He nodded and went past me into his office, closing the door. I shot Patty an “Am-I-in-trouble?” look. She shrugged. Patty and I had a decent working relationship, but not a great one. I knew there were times she thought the chief was guilty of favoritism toward me. And the fact is, it was probably true. I’d known Chief Bryant since I was little. When my mom waitressed at Callahan’s Café, sometimes during a day shift she’d park me in an empty booth with a coloring book. The chief used to come in for coffee, and occasionally to cheat on his diet. That’s when he first took a sort of paternal interest in Mom and me, which ultimately led to my part-time job here in the department.

Since that time, I’d never been less than a hundred percent straight with Chief Bryant. Well, at least until I called in sick yesterday, which is probably why I was feeling apprehensive. As a rule, I tried to avoid lying. It’s not one of the Seven Deadlies—why, I don’t know, since dishonesty seems a lot more like a sin than oh, say, sloth—but when it comes to temptation I like to err on the side of caution.

I drafted the last couple of lines of my report and printed a copy before knocking on the chief’s door.

“Door’s open.” He gestured to the chair in front of his desk as I entered. “Have a seat, Daisy.”

I sat.

Chief Bryant leaned back in his chair and studied me. He was a big man with sleepy, hooded eyes that always reminded me of the old actor Robert Mitchum. A lot of people missed the intelligence in those eyes and the fact that there was solid muscle under the extra pounds he carried. “You called in sick yesterday.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re never sick,” he said. “Never known you to have a sick day in your life. Your mother used to brag about it.”

“I had a situation.” I slid the report across his desk. He put on a pair of reading glasses and skimmed it, then folded the glasses and put them down.

“Palmer,” he said. “That’s that young fellow you’ve been seeing? Runs the bus tour?” I nodded, although I wasn’t fooled. Chief Bryant knew exactly who Sinclair was. He prodded the report with one thick finger. “Sounds like his sister put quite the whammy on you,” he observed. “You feeling okay today?”

“Much better, thanks.”

He looked at the report again. “So this obeah woman . . . what is that? Is that like a voodoo priestess?”

“A little bit,” I said. “Not exactly.”

He fixed me with his deceptively sleepy gaze. “Do you think she’s coming back to finish what she started?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Unfortunately, I do.”