Page 10 of Love Me Darkly
“Smith, take Jones with you and visit any businesses near Solstice that might have security cameras. We’re looking for footage showing the comings and goings at the club over the past two months, and from every angle possible. I have to believe the UNSUB was in New Orleans and visited the club before heading to Little Rock. He’s circled back here to kill again, and we need to know why. Try to persuade them to hand over the footage without the need for a subpoena.”
“While they’re doing that, there’s something I want to talk to you about,” Donovan interrupted. “Something I noticed while reading over your case files last night.”
Mateo dismissed the team and followed Donovan to a table littered with evidence from last night’s crime scene. He lifted the small plastic baggie holding the mysterious coin and angled it toward Mateo.
“The markings on this coin … I think I’ve seen them before, but I can’t remember where.”
Mateo lifted his eyebrows. “Really? Due to the ritualistic nature of the murders, we assumed they might be some kind of religious iconography. But some of D.C.’s best experts in spirituality and the occult were unable to identify it.”
“Your experts have nothing on the Vodou priestesses and root workers here. I know someone who might be able to help us identify it. I know the devil-worship shit is a long shot, but we don’t have anything to lose.”
“You know someone? Donovan, don’t tell me you’re into any weird shit.”
Donovan laughed. “She’s just a root worker … an herbalist. But she has deep knowledge of spiritual lore. I’ve consulted her on a few cases in the past.”
Taking the coin from Donovan and studying it through the plastic, Mateo sighed. “It couldn’t hurt. It’s not like we have any other leads. If indulging in the idea that the ritualistic nature of the murders means anything helps find this son of a bitch, I’ll do it.”
“Come on. If we leave now, we can beat the morning traffic.”
Half an hour later, Donovan led him into a building marked with a sign that read Marchand’s Botanica across it in white letters. The place was nestled in the Treme neighborhood, which had started to come alive for the day. The smells of boiling crab and crawfish followed Mateo into the shop, which was dimly lit and cramped with shelves and display cases. A dusty chandelier cast meager light over the shelves and display cases, which Mateo studied as Donovan left him behind to move further into the space.
One set of shelves held dozens of glass jars, some filled with dried herbs tied into bundles, while others contained liquid substances. He squinted to read the labels, finding hyssop, mugwort, and rue in the herb jars, as well as various oils and something called Florida Water in the liquid ones. Mateo moved on, discovering candles of various colors and sizes, some etched with markings. On the shelves beneath those, he found wax hearts, skulls, and coffins—specialty candles for rituals of some sort.
“Aveline?” Donovan called out. “You here?”
Mateo noticed a set of steps in the shadowy back corner, then heard the sound of footsteps from overhead. He moved to the middle of the shop, where glass display cases sat filled with neatly labeled items. He was familiar with some things but unfamiliar with others. There were gris gris pouches, jars of crystalized powder marked for ‘spiritual baths’, a collection of French Catholic prayer books and others he assumed contained spells. There were also tarot cards, bone-reading sets, and an array of amulets for protection.
“I thought you said she was a medicine woman,” Mateo whispered, edging toward Donovan. “There are more than herbs at play here.”
“Welcome to N’awlins,” Donovan drawled.
“Agent Donovan,” said a woman appearing at the bottom of the stairs.
Mateo wasn’t a linguist, but he easily identified the Haitian Creole accent. She emerged into the light wearing a flowing, patterned skirt and a white, off-the-shoulder blouse. A headful of salt-and-pepper dreadlocks hung down her back, a scarf matching the skirt tied around her head. Colorful, beaded bracelets covered her wrists, and a collection of necklaces and amulets lay against her chest. From among them, Mateo picked out a cross, an evil eye, and the symbol of St. Michael the Archangel.
Donovan leaned down to accept a kiss on the cheek from the woman, whose brown skin was a few shades lighter than his and lined around the eyes and mouth.
“It’s been a while,” Aveline muttered. “You act like you don’t know me since getting promoted.”
Donovan leaned against one of the glass display cases and gave her a charming smile. “Don’t do me like that. You know I come around when I can.”
“Mm-hm,” she murmured, casting Mateo a glance. For the split second their eyes met, Mateo felt as if he’d been turned inside out. One of her eyes was a dark, velvety brown. The other was greenish hazel that burned into him an intensity that made him want to look away. With a flick of her lashes, she dismissed him, but he couldn’t help but feel as if the woman had read everything about him in a single glance. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Garcia, a supervisory agent from D.C. We came across something on a case, and I thought you might be able to help. Are you familiar with these symbols?”
He slipped the coin from his pocket, still in the plastic bag, and laid it on the glass. Aveline produced a pair of glasses from around her neck and slipped them on before picking up the coin and holding it up in the light. Mateo held his breath, despite the intrusion of logic telling him this was a long shot. He had never worked a single case where this demonic bullshit turned out to mean anything. But Donovan had been right; they had nothing to lose.
“Come with me,” Aveline mumbled.
Without waiting for them to respond, she went for the staircase with a whirl of her skirt. Exchanging a look with Mateo, Donovan shrugged but then followed after her. Mateo trailed them up the stairs, which led to an apartment above the shop. The colorful patterns of curtains and throw rugs surrounded them as Aveline guided them past a few closed doorways and into the living room. An open door displayed a kitchen beyond, and the smell of something cooking made Mateo’s mouth water.
Light flooded the space when Aveline flipped a switch, illuminating the bright yellow, red, and orange tones of her décor. In one corner of the room, a setup that could only be called an altar occupied a considerable amount of space. The multi-tiered table was draped in black cloth and adorned with candles covered with images of saints. Between them, he found a hodgepodge of framed photos draped in garlands of flowers and rosaries, small canvases etched with strange chalk markings, a mirror, various charms, and bundles of herbs. On the wall over it all hung a Haitian flag.
Aveline approached them from the bookshelf, a leatherbound volume in her hands.
“It’s an obscure symbol, but one I have encountered before,” she declared, opening the book and flipping through its pages. “If I could just find … ah, here it is. This, Agent, is the Seal of Azrael.”
Mateo’s hands shook as he accepted the book from her. Donovan peered over his shoulder and studied the drawing on the page. Two triangles made up a pentagram, which was nestled in the curve of a half-moon crescent. A circle surrounded it, with straight notches carved through it at geometrically balanced points. It was an exact match for what was etched onto the silver coin. Something within Mateo vibrated, thrumming through his bloodstream and sending his pulse racing.
