“I have no idea of my health history. For all I know my parents had diabetes, high cholesterol, and the fat gene.”
He’d never considered all the issues that an adopted child would have to face. In this day and age, most knew their parents, or they could if they wanted to. They definitely had access to their medical records. What would it be like not to know anything about where you came from?
“I watch the salt, the fat, the junk,” she continued. “But I’m a sucker for State Street Brats. That’s my splurge.”
Bobby had heard of bratwurst, never had one, wasn’t sure he wanted to. His thoughts must have shown on his face because Raye patted his knee. “The place is legend. Brats in nearly every menu item. They even have a red bratwurst.”
“Why?”
“Badger spirit. Red brat, white bun. Go Big Red.” She pumped her fist into the air.
People were crazy. But he’d known that as soon as he understood the meaning of the word. If people weren’t, he’d be out of a job. Some days he didn’t think that would be such a bad thing.
Raye indicated the next exit. “This one.”
He followed her directions. The big white capitol dome loomed above streets that were a maze. He could have plugged the address into his GPS but why bother when he had her?
Memories of last night surfaced—the way that she’d tasted, the sound of her cries, the brush of her breath, the clasp of her thighs.
“Take the next parking place you see.”
He snapped out of the past. He was on a case. Now was not the time for pornographic daydreams and bad poetry.
Bobby saw a space half a block up. He had to parallel park, but he was good at it, even with a car that wasn’t his.
“Nice,” she said as they climbed out. “You didn’t even tap the curb.”
“As if.”
She smiled, and for an instant he thought she’d take his hand. For an instant he almost took hers, until he remembered.
Case. Victim. Murderer. He swooped out his arm in a “be my guest” gesture, and she led the way.
They took one turn and State Street spread out before them like a Midwestern French Quarter. Shops, taverns, restaurants. People milled about, walking dogs, sipping coffee.
“Is this it?” Raye peered at the numbers above the nearest doorway—a used bookstore.
“That one.” He lifted his chin to indicate another farther down.
Raye stopped in front of it and frowned.
“Is it closed?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, just pointed to the sign above the doorway, which read: PRACTICAL MAGIC.
Chapter 17
“Just because she lives above a magic shop doesn’t make her a witch,” Bobby said.
“It’s not a magic shop.” Raye tapped the star surrounded by a circle. “A pentagram is a Wiccan symbol.”
“How do you know this stuff?”
“Don’t you? You live in New Orleans.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I try to avoid the weird shit.”
Or at least he had after he’d met Audrey. She’d brought enough weird shit into his life to last the rest of it. He’d never been sure if she believed in all the kooky crap she and her friends spouted, or if she’d only pretended she had in order to dupe the pathetic, unsuspecting, and desperate.
“I’d think that in New Orleans there’d be tons of ‘weird shit,’ especially in homicide.”
“You’d be surprised.”
There was Sullivan’s loup-garou incident, of course, but Bobby hadn’t been involved and most thought that Sullivan had had a breakdown. It made more sense than a werewolf running loose in the Crescent City.
“Homicide is pretty cut-and-dried. It’s almost always the husband, sometimes the wife. On occasion, a sibling. People kill the ones they love. They don’t off the passersby.”
“I still can’t believe you haven’t run into a witch or two. Maybe a voodoo priestess?”
“Despite the press, voodoo is a fairly peaceful religion.”
“So is Wicca. I’m pretty sure that’s one of their tenets…”
She pointed at the painted sign in the window, which read: HARM NONE.
“Probably why I haven’t met any.”
Homicide began and ended with harm.
“Just because she lived over a Wiccan shop doesn’t mean she was a witch either,” he said.
“Sooner or later, Bobby, one and one is going to have to equal two.” Raye opened the door.
Inside a young man stood behind the counter. His nametag read TODD. He was dressed in jeans, Nikes, a red T-shirt sporting that big-headed badger. Bobby had lost track of how many of those he’d seen in the few yards they had traveled to arrive here. The guy’s strawberry-blond hair was short, his lightly freckled face clean-shaven. He was the least likely Wiccan shop worker Bobby could have imagined.
“Blessed be,” Todd said.
Bobby flashed his badge. If he was lucky, the clerk wouldn’t look closely enough to read NOPD. He didn’t.
“Do you have a key for the apartment upstairs?” Bobby asked.
“Annie’s place?”
“Is there more than one apartment?”
“Got me there.” Todd opened the register, removed a key, held it out. “You know who’s gonna be taking over?”