal touches on the walls, but on his desk sat two small picture frames. She picked them up and stared at them greedily.

  One was of Zane's parents—his father had died before she'd known Zane, but she recognized his mother's shy smile and, in fact, remembered seeing this picture in Zane's home, on the china cabinet in the dining room.

  Warm nostalgia infused her chest, and she could almost smell the yeasty goodness of the pastries his mother had always had in the oven. "You must be so proud of your son," Gloria murmured. "I know I am."

  The second photo was of his younger sister, Lisa, and, Gloria presumed, Lisa's family—a congenial-looking young man and two boys with impish eyes, who looked as if they were barely contained for the few seconds it had taken to get the shot.

  Gloria smiled, picturing Zane swinging his nephews to his back for an impromptu pony ride, like he used to give Lisa when she wasn't feeling too grownup for it. Remembering the affection in his voice when he'd told Gloria about them, she was sure he was a terrific uncle.

  There were no other personal items on his desk, no hint of the inner workings of the man. She started to turn away when she noticed another picture frame, this one much smaller, and turned facedown. Thinking it had fallen, she lifted it, then gasped.

  It was a photo of her and Zane sitting under the tree in her parents' backyard—or rather, of Lorey and Zane sitting under the tree in her parents' backyard.

  She hadn't seen a picture of herself in so long that she could scarcely believe she'd ever looked that way. Long straight blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Fresh-faced and open, exuding sex appeal in her bright pink T-shirt stretched over generous curves. Next to her, Zane looked heartbreakingly young and handsome, with one arm around her, as if he'd been hanging on.

  Except she had slipped away....

  Bittersweet longing filled her for that girl in the picture, the young woman who had just been awakened sexually and was blooming under Zane's love and guidance. That girl had mojo to spare.

  She set the tiny frame back on his desk, then realized with a start that the picture hadn't fallen over—more likely, Zane had placed it facedown sometime after he'd suspected her true identity. She put it back the way she'd found it and eased into one of the extra chairs.

  Gloria sipped her coffee, grateful for a private, safe place where she could think. Her mind worked like a Rubik's cube, turning and twisting pieces of the puzzle before them to see which ones aligned and which ones had to be put back into the mix.

  What was Guy Bishop saying in his interview? Had he denied everything, forcing Zane to reveal the photos?

  Thirty minutes later, she saw Marie Gaston arrive, the woman's face pensive as a female officer led her out of sight A little while later, she caught a glimpse of Guy Bishop striding toward the exit, his face equally brooding.

  She saw them come and go, in the order Zane had requested. After Marie came Ziggy Hines, a barrel-chested, dark-haired Cajun who was markedly less exuberant than he was on his syndicated cooking show, and Mona Black, whose anger was a tangible thing that sent people scurrying out of her way as she plowed through the station.

  Two hours later, Gloria had long since emptied her cup. Her back was stiff, and her bladder was full. She stood and craned her neck, looking for Zane in the milling bodies, but she didn't see him. She shouldered her purse and stepped out into the hall, then asked for directions to the ladies' room.

  The helpful clerk sent her down a quiet hallway near the rear entrance. She passed supply rooms and a janitorial closet, then located the women's restroom sitting opposite the men's.

  She knocked discreetly, then pushed open the door to find a large bathroom with two stalls, one of which was occupied. She entered the second stall and relieved herself, but just as she was righting her clothing, the overhead light went out.

  "Excuse me," she called. "Someone is still
in here." She unlatched the stall door and stepped out, feeling her way.

  Suddenly two hands grabbed her and pulled a plastic bag down over her face and head. She tried to scream, but a drawstring was yanked closed around her neck, leaving the sound gurgling in her throat. Gagging, she fumbled in her purse, instinctively trying to get to her gun. But when her hand hit nothingness, Gloria was paralyzed with fear.

  No gun... no chance.

  Chapter 30

  Gloria thrashed against the binding at her throat and clawed at the plastic bag over her head as the attacker dragged her. She threw her weight against the bigger, more solid person holding her, but to no avail. She gasped for air, but the plastic bag collapsed on her face, creating a vacuum. Her lungs were aching and she could feel the energy draining from her body. With her last bit of strength, she used her arms and knee in a kickboxing move to knock the person off balance. They didn't relinquish their hold completely, but enough for her to loosen the drawstring and drag a bit of air into her lungs.

  And scream.

  As if she was on fire.

  Suddenly her attacker was gone, so quickly Gloria lost her balance and went tumbling to the tile floor in the dark, landing hard on her hip and shoulder. She cried out as pain lit up her body, then she ripped open the bag to gulp fresh air. She was sputtering and tearing at the plastic ties around her neck when suddenly the door burst open and the overhead light erupted, momentarily blinding her.

  "In here!" Zane shouted. His gun was drawn, but he reholstered it in one movement.

  She felt his hands freeing the ties while he bellowed instructions to his officers to lock down the station and canvass the perimeter for anyone who didn't belong. "What happened?" he asked, helping her sit up.

  "I... was attacked," she got out before a coughing jag took hold of her. She could feel his urgency, his panic, in the way he touched her, but his voice remained calm.

  "Did you see who attacked you?"

  She shook her head.

  "Man or woman?"

  "Man... or maybe a strong woman. But I think... they were... waiting for me."

  "What do you mean?"

  In halting breaths, she told him about the first stall being occupied, that she hadn't heard anyone leave or come in, and that she was grabbed when she came out of the second stall.

  "It would've been nice to have my gun," she muttered.

  Anger darkened his face. "I told you to stay put."

  Disbelief flooded her. "You're blaming me? I sat in your office for two hours. I thought I'd be safe in the ladies' room of a police station."

  His mouth tightened, and a vein protruded from his forehead. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

  "No," she said, pushing to her feet with his assistance. "I'm okay, just a few bruises." But she was still trembling from the abrupt adrenaline surge and retreat, and the skin on her neck was raw and painful. She leaned on him, breathing deeply. The plastic bag that had nearly suffocated her lay on the floor, a generic drawstring kitchen garbage bag. A lethal weapon in the right hands.

  She remembered George's comment that the mob had traded in its old-fashioned gun-and-run tactics for more subtle, less traceable ploys. Was it the handiwork of one of Riaz's men, or did someone in Mojo think she was getting too close to the truth?

  "I want this room printed," Zane commanded. "Concentrate on the first stall and the garbage bag. See if the bag came from our supply room." He continued to bark orders, and everyone scurried to follow them.

  Gloria crouched down to gather the items spilled from her purse. When she stood, Zane's expression was tight. "Are you sure you're okay?"

  She nodded, touched by his concern, even if it was only professional.

  "Do you remember anything else about the person—maybe a sound or a smell?"

  "No, the bag was over my head before I realized what was going on. But I think the person was trying to remove me from the bathroom."

  "You mean kidnap you?"

  "I don't know, but I had the sense that they were trying to move me toward the door."

  He nodded, digesting the information. "We need to let your handler know what happened."

  She balked. "He'll insist I be relocated right away. He'll send someone to get me."

  Their gazes locked, and her heart fluttered with panic at the thought of being separated from him so suddenly, before...

  Before what? her mind mocked, "Make the call," Zane said quietly. "Or I will."

  She pulled out her phone and punched in George's number with a hand that shook. When he answered, she told him about the incident in as calm a manner as possible.

  "Sounds like the mob," he said flatly. "You need to get out of there, Gloria, now. Put Chief Riley on the phone, please."

  She looked up and handed the phone to Zane, whose jaw hardened as he listened to the man on the other end of the line. "It was a mistake," Zane bit out, "but it won't happen again. The minute Ms. Dalton is ready to leave, I'll escort her to New Orleans myself. Have you been able to trace the calls to her cell phone? Dead end?" His frown deepened. "I'll let you know if we get a print from the scene here. How can I reach you?" Zane pulled out a notebook and wrote down a number, then disconnected the call and handed the phone back to her. "You heard what I said?"

  Gloria nodded.

  "It's your call, then. I can take you now if you want."

  The safety of a relocation... the heartbreak of leaving Zane. Several gluey seconds slid away. "Not yet," she said. "I've made a mess of your investigation... I want to help you find out who the blackmailer is."

  He nodded curtly.

  "Chief," said an officer, sticking his head inside the room. "The area is clear."

  "No clothing, no vehicle, nothing?"

  "No, sir. Sorry, sir."

  "I'm taking you home," he said to Gloria, then tossed his keys to the officer and asked him to bring his car to the door. He left her with another officer, then returned with a second handgun on his belt, this one of a serious caliber.

  She didn't object to being ushered home, and as he was helping her into the car she realized she simply wanted to be with Zane, especially since she knew their time was so short. Even if he was angry with her and didn't feel the same, she wanted to be able to soak him up so she could later wring the most memories out of their time together.

  They didn't talk on the short drive to her house. Zane was on his radio, giving orders for leads to follow up on—ticketed vehicles, ask merchants in the area if they'd noticed anyone suspicious. He also forbid anyone to talk to the press at the risk of their job.

  When they arrived, he hustled her into the house and checked every entrance point. A few minutes later, she was settled on her bed, leaning against the headboard with a heating pad under her shoulder. From a first-aid kit, Zane withdrew a tube of ointment and applied it to the welts on her neck with gentle strokes.

  "Does that hurt?" he asked.

  "No," she croaked. His nearness sent ripples of awareness to every part of her body. It was impossible to be in proximity to him and not want to touch him back. "Did your interviews yield anything?"

  Zane frowned, still focused on her injuries. "Since Chasen died, Guy Bishop is also being blackmailed by the Mailbox Blackmailer, who seems to have picked up where Chasen left off."

  "The Mailbox Blackmailer—is that what you're calling him?"

  "Seems to be his preferred mode of delivery."

  "Guy doesn't have any idea who it could be?"

  "None. Ziggy Hines, on the other hand, hasn't received any calls since Chasen died. He says the girl in the picture is his daughter, but the mother's husband doesn't know, which is why he paid to keep Chasen quiet."

  "How did Steve even know about the girl?"

  "Because Hines hired Deke Black to draft an agreement between him and the mother for support and visitation."

  She made a rueful noise. "I didn't know—Ziggy Hines isn't in the client files I inherited."

  "Chasen must have made sur
e of that. Anyway, Hines has been on the West Coast filming his cooking show since before the candy bars were distributed, and he returned yesterday, so that takes him out of the picture."

  "What about Mona Black?"

  "Said Chasen never contacted her about anything other than her son's business, that she barely knew the man."

  "Do you believe her?"

  His mouth flattened. "I don't know, but the woman is unshakable."

  "What about Marie Gaston?"

  "A total fruitloop, in my opinion. Of everyone I talked to, she seemed the most capable of actually poisoning someone."

  "But what motive would she have?"

  He shrugged as he put the cap back on the ointment. "Maybe she wanted to protect Guy—and Penny—from those photos getting out. Maybe she and Chasen had a side thing that went wrong. Maybe she has suppressed feelings of rage that manifested into homicidal urges, and Chasen seemed like a good target." He glanced up, his expression wry. "Sometimes there is no motive, except to make the murderer feel powerful."

  "Do you think she and Guy could be in on it together?"

  "It's possible," he conceded. "I asked them both about the argument you witnessed. Guy said they were arguing about their work schedule, but Marie admitted she confronted Guy about seeming so relieved that Steve was dead. She said he confessed he wasn't sorry, but said he had nothing to do with it."

  "So she didn't mention the photos of Guy and Deke?"

  "No, but I gave her every chance to tell me if she knew about them."

  "Did you ask them about the voodoo dolls?"

  He pursed his mouth, then nodded. "I did. No one admitted to knowing anything about them, or who might have made them. I'm wondering if Melissa Phillips might be our culprit—both in the poisoning and the doll-making. Her family is cooperating, and we're sifting through the items in her apartment, so maybe that avenue will provide a lead."

  She drank him in, loving his voice, the way he put words together, the fact that he had dedicated himself to law enforcement. She studied the planes of his mature face and mourned the fact that she hadn't been with him to experience the things over the years that had given him tiny crow's-feet and worry lines in his forehead.