To Kill a Sorcerer

by Greg Mongrain

  I ascended the winding steps. Voices echoed over the faint chime of holiday music. The familiar burning odor of someone taking their medical prescription scented the air. Santa Claus and sativa. Happy holidays.

  Four days before Christmas, hot, unseasonal Santa Ana winds had temperatures soaring all over the San Fernando Valley. Arid gusts ruffled the tops of the trees on both sides of the staircase, causing the tall palms to sway with stately grace and bringing the thick smells of sage and chaparral.

  The front door stood open. It was cooler inside, the air conditioner in turbo drive. I cruised through the living room, scanning. The mayor talked with two men who were not Hamilton and Gonzales. A relief. I had no idea if the big man had seen the picture of his daughter and me, and I wasn’t in a hurry to find out.

  I headed for an open door near the back, sure the detectives would not stay inside if they were done with their meeting.

  As I passed the fireplace, I glanced up at a black-and-white framed poster. Houdini stared down at the assembly, his hands shoved into the pockets of a heavy double-breasted suit, his expression severe. He probably wasn’t happy about being forced to stand watch over a party in someone else’s house.

  I stepped into the heat again, onto a flagstone patio lit with dozens of tiki torches, their flames bent sideways by the gusts. This courtyard, one of several around the estate, had two levels. Below, a pink brick wishing well covered in ivy stood at one end of the veranda, and at the other, a curving red stone bridge extended over a tiny lake and onto the dark lawn leading toward the back of the estate.

  Several men leaned against a horseshoe-shaped bar, silhouetted by the bay laurel trees that were the canyon’s namesake. Detectives Hamilton and Gonzales stood among them, looking as happy as men waiting for rectal exams.

  I took a place next to them downwind and lit a cigarette.

  Steven Hamilton was the senior man. Caramel-skinned and lean, he cut an attractive figure in an inexpensive black single-breasted tuxedo.

  A Sumo-size Samoan bartender wearing a white dinner jacket trundled over.

  “Tequila,” I told him. He set down a shot glass and filled it with Don Julio Blanco. I hoisted the drink, saluted the two detectives. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  Neither replied.

  Alfred Gonzales resembled an NFL defensive end who had fattened up a bit after retiring. Shrek-like in a plaid coat with black silk lapels, black formal pants that were too tight at the ankles, and plain black shoes, he hurt the eye.

  “So, Montero,” he said, “you’ve bought your way onto a homicide case again.” He gestured at the bartender, who poured him a shot.

  “Detective Gonzales, I thought perhaps we could—”

  “Must be nice to have that kind of cash.” Sweat glistened on the detective’s face and neck, darkening his collar. “Must be real nice.”

  “It is. Must we do this like before?”

  “Since we have to do it at all. Why don’t you leave jobs like this to professionals?” He tipped the tequila into his mouth and bit a lime wedge.

  “I do.”

  “Like hell you do.”

  I didn’t bother to argue. While I had completed LAPD’s training for reserve officers, allowing me to legally work for the department, the program was designed for specialists and other volunteers. The instruction did not remotely prepare a graduate to participate in criminal investigations.

  The mayor gave me special dispensation because my science and forensics company BioLaw offered free state-of-the-art analyses to the overloaded LA county coroner’s office. My lavish contributions to his campaign chest coupled with my private annual donations to the LAPD also influenced his decision.

  Though most in the LAPD knew of my support—and knew it meant they had more modern equipment, access to better health care, and fully funded pensions after twenty-five years—the detectives hated working with me.

  Money can’t buy me love.

  “I’ve seen the pictures from the Barlow murder scene. Care to speculate as to why the killer spent so much time cutting her up?”

  When I said Barlow, Gonzales’s brow furrowed briefly, and Hamilton’s gaze flickered.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  Neither answered.

  The first two times we had worked together, they had shut me out this same way. And though my assistance in the last investigation had proved valuable, I knew they were unlikely to thaw toward me because of it.

  Their reaction still hurt. Hope is not a reasonable emotion.

  I took a sip of tequila and glanced around. From where we stood, we could see through the windows at the crowd inside. Hamilton noticed my visual surveillance.

  “Looking for Sofia?” No gossip network could compare to that within a police station.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Looked like something on Popwire. Nice picture. What did Aliena say?”

  “I haven’t heard from her. She’s in Iraq. Coming home tonight, in fact.”

  “You don’t sound worried,” Hamilton said.

  “Why should I be?”

  “A girl like Aliena usually gets pissed when she sees a picture on the Internet of her boyfriend kissing another girl.”

  “I was not kissing Sofia. She was kissing me.”

  “Yeah,” Gonzales said, “I’d like to see how that explanation goes over.”

  “How did you find it?” I asked him.

  “One of the girls in Metro spotted it and recognized you. She e-mailed it to her friends, they forwarded it to their friends, and the picture went viral on our network in two hours.”

  Damn. “Sorry about that.”

  “Shit, I’ll bet you love it,” Gonzales said. He motioned to the bartender, who refilled his glass. “Pissed off a couple of captains, but you didn’t have to deal with that, did you? Now half the women in LAPD are probably after you. That’s the problem with this city. Even in the department, there are too damn many gold diggers looking for sugar daddies.”

  In earlier eras of my life, protocol would have permitted me to take Gonzales to task for such an insulting insinuation. Times being what they were, I let the comment pass, but the man had officially irritated me.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “Since you’re airing your opinions, Alfred, tell me: why do you think the killer strung Sherri Barlow up and gutted her as if she were a deer? He must have worked on her for a while, and we all know how dangerous that is for him. What do you make of that?”

  Gonzales stiffened at my use of his Christian name, swallowed his drink, and tossed his shot glass on the bar where it tipped and rolled onto its side with a clatter. “Piss off.” He strode toward the house.

  “He’s never going to warm up to you, Montero,” Hamilton said. “Never.”

  “I lose sleep over it. What about you? Do you really hate working with me so much?”

  He leaned on the bar, crossed his legs at the ankles. “It’s like the last two times. I’m ordered to give you all cooperation. I like it as much as I like paying income tax. Why do you care? As long as you’re in.” He gestured to the barman. “Two more here.”

  “I prefer to be welcome,” I said.

  “Go ahead and prefer it. You’re a civilian, and you always will be.”

  “Everybody cares what happened to that young girl.”

  “So? We’re handling it.”

  “Good. I’m glad it’s you and Gonzales.” The bartender poured our drinks.

  “Then leave us to it,” Hamilton said.

  “I just want to help. Are you saying I don’t have the skills necessary to assist you?”

  “Don’t even go there. If you think I’m going to tell you you’re good so you can walk around with your hand on your crotch like you’re Dick Tracy—I don’t think so. Homey don’t play dat.”

  “I thought cops were superstitious.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe I’m your lucky charm,” I said. “We are two for two, after all.”

 
; He took a snort of his tequila. “We caught the first guy in three hours, and we would have solved the last one without you.”

  True. Of course, cracking the case and catching the bad guy are two separate parts of the investigative process. Hamilton and Gonzales would have eventually followed up on the same lead I had in the Richardson homicide. But time is a critical factor. Our killer had possessed an Irish passport with plans to use it soon. Identifying the murderer doesn’t give you a lot of satisfaction when he escapes your net and makes it to another country. Even if a foreign agency catches him and extradites him, there is always the feeling of having had someone clean up after you.

  “Why do you think the murderer cut the girl up?”

  “No idea.”

  I lit a cigarette. “Watanabe’s examination confirmed the girl was a virgin. With the incense, this has all the earmarks of a ritual. Which might mean serial. After all, most ceremonies have more than one—”

  He leaned toward me, his voice soft. “You keep that fucking shit to yourself, you hear me?” He confirmed the bartender was out of earshot. “This was the work of some freak, that’s all. Not one word about any repeat. You say that in public, and I will make sure this case is your swan song.”

  “I got that from Reyes already. Do you really think I’m that stupid?”

  “Then leave this sacrificial crap alone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to talk about it.”

  A fair answer. “You’re more tolerant than Gonzales, no matter how you play it. Why?”

  He finished his tequila. “Your charity work and the contributions you make to inner city programs. I respect that you give so much money back to the community.”

  “Money is energy. Always best to spread that around.”

  He nodded.

  “No ligature marks on her wrists?”

  “No, she hadn’t been bound.”

  “Yet the killer tied her to the ceiling by her ankles. Any idea how he managed that without the victim clawing his testicles off?”

  “You read the reports. Nothing on the tox screen, no contusions on her head. We don’t know why she didn’t fight him. What do you want from me?”

  “You were there. At the scene. What did it feel like?”

  He turned to me, his expression as haunted as this mansion.

  “It felt wrong. It felt like something really wrong had happened there.”

  Four

  Tuesday, December 21, 9:39 p.m.

  Images of Sherri’s mutilated body surfaced in my mind. After reviewing the case file and the pictures of the crime scene, the way this perp had cut her up made it clear we had a very deadly killer on our hands.

  If proven wrong about Sherri’s murder being the first in a series, I would be as relieved as anyone. But as I had told Hamilton, rituals are never completed after one act. And everything about this murder pointed to a ritual.

  If right, that meant the killer was hunting another teenage girl at this very moment.

  Hamilton gave a low whistle. “I see a young lady dying for my company.”

  On the lower level of the courtyard, a pretty dark-haired woman modeling a tiny black cocktail dress watched us over the rim of her champagne flute. She stood slightly apart from a small group, next to the covered wishing well.

  “Looks familiar,” I said.

  “Yeah. Works in the D.A.’s office. First time I saw her, my trick knee went out on me. And I don’t have a trick knee.” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes and I’m back on duty. Are we done here?” He straightened his tie. “How do I look?”

  “Like a cop on the make.”

  “Your ass.” He went down the steps and across to the girl. She smiled and offered her hand as he came up to her. He kissed it, kept it, and leaned over to whisper in her ear.

  Smooth work was a Hamilton trademark.

  Lieutenant Steven Hamilton had been promoted to Detective Three just a few weeks ago. One of LAPD’s most successful investigators, he was the ace of the Van Nuys division.

  A month earlier, we had worked the murder of a wealthy banker named Douglas Richardson. It was not the type of homicide I usually investigated. I concentrated on brutal crimes against helpless victims, especially those where the killer repeated. The murder of a prominent businessman provided high visibility, however, and I knew nailing Richardson’s killer would enhance my reputation in the department—even if the regular detectives resented me for it. The investigation also gave me a second opportunity to work with Hamilton and Gonzales.

  It had taken two days to break the case. We figured it for an inside job from the start, since Richardson had been shot twice in the back in his study, there was no sign of forced entry, and none of the staff had seen or heard a thing. In the end, we discovered our theory was correct: the butler did it. It happens.

  We nailed the villainous valet when I noticed an inconsistency in his story about his family in Ireland. I sent a text to an associate in County Kerry to trace the lead. She reported the relatives had lately come into a large sum of money. Unexplained money. Hamilton and Gonzales would have followed up on it eventually, but since the butler was ready to rabbit, sooner was better than later in identifying him as our man.

  I alerted Hamilton, we braced the old boy in his little house on the estate, he went for a vintage Luger (which ballistics later proved was the murder weapon), and I popped him on the chin with a right cross. He confessed to the murder, Hamilton and Gonzales received the official credit for solving the crime, and I faded into the background.

  Until now.

  The method, motive, and relationship between killer and victim made the Richardson case unremarkable from a statistical point of view. Most murderers used handguns. In almost 90 percent of homicide cases, the killer and the victim knew each other. Drugs or crime were involved in more than half.

  The Barlow homicide was different in every way.

  The victim was a drug-free, athletic teenage girl who had been strung up and gutted like an animal, her flesh torn open with a sharp knife. The meticulous carving of her body made it extremely unlikely she had known her killer. The method seemed too deliberate for a crime of passion. That meant we had no motive for the murder.

  Then why had he chosen Sherri?

  I downed another shot of tequila and watched Hamilton as he chatted with the attractive young lady. The detective had an easy manner women found hard to resist. There were several points in his approach that could be improved, but I no longer offered advice to anyone over sixteen.

  A luminescent outline appeared near the wishing well. It took me a moment to identify it. Adorned only in his mustache, the ghost of adult film star John Holmes, one of the canyon’s most notorious residents, scanned the crowd.

  No one screamed, so I guessed no one else could see him.

  The shimmering porn king advanced on Hamilton’s girl. He dragged his hands along the pretty woman’s thighs, cupped her breasts. She shifted, as if mildly uncomfortable. Holmes continued groping. He stepped forward and pressed against her. She fidgeted as he began a rhythmic movement. He saw me watching and waved. When I shook my head in disgust, he gave me the finger. I turned away, but not before seeing the young lady heading into the house, Hamilton in tow. Holmes was left standing with his gleaming erection pointing uselessly at the night sky.

  As it seemed my interviews were over, I was at liberty.

  “You have single malt back there?” I asked the bartender.

  “Sure. The Glenlivet.”

  “Be a good fellow and hand me a bottle.”

  “Did you say a bottle?”

  The five hundred-dollar bills in my hand caught his attention. I slid them into the breast pocket of his blanket. “There’s something for your children.”

  He bent down, came up with the plasma. “You want a glass?”

  “No, thanks.” I took the bottle from him. “How’s it going tonight?”

  “You’re my first tip.” He watch
ed with interest as I uncorked the bottle. “You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “No. I’ve never been there.” I brought the drink to my lips.

  “That right?”

  The bottle clinked against my teeth. I consumed the contents in a single draft that lasted twenty seconds. As I popped the cork back into the dead soldier, a curtain of warmth started at my head and, pulled by gravity, descended to my toes. “If you’ve got a bottle of tequila back there, I’ll add three more Franklins to your take—four if you have another bottle of Don Julio.”

  Studying me carefully, he raised his right hand, reached out with his index finger extended, and prodded me in the chest, as if to confirm I was actually there.

  “How come you’re not on the ground? No one can drink like that.”

  “This is Houdini’s place. It’s a magic trick. How about that tequila?” I handed him the empty. Four more hundreds slid into his pocket to join their brothers. Three more and he’d have enough for a jury. I got a cigarette in my mouth and lit it, then glanced around. The bartender and I were alone.

  He handed me the bottle of tequila, a frown on his face. “Mister, you’re gonna kill yourself.”

  “I told you, it’s a trick. As incredible as his illusions were, Houdini did say they were all accomplished mechanically.”

  “So how are you mechanically not drinking that booze?”

  “Ah, just as the Great Houdini never passed on the secrets of his illusions, I cannot tell you the solution to mine.”

  It wasn’t usually my nature to behave recklessly, but when you are seven centuries old, tempting the devil can occasionally offer irresistible mental stimulation. I loved seeing how far I could push it, yet have a plausible explanation. My supernatural metabolism gave me an obvious advantage. I could drink alcohol, pop pills, inject heroin, and snort cocaine, yet be clear of eye and sweet of breath as long as I had five or ten minutes to recover. If my body could develop an addiction to drugs, I would have the most expensive habit in history.

  I blew smoke, set my cigarette in the ashtray, tugged the cork out of the bottle’s neck, saluted the bartender, and tipped the liquor into my mouth. The raw sweet smell filled my nostrils. I gulped it down, draining the bottle like the drunken pirate I once had been.