Who Do, Voodoo?, page 3
Nick cocked his head toward the clock above the door. “The game is starting soon—can we talk in the car?”
I nodded, wondering if the game was that important or if Nick didn’t have the answer to my question. He slid a textbook and the papers from the podium into a worn brown briefcase. We left the building, crossed the small campus plaza, and got into my Lexus. The streets were already jammed with traffic crawling from light to light through the North Hollywood Arts District. We drove down Lanker-sheim Boulevard, past coffeehouses, neon-lit theaters, restaurants, and gas stations.
“Fascinating that you’re teaching religion,” I said when the silence got too loud to ignore.
“Teaching the three major religions subsidizes my study of the occult. That’s far more interesting and important to me.”
I looked at him. “You’re a philosopher, Nick. Why the interest in hocus-pocus?”
“You don’t believe.”
“I can’t see a rational basis or use for it.”
“But you’re a psychologist. I’d think you’d see how the occult has everything to do with emotional exploration.” Nick fiddled with the seat to accommodate his long legs.
“It’s an excuse for avoiding feelings,” I said. “An attempt to move control and assign the blame to a source outside the self.”
“Or see deeper inside the self,” he said. “Reading the tarot could be viewed like a Rorschach test—a projection of the subconscious.”
“Without the assistance of a trained analyst? Nice try. I don’t think so.”
“It must bother you that your mother reads the cards,” Nick said.
“I’m not my mother’s therapist. She knows how I feel.”
“What do you think about the major religions?”
“I believe that people need something to believe in,” I said, easing into the right lane. “But major religions don’t use spells, tarot cards, or crystal balls to forecast or change the future.”
“What about prayer?”
“Positive affirmation.”
I couldn’t tell if his chuckle was an approval or a smug dismissal. We drove two blocks before Nick spoke. “How are your parents doing? I was in Costa Rica and missed their Labor Day pool party.”
“They just celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary. It’s us kids who couldn’t stay married, and my mother won’t let us forget it. She swears we were cursed when we started a fight during the vows at Aunt Minnie’s first wedding. Dave was five. I was three.”
“How does it feel to be single again?” Nick said.
I asked for that, me and my big let’s-talk-about-marriage mouth.
“I’m so busy with my practice that I don’t think about it. I guess it feels about the same. Jarret was gone most of the time anyway.” I turned left onto Dave’s street with ten minutes to spare. I wanted to get Nick’s attention away from me and back to the tarot before we went inside. “If you can help us find the shop where the cards were sold, maybe it will lead us to her harasser. What do you think?”
Nick hesitated. Damn. I bit my lip, worried that my attitude about the occult insulted him. He looked out the window. Was he thinking about how to back out gracefully?
He grinned at me. “If that deck was bought in L.A., the shop or shops are simple to find. If someone made them at home, impossible. But the occult community is fairly close-knit, even in a city this big. We can ask around. Tell Robin I’ll help.” He looked at his watch. “Now park the car. The Bears could lose if we miss the kickoff.”
Chapter Three
Dave greeted us at his apartment door, his eyes darting inside to the television. The new flat-screen TV on the wall was the only thing that had changed since he moved in after his divorce five years ago.
“You’re late,” he said. “The game started.”
Dave took a beer from the cooler next to his armchair and sat down. A pizza, a large bag of pretzels, and a bowl of jelly beans sat on the coffee table. I really must start eating at home again. Nick dropped onto a corner of the sofa.
I stood in the middle of the living room, rubbing my arms. I could almost see my breath in the glare of the television. “It’s freezing here. What are you trying to do—duplicate the weather in Chicago?”
“Quiet. The Rams are lining up,” Dave said.
“I’m getting a sweatshirt.” I walked to the small open kitchen, dropped my purse onto the counter, and went down the hall to the bedroom. I glanced at Dave’s clothing, thrown over chairs and the bedpost. I took the sweatshirt folded on top of the laundry basket on the bed and put it on. As I checked my hair in the bathroom mirror, Dave’s angry shouts drew me back into the living room.
“What happened?” I curled up on one end of the couch and nestled under the throw to keep warm while my damned skirt rode wherever it wanted to.
“The Rams’ quarterback fumbled on third down,” Nick said.
“Was it forced or did he stumble over his own feet?” I said.
Nick raised an eyebrow at me. “Forced.”
I raised my eyebrows and smiled. “No protection.”
While the game was on, we followed the rule my dad and brother had drilled into me since childhood: no talk about anything but the game until the game is over. Funny how much I learned about sports because of that rule.
When the Bears’ three-point victory was posted as the final, I turned to Nick. “So much for your superstition about missing kickoff.”
Dave was still slouched in his leather easy chair. Pretzel crumbs littered the belly of his vintage Los Angeles Rams sweatshirt. “The Bears got lucky. But the Rams will take the conference.”
“The Rams couldn’t move the ball down the field,” I said. “Their front line more or less stood aside and invited the Bears’ defense to a quarterback sack party. They didn’t even try to run the ball.” I grinned, waiting for Dave to snap back. Taunting him was a pastime I never tired of.
“Liz has a point,” Nick said, laughing.
Dave’s face went red. “I don’t have to defend a Super Bowl–caliber team to either one of you. Where’s your friend, Liz? I thought she was supposed to be here.”
I checked my watch. He was right. Robin should have arrived by now. “I don’t know. I’ll call her.” I stood up a little too fast. The throw dropped and exposed my thighs. From the corner of my eye, I caught Nick looking at them. Men. I wiggled my skirt into place and went to get my phone.
Nick got up and followed me into the kitchen with the pizza carton. He took out the last cold slice of pepperoni and cheese, looking over the counter into the living room. “What do you think, Dave? The tarot cards Liz showed me were clearly meant to shake up her friend. Can’t the police do anything?”
“She filed a report, right?” Dave shouted from the living room.
Nick turned to me, questioning.
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s all you can do,” Dave said.
“That’s not good enough.” I took my phone from my purse and dialed Robin’s cell number. It rang twice.
“I was just going to call you,” she said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Where are you?”
“Turning into my driveway. I just need to . . .” The sentence was clipped by her gasp. “There’s something on my door.”
“Another tarot card?” I said. Nick stopped eating and looked at me.
“No. Bigger. A sheet of paper,” she said. I heard her open the car door. “Wait. I’m walking to the . . .”
“Robin? Talk to me. What is it?”
“It’s a photo,” she said in a whisper. “Of me. With snakes drawn on my face.”
“Get inside the house and lock the door.” I covered the mouthpiece and said to Nick, “There’s a photo of Robin with snakes drawn on her face, hanging on her front door.”
“What does it look like?”
“I just told you. Photo. Snakes.”
“Hmm,” Nick said. “Snakes represent Kundalini energy, fertility or rebirth in some cultures. But in left-handed voodoo, snakes invite chaos, even death.”
“What’s left-handed voodoo?”
“Black magic.”
“Robin, wait there for us,” I said into the phone. “We’re coming over.”
I hung up and looked at Nick. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?” Dave came into the kitchen, brushing crumbs off his shirt as he walked.
“We’re going to Robin’s,” I said. “The harasser left a photo of her on the door.”
“How do you know it was the harasser?” Dave said.
“It had snakes on it.”
Dave shrugged.
“What?” I said. “A marked-up photo following three tarot cards doesn’t strike you as threatening?”
“It strikes me as neighborhood kids playing a prank,” Dave said.
“I want to see it,” said Nick.
I pulled off Dave’s sweatshirt, put on my coat, and pointed them toward the door. “Dave, you’re coming, too. You’re a cop.”
“Detective. Come on, Liz. You don’t need me for this,” Dave said. “There’s no law against leaving photos on someone’s front door.”
“Damn it, she’s my friend.”
“Hey, I worked all weekend. I’m tired. Nick can take a look at it.”
I crossed my arms and glared at him. “Thanks for the help. What’s the LAPD motto? ‘Protect and serve’? Sure, at your leisure.”
Chapter Four
Nick and I pulled up in front of Robin’s house ten minutes later. I saw the black-and-white photo from the street. As we got closer, the heavy black symbols became clearer. The artwork was crude—two snakes curved in S shapes, spitting venom and coiled around each side of an unfocused shot of Robin’s face. Large and small arrows were drawn over the background, pointing at her head and her eyes. Small hollow boxes were outlined in each of the four corners.
Robin came outside on the porch with us. We gaped at the image while I made a quick introduction to Nick.
“When is this going to stop?” Robin pressed her fist against her mouth.
Nick touched her shoulder, stopping her as she reached for the photo. “Would you two go inside? I want to look around out here alone.”
“What do the symbols mean?” I said.
“I’ll tell you inside. I want to check something, but I need you to clear the porch.”
I followed Robin into the living room. “Where’s Orchid?”
“Out with her friends. She’s been gone all day,” she said.
Robin and I watched at the window as Nick crouched down to study the doormat. He rose, pulled what looked like a key chain flashlight out of his pocket, and swept the small beam across the lawn closest to the porch. He looked up at the sky. When he came back inside, the photo was in his hand.
“Well?” I said.
Nick shot me a glance, shaking his head. “Let’s sit down somewhere.”
“Yes, of course,” Robin said. “In the kitchen.”
Nick set the photo in the center of the table, sat down, and put on his glasses.
“We’re listening,” I said. “Explain what the symbolism means.”
“It’s a black-magic hex. The two snakes represent powerful and dangerous voodoo spirits, or, more properly, Iwa. The arrows are there to direct the magic to Robin’s face. The boxes in the corners are to encase the evil around the likeness so it doesn’t flow to the creator or the viewer.”
Robin closed her eyes. “I can’t take this.”
“Does the imaging correspond with the tarot cards we found?” I said.
“Not really. The voodoo I saw in the tarot cards you showed me was generic. The veves on the photo are specific to New Orleans’ black magic. This imagery connects to the Petro Iwa.”
“Petro Iwa? Veves? Please translate.” I leaned in to look at the photo under the kitchen light.
“Iwa are the voodoo spirits,” Nick said. “Petro Iwa are the violent spirits. The veve is the symbolism used to summon spirit into action.”
Robin’s eyes widened with each description.
“What were you looking for outside?” I said. “Footprints?”
“Water- or bloodstains on the threshold. Signs of fresh digging in the yard,” he said. “An authentic voodoo practitioner would have sealed the hex with animal blood or buried something personal close to the house.”
“And in the sky? Checking the stars?” I couldn’t resist. None of it sounded rational.
Nick smiled. “I was checking the moon phase. Spirit activity increases two to three days before a full moon. Looks like the full moon will hit tomorrow night. Whoever is spooking you knows voodoo.”
“Fortunately you have the harasser on film,” I said to Robin. “The alarm company came today, right?”
Robin shook her head. “Tomorrow.”
I buried my face in my hands. “Do you have anything to drink? I could use a glass of wine.”
When Robin went to the pantry for the wine, I whispered to Nick across the table. “Enough with the voodoo academic speak. I need you to help us figure out who’s doing this, not scare her to death.”
She came back with a bottle of wine and three glasses.
Nick took the corkscrew and, as he opened the bottle, said, “Do you know anyone who practices voodoo?”
“No.”
“We know whoever it is takes a lot of chances and doesn’t seem to be worried about getting caught. It’s someone who’s familiar with your schedule,” I said, filling my glass. “Do you recognize the photo? Would you know who took it?”
Robin picked up the picture. “Not at all. I can’t even tell where I’m standing.”
I thought of stories my clients confessed over the years. Jealous women who wanted revenge on cheating boyfriends, girls angry with perceived rivals. Some were furious enough to act out with anonymous hang-ups in the night; others sought out psychics or used makeshift magic spells before coming in for real counseling. They used the occult to channel their uncontrollable anger. None of the clients had magical powers, but they all had one thing in common.
I looked across the table at Nick. “Whoever she is, she wants Robin off balance for some reason.”
“She?” Nick and Robin said in unison.
“Women are more likely to use the occult as a tool than men are,” I said. “Just a thought.”
“Show me the tarot cards again,” Nick said.
I pulled them out of my purse and laid them on the table next to the photo.
He picked up the Three of Swords and flicked the edge. “It’s laminated, probably a copy of a prototype. New. No wear on the edges. If S. Johnson is part of the L.A. voodoo community, there’s a chance we can locate him or her.”
“I’ll try anything to find the person who’s doing this to me.” Robin drained her wineglass and poured another. By the time we finished the wine, Orchid had come home, and Nick and I got up to leave.
As we walked down the path outside to my car, I looked at Nick. “What do you think?”
“The only thing those tarot cards and the symbolism on the photograph have in common is an attempt at voodoo. And the threat implied on Robin’s photo was much more serious than the cards.”
“The cards are all we have to track down this asshole before Robin breaks down,” I said, pulling the keys out of my pocket. “I’m worried about her. She’s not a drinker, and she downed three glasses of wine tonight.”
“Leave the tarot cards with me,” Nick said. “I know someone who might recognize them. I don’t have class until late afternoon. I can show him the cards in the morning.”
“You don’t have a car, and I don’t have clients tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll take you.”
Chapter Five
The next morning I knocked on the door to Nick’s brown-shingled, one-story Craftsman home in North Hollywood, jockeying two cups of coffee and a plan. An hour of Internet research the night before gave me a good list of occult shops in the Valley and even a few in Hollywood.
Nick came to the door in khaki slacks, white T-shirt, and a navy V-necked sweater. His hair was wet, and he smelled like soap.
I thrust one of the paper cups at him. “Here. I brought coffee to wake you up.”
“I’ve been up for hours. Went for a run, then called the garage and had them bring my car over.” He tasted the coffee with a wince. “No sugar.”
“I didn’t know how you took your coffee.”
“Two spoonfuls of sugar. It’s always two.”
I giggled. Giggled? It was so early-morning-out-of-context for me. Nick was the first wet-haired man I’d encountered since Jarret and I split up. I forgot how yummy men could be when they’re all fresh and polished. I followed him through the book-strewn living room. A long counter separated it from the jade-green kitchen lined with stainless-steel appliances. Three tall chrome and red-vinyl stools stood next to the counter.
“You have your car back?”
“Yep. I’m mobile again,” Nick said.
“But we’re still going to hunt for the tarot deck, aren’t we? I made a list of shops.” I scooted onto a stool.
Nick took a spoon from a drawer and scooped two heaping teaspoons of sugar into his cup. Tasting the coffee, he smiled at me. “You’re cute. Do you know that?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re cute. You made a list. I don’t need a list.”
“Don’t call me cute. I’ll accept competent. What do you mean we don’t need a list?”
“We’re going to Osaze,” Nick said.
“Where is that?”
Nick took his keys from the counter, poured the coffee into the sink, and tossed the cup into the overflowing trash container in the corner. “Not where. Who. Osaze is a voodoo king and an occult expert, perhaps the most knowledgeable in the United States. Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
I hooked the strap of my tote over my shoulder and followed him out to his car, curious. “Is Osaze a professor, too?”
