Blakely’s office was more lavish than the rest of the building, with its polished hardwood floor and cherry-wood bookshelves, filled with leather-bound tomes, built into the northern wall. A matching desk, neat and tidy—and oddly, no computer—sat facing east with a large picture window looking out at the ocean. The only signs of modern technology in the whole office was a security monitor capturing images of the building’s exterior in high resolution infrared.
On the southern wall, hung a collection of wooden masks—they looked African, maybe some Asian, to Becca. A wooden display case sat underneath them and was filled with an assortment of spearheads, knives, colorful beads, and other trinkets of African origins.
The journalist gestured to two chairs on the other side of the desk. “Please, take a seat.” He then walked over to the wet bar behind his desk and poured himself a two-fingered glass of brandy. He turned to look at them, his cheeks flushed, as he pulled out an orange pill bottle from his pants’ pocket. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little agitated.” He held up the bottle for them to see. “Lorazepam’s about the only thing that gets me through the day lately.”
He popped one of the pills and drowned it in the amber liquid. He then walked over to his desk and sat down, looking at his two guests with nervous eyes.
“Perfectly understandable.” Becca said, although it really wasn’t. Drinking brandy and taking anti-anxiety meds before noon was something she would never quite understand. Still, for etiquette’s sake, she sat in the proffered seat, then nodded over to the masks and display case. “That’s an interesting collection you have there.”
“Huh?” He looked in the direction she’d indicated, then beamed. “Oh, yes. It’s my pride and joy. Something I started collecting with my late wife—may she rest in peace—twenty years ago on our first trip to the Congo.” Blakely paused, as if reminiscing. “We went back every year after. At least, until Daphne got sick, that is.”
Becca offered an understanding nod.
“Well, I won’t keep you from your work any longer than I have to, Mr. Blakely. But as you know, we’re following some leads on Andrea Alvarez’s death and I thought you might have some insight.”
“I most certainly do. As we were saying, I have no doubt that Jacinto Garcia—known as Omo Sango by his followers—killed her.”
“With a death curse.” She couldn’t believe she’d even uttered the sentence.
“Oh, make no mistake, Chief Cole, the dark magic practiced by followers of the Yoruba people is real. I’ve become all too familiar with it during my travels.” He pointed toward the masks on his wall. “Santeria. Vodun. Palo Mayombe. They all originated in the Congo hundreds of years ago by the Yoruba people. I’ve seen things on my little excursions that would boggle your mind.”
“But you seem to revere this culture,” Silas finally spoke up. “You’re a collector of their artifacts, after all. Yet, you seem to have great disdain for their belief systems. So much that you would write a scathing article about them in your paper.”
“It’s all well and good that they practice these dark religions in their own country,” Blakely responded. “But when they practice here…in my own backyard…and threaten people I care for, well, I can’t abide that at all.”
“So, tell me,” Becca said, “what do you know of this curse? Why did Andrea get targeted by Garcia?”
The reporter shrugged. “She didn’t rightly know. She simply returned home from work one day to find a bilongo at her doorstep.”
“A bilongo?”
He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a small leather pouch cinched with a drawstring. Opening the bag, he dumped its contents onto his desk. Becca saw what appeared to be a small doll wrapped in seven ribbons of various colors.
“This is a bilongo. It means ‘working’,” Blakely explained.
“A voodoo doll?”
“Kind of. Not quite. Unlike a voodoo doll, in which a curse can be lifted by destroying the thing, a bilongo is simply a representation of the ‘working’, not the actual curse itself. It merely acts as a warning.” He collected the doll and placed it back into the pouch.
“I’m going to need that as evidence,” Becca said, holding out her hand. “When the case is over, you can have it back. Don’t worry.”
He nodded, then handed the pouch to her. “I was with her at the time she found it.” His face turned several shades of red. “We had recently started, ahem, seeing each other. Nothing too serious, mind you. Just dipping my toes back in the dating pool again, one might say. Anyway, I was with her when she found it. The look on her face. My God. It was ghastly. She immediately broke down in a fit of despair. Took forever for her to finally explain to me what it meant.”
Becca jotted down some notes on her pad, ignoring the urge to calculate the significant age difference between Spenser Blakely and Andrea. To each their own, I guess.
“Funny,” Silas said. “We spoke with Ms. Alvarez’s friend…a Ms. Ceci Palmer…and she didn’t mention that you two were seeing each other.”
“Like I said, we had only just begun dating. Though we weren’t hiding it, we both felt it was too soon to advertise our relationship yet.”
“Did she know why she’d been cursed?” Becca asked, trying to keep the interview on track.
Blakely shook his head. “She was never really sure. Yes, she and Omo Sango had heated words one evening after a ceremony, but that was after he had told her of his intentions to cast the working against her. Before she could protest formally, she was turned away. Excommunicated from their little group, apparently.”
“So that’s why you began your journalistic crusade against this group?” Silas asked. Becca wasn’t sure why he was so focused on Blakely’s obvious hostility toward the religion, but she decided to let the question stand.
“I’ve always distrusted them, Mr. Mot. Always tried to warn people about their nefarious magical practices.”
“Yet, you were dating one of their members,” he responded. “That seems a touch hypocritical to me.” The man in the all black suit leaned forward in his chair, his teeth gleaming back at the newspaper man. “Tell me, Mr. Blakely, how did Andrea feel about your opinion of her religion?”
“I…uh…”
“It’s a simple question. She couldn’t have been too happy with your little expose on Santeria.”
“I don’t see how that’s important.” He started to reach for his non-existent tie again, but remembered his last attempt, and just began fidgeting with his fingernails instead. “She tried to tell me that it’s not all bad. Tried to convince me that most of it was good. Peace-loving.”
“But you knew better, didn’t you?” Silas pointed toward the display case filled with the various trinkets of the reporter’s travels. “You’d seen it firsthand.”
“Um, excuse me. What does this have to do with anything?” Blakely asked. “I thought you were here to talk about Omo Sango.”
“Jacinto Garcia,” Silas said.
“They’re the same person. It’s just the name his followers call him.”
Silas leaned back in his chair and glanced at Becca with a wink. “Your witness, Counselor.”
This man is going to get me fired, she thought, shaking her head. She had no idea what Silas Mot’s line of questioning was supposed to have accomplished, other than to frustrate Blakely. Or worse, sued for slander.
“Sorry about my colleague, Mr. Blakely,” Becca said. “He’s a little unorthodox.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” the reporter said.
“Okay. Let’s get back to Jacinto Garcia. Of course, I’ve heard of him. He’s the leader of a known gang known as Los Cuernos del Diablo.”
“I’m very familiar with the group, yes.”
“We’re aware that they operate out around Gruenwald Commons, but we’ve never been able to track down their base of operations. Did Andrea ever mention where Garcia hung out? Where he could be found?”
Spenser Blakely nodded, then glared at Silas defiantly. “I’ll be happy to tell you as long as you promise to take that horrible man with you.”
Silas’ self-assured grin stretched even wider.
“You have my word,” Becca said, envying her own promise. I couldn’t get rid of him even if I tried.
The reporter told them what they wanted to know and Becca ushered Silas out of The Summer Haven Chronicler before he could offend anyone else that happened to be in the building.