“I didn’t kill the woman,” Omo Sango said. His eyes had never moved from Silas even though Becca had been asking him the questions. He’d lost the hard edge of a drug-pushing gangster and now trembled in what could only be described as a ‘throne’ near the ritual circle in which they’d first encountered him. “I didn’t even put a curse on her. I swear it. On my ancestors.”
The subterranean warehouse had been cleared of the gangbangers. The candles in the ritual circle had been extinguished. The only people now occupying the room were Chief Cole, Silas, Esperanza, and the Babalowa.
“And why should I believe you?” Becca asked. “The whole town knows about this curse of yours.”
“I’m tellin’ ya…I didn’t curse her. She was one of my initiates. Why would I do somethin’ like that to one of my own?”
Becca glanced at Silas, who only shrugged in response.
“Everyone seems to think you did. Her friends. The Summer Haven Chronicler…”
“Blakely and that lousy paper.” Garcia spat on the floor. “Not exactly a trustworthy source there.”
“And if you did put a curse on her, wouldn’t it have looked bad for you if it didn’t work? I mean, what kind of power does a Babalowa have if his curses don’t actually do what they’re supposed to do?”
He glanced over at her, then quickly returned his gaze back to Death. “It would, but like I said, I didn’t do a bilongo on her. I didn’t perform no curse.”
“But the paper…”
“That paper is full of it, chica. Blakely’s got it in for me. Has for a long time. He’ll do or say whatever he can to spread those lies to anyone who’ll listen.”
Becca crossed her arms over her chest and smirked. “Spenser Blakely is one of the most respected men in Summer Haven. Why on earth would he have a vendetta against you personally?”
The gangster sniffed. “That’s somethin’ you should ask him.”
“She’s asking you,” Silas said, leering at the big man.
Garcia tensed. A vein began to bulge from his neck. Then he shook his head. “No matter what’s between us, I can’t tell you. Ain’t my place and the Orisha wouldn’t be pleased if I did. Lo siento, Senior Muerte, but I can’t. Not even for you.”
Becca nodded. “Okay. Then tell me…how is it everyone came to think you did place this hex on Alvarez?”
Garcia shrugged. “Don’t know. A few weeks back, I did have a lady try to pay me to lay the bilongo on her. Offered up two grand to do it. But I refused. Like I said, Andrea was one of mine and she’d not angered the Orisha. I had no reason to curse her.”
Silas and Becca looked at each other.
“And who was that?” They both asked at the same time.
The Babalowa shrugged. “Don’t know. Nice lookin’ white lady. Nice clothes. Expensive car. She just came to me and said she would pay me two grand to do the working.”
“Wait a minute,” Silas said. “You’re telling us that a well-off white lady in a nice car just drives up in your neighborhood—this neighborhood—finds you somehow, and asks you to place a curse on someone?”
“Yeah, that seems unlikely,” Becca agreed. “Even cops steer clear of Gruenwald Commons unless they can help it.”
Jacinto Garcia continued toying with the bones hanging from his necklace and shook his head. “Nah. That ain’t how it happened.” His eyes darted around the room, then to Esperanza, who gave him a nod of encouragement. He then returned his gaze back to Cole and Mot. “I met her at school.”
“Excuse me?” Silas’ eyes widened.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Big bad drug dealer takin’ night classes at the state college. Go ahead and laugh it up.”
“You’re taking night classes?” Becca asked.
He nodded. “I don’t want to be doin’ this my whole life. If I do, I ain’t going to be around long enough to enjoy it. I want out. Military wouldn’t take me ‘cause of my record. School just seemed like my best bet.”
“And is this woman a student? A teacher?”
“I told ya. I don’t know. I seen her around campus a few times, but we ain’t ever had no classes together or anything.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “One day, I’m walking to class and she comes up to me in the quad. Says she heard I was a Babalowa and that one of my initiates was Andrea. Said she’d pay me two grand to lay the working on her.”
“And you refused?” Becca asked.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Ain’t no way I was going to use the power of the Orisha—especially Sango’s power—to do something like that. It’d turn around on me so fast, I’d be dead within a week.”
Garcia took a long pull on his cigarette. Becca noticed his hands were shaking. Not exactly behavior she’d expect from a cold-blooded gangbanger.
“How did this woman respond when you refused her request?”
“Didn’t seem to have much of a reaction at all, to be honest.” He exhaled a plume of smoke. “She just smiled and walked away. Cool as an iceberg, if you ask me.”
“Like she had other options in mind,” Silas added.
“Exactly.”
“Did you ever see this woman again?” Becca asked.
Garcia shook his head. “Nope. But a few days later, Andrea came to one of our ceremonies freaked out. Got in my face in front of all the others and started accusing me of cursing her and that that creep reporter she’d been dating was going to find a way to stop it.”
“Wait,” Silas said. “You knew about their relationship?”
“Sure. Everyone did. She didn’t exactly keep it a secret. A matter of fact, several people warned her about that guy. He was an initiate of mine a few years back. But somethin’ was wrong with him. That dude was dark, man. I mean, yeah we’re drug dealers and gangbangers, but he even gave my hermanos the creeps.” The big man tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and stamped it out with a sandaled foot. “Andrea and Spenser met around the time his wife got sick. A few months later, Daphne Blakely was dead and Spenser was already tryin’ to get in Andrea’s pants. Took a few years, but he finally wore her down and they started hookin’ up.”
Becca and Silas gave each other sideways glances. “You could be right about him,” she said to Silas. She turned back to Omo Sango. “You’re saying that Spenser was into Santeria?”
“Yeah. An initiate working toward becoming Santero. Until I gave him the boot. Like I said, I won’t go into why, but let’s just say he was experimenting with some really weird stuff—death rituals and such—after his wife got sick. We already had a hard-enough time getting acceptance from the locals. We didn’t need someone like him being part of us.”
“Could Blakely have continued practicing without you?”
The big man nodded. “I ain’t Yoda and this ain’t like Jedi school. It’s sort of an individual thing. He couldn’t have received an Orisha without a Babalowa conveying it to him, which means he couldn’t ever become Santero. But he could certainly continue growing in the religion as much as he wanted.”
“And his wife?” Silas asked. “You said he started these strange death rituals around the time Mrs. Blakely got sick. Any chance he used one of those curses on her? Maybe he had his sights set on Andrea long before his wife died.”
Omo Sango shrugged. “Possible, but I doubt it. Need at least a Santero for a working strong enough for that. Woman got eaten up with cancer from what I hear. That’d take a lot of juju for something like that.”
“Getting back to this woman at your school,” Becca said after clearing her throat. “Think you could describe her to a sketch artist?”
He looked over at Silas again and gave a fearful little nod. “Sure.”
“Okay. Come to the station tomorrow morning, first thing. If you do, I won’t send the sheriff’s deputies and highway patrol out to come pick you up.” She paused, then shook her head. “No. Scratch that. Come to the station tomorrow morning and I won’t send him.”
She pointed at Silas.
Another nod.
Without another word, Becca turned and beckoned for Silas to follow. The two strode out of the gangster den as the Babalowa and the living embodiment of Santa Muerte looked on.