But it wasn’t over. It never was.
Jagg was on his last leg with the state police, with the CID Commander, Governor, and Chief of Police watching him like a hawk, just waiting for a reason to fire him.
The legendary Max Jagger had fallen from grace.
When dispatch had summoned me to the Voodoo Tree, I’ll admit, I sped to the park. It wasn’t often that anyone got to work with Jagg. The guy was a loner and rarely pulled anyone into his cases. And when he’d asked me to help? I hadn’t been that excited since I discovered I had Cinemax for free.
I had a chance to learn from the man himself.
Dammit, I wanted to be him. I wanted to have that kind of innate authority that came so easily to the man. I wanted to have that kind of presence.
I wanted people to fear me the way everyone feared him. Hell, the way I feared him.
I wanted to leave ol’ Dingleberry Darby in the dust, or dung, I should say.
I decided right then and there, I would not let him down. I would soak in everything I could so that when Jagg was fired, as he inevitably was going to be, I would have a chance at becoming the next Detective Max Jagger. I just had to prove myself first and it was going to start with that case. If Jagg really believed the Wiccan shrine in the woods had something to do with Seagrave’s death, I was going to find out.
… Evil witches and hexes, or not.
6
Jagg
Colson grabbed the cell phone from my hand.
“Where the hell did you get this video?” He demanded.
“Lady across the street.”
His gaze shot to mine. “Cora Hofmann?”
I dipped my chin.
“What the?… We already interviewed her. Hell, I personally interviewed her. She said she didn’t see or hear a thing that night. Until we showed up, anyway, which, by the way, I was informed kept her cats up all night. Woman hates the police, that much was obvious.”
I shrugged.
“No way. Tell me now. How did you get this?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh yes it does. I’ve got a half a mind to drive over there right now and charge the old lady with obstruction of justice.” His eyes narrowed. “What did you have to do to get this?”
“I’ve got an actual video of the Black Bandit and this is what you want to talk about? Who cares how I got it?”
“You agreed to go on a date with her daughter, didn’t you?”
I lifted my cup to my lips.
“You sly son a of a bitch. Just remember how that worked out for you last time with… what’s her name again? Oh yeah, Susan. I remember because I was the one who booked her into jail for breaking into your house and stealing your underwear. Susan Stalker. People still call her that, you know.”
“Her last name is Smith and that was my priciest pair of Hanes, by the way.”
“Yeah, they really upped the ante when they went tagless. God, your cheap.”
I snatched the phone from his hands. “Listen, if you’re not—”
Colson grabbed the phone back and hit play. We watched the green-tinted feed from a night-cam that Ms. Hofmann had set up in her back yard to capture activity around her bird house. A widow of twenty years, the woman was a nature fanatic, with multiple cameras set up to record deer, raccoons, and a feral cat that kept getting into her, quote, damn trash.
I’d watched the video so many times I could recite the exact second the oak tree swayed in the breeze, the moment three leaves tumbled down two seconds later, and the reflective eyes of a raccoon in the corner of the frame a second past that. And in the distance, through a break in the trees, a blurred silhouette emerging from the shadows, slipping through the back door of Mystic Maven’s Art Shop, after taking only three seconds to pop the lock. Exactly one minute and six seconds passed before the Black Bandit emerged through the back door again, holding a black bag, and slipped into the woods. Ninety seconds after that, lights from Lieutenant Seagrave’s patrol car bounced off the trees. And the grand finale, one minute and fourteen seconds later, his foot flops onto the ground in the bottom of the frame.
Colson watched it two more times before speaking.
“This leaves a lot of questions. Timing, for one.”
He didn’t need to say it. It was the one thing that didn’t add up for me either. If the Black Bandit had already gotten what it came for—the fourth Cedonia Scroll—and exited the building in a clean getaway, why had the bandit circled back and killed Seagrave?
Had the Bandit gone back for something? Then ran into Seagrave, where an altercation took place? If so, why wasn’t that caught on camera?
“It’s impossible to make out the height or weight of the Bandit, too. Other than ‘not obese,’ and ‘relatively normal height.’” Colson hit replay for the third time. “It does, however, confirm three things. One, the images from the street cam, two, the fact that Ms. De Ville needs to get better locks, and three, the timing that the heist occurred.”
“Not just that, Colson. Look closer. Investigate.”
The lieutenant rolled his eyes, then focused back at the phone. A minute ticked by. My patience cashed out as the video played for the fourth time. I yanked the phone from his hand. “Jesus dude, stay with your day job.”
I fast-forwarded to the spot I’d replayed more than a hundred times. “Our Black Bandit has a limp.”
Colson’s brows pulled together. “What?”
“He has a limp. Watch as the Bandit jumps off the back steps as he’s leaving the building. He favors his left hip.”
Colson leaned inches from the screen as I replayed it again. “Holy shit. I’ll be damned. You’re right. You can see it right there—” he pointed to the screen. “After he jumps, he drags his left hip and there’s even a limp as he disappears into the woods.” Colson shook his head and leaned back. “I’d ask how you noticed that, but based on the bags under your eyes, I’m assuming you haven’t slept more than ten hours in the last three days.”
Two, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Nice work, Detective. Alright, what’s your profile so far? Because I know you’ve already built one.”
I tossed my phone on the bar and leaned back. “I think the Black Bandit has a strong interest in art, or appreciates it at least. I think he practices witchcraft, is a Wiccan, or at the very least, drawn to it. I think it’s someone smart, crafty, who enjoys beating the system. As for age, I’m torn. Coupling the fact that most thieves range from teens to mid-twenties and the speed of the Bandit, I’m leaning toward young. No older than thirty for sure.”
“But the limp? Old people limp.”
“My gut tells me it’s an injury, not from age.”
“It’s a good lead. Motive?”
“Could be greed—they want the scrolls for either money or bragging rights. Or, it’s something to do with Seagrave.”
“Personal, then? You think the Bandit lured him there? It was a setup?”
I shrugged. I had no reason to assume it was personal other than the nagging feeling in my gut.
Colson sipped his beer. “I’ll have Tanya see what she can dig up from Buckley at the hospital. See if anyone has come in recently with a left hip injury.”