Frankie fought the rush-hour traffic to turn onto Ramos’s shaded street. She wanted to catch him early—before he met with clients if possible. She’d stayed awake until two, forming questions meant to extract the answers she needed. No fooling around this time. Was Ramos involved in Red’s death? If not, then did he know who was?
Halfway down the block a black Nissan sedan rolled past her. Ramos was in the passenger’s seat, his dark glasses making him recognizable.
Was she too early or too late?
At the end of the block, she turned around and drove back slowly, trying to decide what to do. As she pulled even with the house, the front door opened and the grim-faced woman from the botánica stepped out with a broom in her hand.
Frankie stopped and slumped in her seat, watching the old woman sweep the porch like she was mad at it. Her moss-green dress swung in counterpoint, her skin the color of dust. A stub of a cigar protruded from her clamped teeth.
Now it made sense. The old woman was Ramos’s housekeeper, maybe even a relative. At the salon, she’d jumped on Mystica because she was protective of Ramos and didn’t want Frankie near him.
A VW bus with duct tape securing a side window turned into the driveway and sputtered to a halt. A young woman wearing skinny jeans and heels climbed out. Frankie recognized her as one of the hairdressers from the salon.
The housekeeper threw the cigar stub into the bushes and walked to the edge of the porch.
“Presura,” she demanded, signaling for the young woman to hurry.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” the woman called as she picked her way through the broken concrete of the driveway. They met at the corner of the house and disappeared around back, the broom left leaning against a column on the porch.
Frankie wrote down the VW’s tag number and took money from her purse to fold in her pocket. She let three minutes pass before starting up the driveway for the back of the house.
This time she was prepared for Dante the dog to come galloping at her. Instead, the patio was silent. Live animal cages had been stacked in the shade of an elm tree on the far side of the patio, the cages holding two red roosters, four pairs of white doves, and five hamsters huddled into tight fur balls. A goat, in the largest cage on the bottom, was weaving from side to side with anxiety, only stopping to rub its forehead against the bars. None of the animals made a sound.
Smoke curled from under the cook pot sitting in the patio’s fire pit. Memories flooded back to her—blood and feathers, hooves and horns, and the smell of rendered fat and boiled meat.
Santería had been part of her childhood, but she’d blocked the blood sacrifices from her mind. She couldn’t imagine charming, educated Sergio Ramos slitting the throats of these struggling animals. The sacrifices were meant to absorb the problems and negative vibrations of troubled people. Most of the animals would be consumed as meat consecrated by the orishas. But she didn’t like it. She’d begun to think of Ramos as a renowned psychologist, not a pagan priest. There was no contradiction in the bloodletting for him. She hated it.
A little rattled, she took the porch steps and peered through the door’s window at the two women who were standing beside the kitchen counter. The hairdresser was counting out bills into the old woman’s hand. A conjure bag lay on the counter between them, the same kind Frankie had discovered near Red’s body.
This was no surprise. It had dawned on her that the old woman’s cigar wasn’t a bad habit; it was a clue that she was a practitioner of palo mayombe. Bad magic. Amitee used to shake her finger in Frankie’s face and warn against the paleros judios. They cast spells by controlling the spirits of dead witches, criminals, and suicides who reside inside a special cauldron. The pot contains bones of the dead, crossroad dust, animal carcasses, and hot spices. During ceremonies, the paleros judios blow cigar smoke and spew rum at the cauldron to invoke the spirits and command them to obey. Their magic works faster than that of a santero because the spirits are compelled to obey. A santero works within the wishes of the orishas, who ultimately have the control.
Frankie had to make a move. She opened the door and breezed in. “Oh, hi. Sorry to interrupt. I left my book, um . . . mi libro, in the doctor’s office.” The room stank of moldy leaves and dog excrement. She pointed to the bag on the counter. “Hey, cool. That’s a great pouch, right?”
The hairdresser went wide eyed and snatched up the bag. “It’s mine.”
Frankie reached for it. “Can I see?”
The young woman curled her nails around the bag. “Ovia will make whatever you need.” She nodded to the old woman and whipped out the door, heels clattering.
The old woman slipped the money in her bra and eyed Frankie. “No tenemos su libro,” she said, waving Frankie toward the door.
Frankie slipped two twenties from her pocket and held them for Ovia to see.
“But I have a terrible problem. Will you help me?”
The woman sneered. “A spirit follows you. His hand is at your throat. He blames you . . . an accident.”
“Is he here now?” she asked, trying not to be a little spooked. Ramos had mentioned the accident, too.
Ovia’s eyes roved over the room. “I will send him away.”
“Great. Do that. But this is a different problem. I want to give a man un gran susto, a big scare, with a curse. Can you do this? Make this live man go away? Never come back?”
Ovia jutted her chin out with pride. “I can make him go away. Sure.”
“Can you make him leave this world? El ebo muerte?”
The woman’s gaze rested on the money. “It will cost much more.”
“I asked Dr. Ramos to make a death spell, but now I see that you control the cauldron and the spirits. I’m impressed.”
Ovia stepped closer. The odor of stale cigar smoke wafted from her dress. “I am Tata Nkisi, a mayombero. You know this.”
“And your death spells work.”
Ovia nodded. “I made two spells last week.”
“I’d like to speak with the person who bought the spells.”
Ovia showed her teeth, shook her head. “No sé el nombre.”
“You don’t have a name? Was this a man or a woman?”
“A woman came to la botánica.”
Frankie handed one of the twenties to her. “Tell me about the woman.”
Ovia stashed the money inside her dress then stretched to hold her hand high above Frankie’s head, indicating height. “Una iniciado en la Santería. Seis necklaces.”
Tall, a Santerían believer, and she wears six necklaces, Frankie thought. Five for the necklace initiation ceremony, one for a specific orisha.
“Is she black or white?”
“Mulatto,” Ovia said.
“From the islands?”
Ovia waved away the question. “You want my help? No more questions.”
“How much money for the ebbo I described?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“And if Dr. Ramos makes the curse? Is it more?”
Ovia flattened her hands and moved them back and forth. “Ramos cannot help you.” She pointed to her chest. “Only me.”
She was selling black magic out the back door. She picked up clients at the salon and got her supplies from Mystica. Rare items she must take from Ramos’s pharmacy and replace them before he missed them.
If she were to believe Ovia, Sergio Ramos did not practice the black arts. But was he aware that his housekeeper did?
Voices came from the backyard, then footsteps on the porch. Ovia snatched the second bill from Frankie’s hand.
“You want el ebo muerte? The doctor cannot know.” She drew a strange pattern in the air over Frankie’s head and stepped back as if satisfied.
Ramos came through the door. His hair was damp-combed off his face, and the aroma of aftershave followed him into the room. Of course. He would need a barber’s help.
“My driver recognized your car, Ms. Malone,” he said. “Have I forgotten an appointment?” He extended his hand then frowned and touched her bandaged wrist. “You’ve hurt yourself.”
“She came for a book,” Ovia said. “I told her to go.”
“The book is on my desk,” Ramos said. “To Kill a Mockingbird is a favorite of mine, an attorney who stands for justice when no one else will.”
“I considered practicing law because of Atticus Finch, but I chose to be a police officer instead.”
She laid her badge wallet in his hand. Presenting her badge in an unofficial investigation was a risk, but it put muscle behind the questions she wanted to ask.
Ramos thumbed the shield, his eyes coming up, hidden by the glasses, but she could tell he was gazing at her. “Now I understand why you always carry a gun. I recognized the smell of the cleaning oil for your weapon.”
“You and I attended a funeral for two men.” She pulled the plastic-wrapped conjure bag from her back pocket and pressed it into his hand. “Someone used their belief in Santería to scare them to death.”
Ovia reached to snatch the bag away, but Ramos clamped his hand on her wrist. “Do not speak, Ovia. And do not leave the room.” He opened the conjure bag, dumped its contents, and ran his fingers over the dust. “Eggshell. Coal dust. Wasp nest. Guinea pepper. Rock salt,” he recited quietly.
“I found the bag near Red Davis’s body,” Frankie said. “He suffered a heart attack on the spot. We believe someone chased Little Man. He broke his neck in a fall. Both men died in terror. I saw it on their faces.”
Ovia spat at Frankie’s feet. “This one is bad. You’ve seen her spirit man. Está furioso.”
Ramos spoke to Ovia in heated Spanish. They went back and forth for a while, Ovia gesturing at Frankie in an attempt to shift blame. Ramos pointed at a chair, his voice thick with emotion. “Siéntese y no hable con la señorita.”
Ovia collapsed in the chair, defeated.
Ramos turned back to Frankie, stiff with formality. His conversation with Ovia had unnerved him.
“You were counseling both men,” Frankie said. “The conjure bag and unusual components that you keep in your home were found near the body. This looks bad for you.”
Ramos tilted his head, impassive. “I was not involved in these deaths, but I am responsible for the members of my household. To that end, I may be culpable.”
“Were you involved in the making of this curse?”
“No.”
“Did Ovia make it?”
He looked over at the old woman. “She won’t say.”
“She claims to have sold curses to a woman last week. I need that name. And I need anything Mr. Davis told you that might lead to his killer.”
“I will speak to Ovia when you are gone. And I hold Mr. Davis’s privilege to confidentiality, so I can tell you nothing.”
“Red and Little Man had their lives taken from them. As professionals, you and I have a duty to stand up for them. Tell me. What do you think Atticus Finch would do in this situation?”
Ramos looked surprised. He thought a moment, then a smile played over his lips. “You would have been a gifted attorney, Ms. Malone. Please, join me in my office. We have things to discuss.”
He took her hand. “But first we must treat this burn.”
“What makes you think it’s a burn?”
“I’m a witch doctor, am I not?”