Voodoo or Die Page 7

  With her mind running in circles, she walked back to the kitchen, searching closets and drawers until she located a plastic bag and duct tape. The cat had apparently found another hiding place, because she didn't see it when she made her way back through the house.

  As she temporarily repaired the hole, she realized wryly that she wasn't having much luck lately with windows.

  And neither was Steve Chasen.

  She backtracked to the living room, calling, "Here, kitty, kitty," and making noises that sounded like a clucking chicken, she realized wryly. Animals were not her thing—she didn't want the responsibility or the aggravation. She didn't understand people who were pet-crazy, and God knew she'd seen plenty of those when it came to divorce settlements. Some couples fought more over custody of their pets than over custody of their children. She'd considered it a low point in her career when she'd negotiated a contentious visitation schedule so a man could see a pet terrier his ex-wife had brought into the marriage.

  A low, throaty growl sounded from beneath the desk. She leaned down to see a pair of narrowed eyes glowing at her.

  "Are you hungry?" she asked, then walked to the kitchen. In a far corner sat an empty stainless steel bowl she hadn't noticed before. A cabinet revealed a stash of canned gourmet cat food—apparently Steve Chasen's expensive taste extended to his cat. When she mounted the can on a countertop can opener and pushed the lever, the black cat appeared at her feet before the noise stopped, obviously trained to associate the mechanical sound with an impending meal.

  "Hello there," she said dryly. The cat was an enormous male with long, black hair, large paws, full whiskers, and a red leather collar. She carried the food to his bowl and spooned it out. The animal attacked the fishy-smelling chow, making short work of it and licking the bowl. Then it looked up at her expectantly.

  "More?" she asked, then opened another can and watched as he devoured it as well, albeit more slowly.

  Moving gingerly, she squatted and reached her hand out to the big feline. He retreated at first, then sniffed her fingers and Licked them with his rough tongue. Seemingly satisfied, he nudged her hand with his head, then rubbed the length of his body against her knee and began to purr. She gave a little laugh. "Nice try, but you can't come home with me—I don't do pets. But I'll try to find you a good home."

  As she filled his bowl with water, the phone rang, shattering the silence and jangling her nerves. She walked to the phone, and when she saw it was the same number on the screen as the one Zane had called earlier, her heart lodged in her throat. After four rings, the message kicked on.

  "It's Steve, I'm not here, leave a message." The tone sounded, then the same male voice came on the line as before. "Hey, man, if you're there, pick up. Where the hell are you? You're not answering your cell phone either. I got the information you wanted on the girl."

  Panicked that the "girl" was her and that she'd never get to the bottom of what was going on, she yanked up the receiver and croaked in her lowest voice, "I'm here."

  "Man, you don't sound like yourself."

  "Sick," she mumbled, which was true—her stomach was churning so hard she was nauseous.

  "Ah. Well, I got the information you wanted on that lady lawyer."

  She made a big show of coughing and hacking like someone who was on their deathbed, and succeeded in scaring the cat. "Tell me," she wheezed.

  "Gawd, you sound like shit, man. Maybe this'll perk you up—the woman, she's using an alias. Her real name is Lorey Lawson. You're not going to believe this—"

  "I changed my mind," Gloria said in her fake man-voice.

  "Huh? You changed your mind? Are you shittin' me?"

  "No," she croaked. "Changed my mind, don't wanna know."

  The guy's laugh was incredulous. "You can't just change your mind, dawg. I could get into big-time trouble over this." He made a disgusted sound. "Whatever, but you still owe me five grand, got it?"

  "Got it," Gloria said, and too late, she realized that she'd forgotten to use the fake voice.

  After a few seconds of silence, the man said, "Who the hell is this?"

  "Steve is dead, so forget about the contract."

  She slammed down the phone, her breath coming in great heaves. The man had no idea who he'd been talking to, yet she felt completely exposed. A car pulled into the driveway, and she looked out to see Zane emerging from his cruiser.

  Gloria grabbed her bag, her heart racing. What if the guy called back while Zane was standing there? Steve's cat got tangled in her legs as she hurried toward the door. When Zane opened the door, she tripped and practically fell into his arms.

  He caught her, steadying her. "Whoa, did you find anything?"

  Her face flamed from the awkward predicament and the touch of his hands—and the overwhelming urge to stay in his arms. She straightened and pulled away. "Just a cat," she said, then shooed Steve's pet back inside. "I fed and watered him. I'll try to find a home for him."

  "You don't want him?" Zane asked.

  "Uh... no. I'm not much of a pet person." She pulled the locked door closed behind her and started walking toward the car. "I really need to get back to my office."

  "Are you okay?" he asked, opening the passenger side door of his cruiser. "You seem... spooked."

  She managed a little laugh. "The cat knocked over a stack of boxes and broke a window—it nearly scared me to death."

  He hesitated, as if he didn't know whether to believe her. By the time he walked around and slid into his own seat, she realized she needed to do something to prevent him from calling the number on Steve's recorder. "Oh, and that guy called again," she said lightly.

  "What guy?"

  "The guy on the recorder. I answered, thinking he might know Steve, but as it turns out," she said, making up the lie as she went along, "Steve had just asked him to find a piece of computer equipment for him."

  "So he didn't know him personally?"

  "Um, no."

  "Another dead end. Well, we still have a couple of days before the medical examiner finishes the autopsy."

  "Of course," she murmured, recalling that an autopsy was automatic in a sudden death or following an accident.

  "Maybe by then we'll know more about the mysterious life of Steve Chasen," Zane said.

  Gloria glanced at Zane under her lashes, hoping he was wrong. She also tamped down her guilt for wanting Steve Chasen—and her secrets—to be buried. The sooner, the better.

  Chapter 9

  "I have to stop by Dr. Whiting's," Gloria told Diane Davidson, "so I'll be closing the office a little early today."

  The woman looked up from sweeping, her face creased in concern. "Is your hand still bothering you?"

  Gloria smoothed her fingers over the bandage, which looked a little worse for wear with all the cleaning she'd done, and frowned at the black cat hair stuck in the tape. "Uh, no."

  The woman's chin dipped. "I didn't mean to pry."

  "It's okay. I just need a prescription, actually." Gloria felt a pang of compassion for the woman, who was covered in dust, her hair damp around her forehead, her face pink from exertion. "Diane, why don't you go home? You've done miracles today—thank you."

  "I'm glad to help."

  "Maybe tomorrow we can get down to business." On impulse, Gloria removed a duplicate door key from a ring and handed it to Diane. "In case you arrive tomorrow before I do."

  Diane smiled. "Remember you have Miss Linder coming in at two o'clock tomorrow."

  "Right," Gloria said, wondering who the litigious woman wanted to sue now. According to Penny, Deke and Sheena's affair had begun after he'd agreed to take on one of Sheena's many personal injury claims.

  But a case was a case, and if she intended to stay in Mojo, she'd better get used to handling all kinds of legal issues.

  If she intended to stay.

  As she waved good-bye to Diane Davidson and locked the door, she was suddenly very glad she'd hired the woman—she liked her. Diane was quiet and thoughtful an
d seemed to anticipate Gloria's needs, answering the phone with just the right tone and preparing coffee the way Gloria liked it. The woman seemed so appreciative to be there.

  It felt good to be able to help someone. Gloria bit into her lip. Even if the situation was short-lived.

  She checked her cell phone to see if George had called. She'd left him another message with the phone number of the person who'd called Steve's house to see if George could zero in on the guy Steve was working with. Nothing yet, but surely it wouldn't take long to trace a phone number.

  Her mind clicked like a meter as she drove the short distance to the doctor's office, parked, and stepped over the sprinkling of brick dust to walk inside. The reception area was empty. Brianna, sporting a white dust mask over her mouth and nose, was spraying a layer of Lysol over the furniture. She looked up, then lowered the mask. "Well, hello there. Gloria, right?"

  "Right."

  "Did you decide you wanted that free makeover?"

  "Uh, not yet, thank you. Actually, I was hoping I could see Dr. Whiting if he hasn't left for the day."

  "He's not doing any more exams today."

  "I just need a prescription."

  Brianna perked up. "Oh? What for?"

  "If you don't mind, I'd rather talk to the doctor."

  Brianna frowned and picked up the phone, then punched a button. "Gloria Dalton is here—she needs a prescription but won't tell me what it's for... okay." She hung up the phone, then flashed a tight smile. "Dr. Whiting's office is at the end of the hall."

  Feeling the young woman's scrutiny as she walked away, Gloria took a deep breath before knocking on the doctor's door.

  "Come in," he called.

  She turned the knob and Jonas Whiting stood, extending a smile. "Ms. Dalton, how's your hand?"

  "It's fine," she said, surprised to see him without his white coat, dressed in jeans and a striped button-up shirt. "I came by to see if you could write a prescription for me."

  "Painkiller?"

  "No—Meclazine."

  He frowned. "For vertigo?"

  "Meniere's."

  "Ah. How long have you suffered attacks?"

  "Since I was fourteen, but luckily, I've had only a couple of bad episodes."

  "Any hearing loss?"

  "No, thank goodness."

  "Are you symptomatic now?"

  She nodded. "Just occasional dizziness, but I'm out of medication."

  He gave her a smile as he reached for a prescription pad. "I can fix that." She registered the fact that he was a nice-looking man, but her attention was drawn to a small purple cloth pouch hanging around his neck from a leather cord, peeking through the vee of his shirt where the top button was undone. "If you don't mind me asking, what's that around your neck?"

  His eyebrows went up, then he touched it with his hand. "This? This is a paket kongo—it's a healing charm."

  The back of her neck tingled. "You believe in voodoo?"

  "Sure." He tore off the prescription and handed it to her. "A lot of my patients take great stock in voodoo. I use all the tools at my disposal to help my patients feel well."

  She fingered the prescription. "Thank you. Dr. Whiting, do your beliefs extend to voodoo dolls?"

  His expression sharpened. "Why do you ask?"

  She weighed her words. "Someone created a voodoo doll of Deke Black before he was murdered—I just wondered if you knew who it might have been."

  "No. And Deke's murder was solved. Why would you want to reopen that wound?"

  "I don't," she said quickly.

  His mouth tightened and he crossed his arms. "You can get that prescription filled at Webber's pharmacy just a couple of doors down."

  Feeling dismissed, she nodded her thanks and backed out of his office. She seemed to have pushed a button with her question about the voodoo dolls. Did the good doctor know more than he was willing to tell?

  As Gloria walked back into the reception area, Brianna took a break from her Lysol fog to lower her mask and extend a little pink gift bag. "Here you go—some free samples."

  "Thank you," Gloria murmured, taking the bag. "Brianna, are you by chance a cat person?"

  She scrunched her nose. "Allergic. Why?"

  "Steve Chasen had a cat I'm trying to find a home for. It's a black male, and he seems friendly."

  Her eyes widened. "A black cat? Good luck trying to find a home for it around here, seeing as how superstitious everyone is." Then she gave a little laugh. "Hey, you might try Diane Davidson—she's a witch, you know."

  Gloria frowned. "Diane is working for me now."

  Brianna's eyebrows flew up. "Really? Wow, good luck with that. Listen, if you want, I'll ask around and see if anybody wants the cat."

  "That would be great—just call the law office if you find someone who's interested."

  "Will do. You're going to love that moisturizer I put in there for you. It plumps everything up."

  Gloria gave her a tight smile. "Thanks."

  Outside she walked the few feet down the sidewalk to the drugstore, mulling the new details she'd learned about the people in Mojo today—Steve Chasen, Dr. Whiting. Were the two of them connected somehow? If Steve had had a heart condition, he might have seen the doctor for it. Too late, she realized she should have asked Brianna—the woman certainly would have spilled her guts.

  Webber's drugstore was one of those little stores lost in time, full of dusty, obscure products like sock suspenders, cassette tapes, and yellowed greeting cards with sappy verses. She dropped her prescription at the counter, then roamed the aisles looking for necessities she hadn't yet been able to find among her packing boxes—paper towels, soap, razors.

  She paused at the basket of City of Mojo, LA, back scratchers featuring a rather wicked-looking black claw on the end, then picked up one of the odd souvenirs. Strangely, it reminded her of the last conversation she'd had with her mother before she'd dropped out of WITSEC and disappeared.

  As a teenager, Gloria had realized her parents were distant, and she'd suspected they'd stayed together because of her. Her mother was an intellectual, who had married a blue-collar guy whose rough edges had never smoothed. Their marriage had grown more tense when her father had agreed to testify in a federal case against the man that he and her mother had both worked for, who had turned out to be a hard-core criminal. Her mother had become enraged, saying he was putting them all in danger. He'd said he was working with federal marshals about getting them into WITSEC, that they could move and start a new life with the money the government was promising to pay as a "bonus." Her mother had said absolutely not... and that was the night the man in the black coat had come and taken her father's life.

  Her mother had reluctantly testified against Bernard Riaz in return for safe passage for her and her daughter, but Maggie Lawson had never fully trusted the WITSEC program or the people who ran it.

  Years later, with several moves under their belt, Gloria had asked her mother if she missed her father. Her mother, who now went by the name Miranda Dobson, had hesitated, then smiled. "You know what I miss? How your father used to scratch my back. People who've never been married don't know what they're missing. Now when I get an itch, I have to rub myself against a door frame." She had looked at Gloria, brushed her daughter's hair behind her ear. "Find yourself a good man, honey, forget about this debacle with the feds, forget about your father, forget about me. Live your life."

  Gloria, twenty-two at the time and newly graduated from college, never saw her mother again. Her mother's home was broken into that night. She called Gloria the next day to say good-bye, that she was leaving WITSEC, and Gloria should go on with her life. Frantic, Gloria pleaded with her to reconsider, but Maggie had become disenchanted with WITSEC and had convinced herself as long as her life touched Gloria's, Gloria was in danger. She had simply dropped out of sight.

  On impulse, Gloria added the back scratcher to her shopping basket. If she relocated again and changed her name, she'd have to get rid of it, along w
ith anything else that might reveal where she'd lived. But for now, what could it hurt?

  In the hair care aisle, the boxes of dye featured pictures that were slightly old-fashioned. The expiration dates were still good, however, so she picked the one that best matched her chosen hair color.

  When her prescription was ready, she paid for the items and walked back to her car. From where she stood, she could see the sign for Ted's Diner on the square, which suddenly sounded like a better option for dinner than a trip to the grocery. Besides, she had fond memories of a certain small-town diner in New Jersey, where she and a gray-eyed boy had fallen in love over shared burgers and chocolate malts.

  She walked across the square, admiring the lights of the Christmas tree, thinking what a strange little melting pot the town was, and that she would truly miss it if George told her she had to move. She sighed, conceding what she would miss was Zane Riley—could she leave him hanging, always wondering about the girl for whom he'd filed a missing persons report?

  Behind her, the scrape of footsteps sounded. She turned her head, but the gloom of dusk revealed nothing. The twinkling lights of the tree cast a changing pattern of shadows on the ground, which disoriented her for a moment. She stood still, willing away another attack of vertigo, latching her gaze onto the horizon as a steady point of reference. The sun was sliding away, leaving fiery trails of thin, blood-red clouds hanging in the chilly December sky. A shiver of foreboding traveled up her spine, but she blamed it on all the bizarre coincidences of the past few days and hurried on to the diner.

  When she walked inside, the person who had been dominating her thoughts, Zane Riley, was the first person she saw sitting at the counter. He was still in uniform and having a cup of coffee. She considered leaving to avoid another awkward encounter, but at that moment he looked up and saw her. He tossed a few bills on the counter, then picked up his coffee cup and walked toward her.

  Her stomach fluttered as he neared—the emotions colliding in her chest forced her to look away to collect herself. She couldn't continue to revert to a sixteen-year-old every time the man was nearby.