Witchcraft and nasty little murders

Chapter Eight The operation

It was only when Detective Harper handed her coffee cup that Ophelia's hand stopped shaking. He took off his jacket to place it on her back, and she told the police what she had seen that night. No matter how hard she tried, she could tell them nothing more than that she had seen a black car drive away from the scene.

Ophelia was surprised when a motorbike roared up nearby, and the excited Chris jumped off it to rush to her. She stared at him in bewilderment.

"What are you doing here?"

"I woke up and you weren't there. Your weird friend called you and then told me where you were. I'm sorry I picked up the phone, but I got scared."

"No, it's okay."

"Miss Hamilton is involved in the investigation, so we've informed her," Detective Harper added quickly, for which Ophelia was terribly grateful. After all, she couldn't tell Chris that her friend was a fortune teller, and she'd probably drawn the picture of the murder scene from one of her nightly comic strips again.

"Are you okay?" he asked worriedly, Ophelia wondered and nodded.

"Yes, of course, but I'm tired. I'll see you tomorrow, if that's okay."

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay with you?" Chris glanced at the corpse that was about to be delivered from the scene. CSI had taken pictures nearby of the Wicca marks and internal organs lying around the victim. Ophelia, if there was a way, didn't look.

"Sorry, this really isn't a good time. I'm out of sorts, we'll talk tomorrow, " she stood on tiptoe to plant a brief but firm kiss on Chris's lips, who gave up the attempt with an anxious sigh. He sat back on the bike to watch her from there for a few more moments, then drove away from the crime scene in the quiet of the night.

"Will you take me home?" Lia looked at the detective, who scratched the back of his head nervously. "Relax, I'm not planning to seduce you," she rolled her eyes, sensing his hesitation.

***

It was dawn. They returned to Ophelia's apartment in silence, and she opened the door wearily for the detective, who did not sit down, but only stood in the doorway. Ophelia automatically made coffee and then settled down at the kitchen counter, where she offered the man a seat on one of the bar stools.

"You seem to be under a cloud, finding you at the crime scene again," the detective stirred the coffee, before Ophelia's gaze fell on his still-scarred hand, where the injuries he'd been given for her were lined up.

"You know it wasn't me. I was dreaming again, and it was the same thing," she buried her face in her palms. She felt tiredness pulling her down, but still she looked up, lost in his cold blue eyes. "I don't understand what's wrong with me. What nature is trying to tell me with this madness."

"Believe me, I don't like it either, finding you sleepwalking near the scene of the crime all the time, but if we can get to the coven, we'll find out. On Saturday, right?"

"That's right, but we should be talking about what we're gonna do about Fernando Sanchez."

"There's nothing to talk about. You take me to him, you hand me over, they bring us the drugs, we ambush them, and that's it."

"That's it? Are you out of your fucking mind?" Ophelia's voice went up two octaves.

"You've done this before. If he wants to shoot me, you deflect the bullet and it's done."

"Sure, like it's that easy. I have no idea how I did it the other day, and I don't want to risk your life on a stupid mission."

"You don't have a choice."