To Kill a Sorcerer (18 page)

Hamilton stopped and picked up the pistol.

“Now, young man, I did not say you could touch my Beretta.” Mrs. Beasley sat on the couch and gestured me to an overstuffed chair.

“Ma’am, this gun is loaded, cocked, and the safety is off.”

“Well, what do I look like, the Sundance Kid? I have to be ready to go.”

“That is extremely unsafe,” Hamilton said.

“Now don’t tell me how to live in my home. I got no children and no grandchildren and no visitors. That gun is just as safe as my butcher’s knife. Now set it down, set yourself down, and have some coffee.”

Hamilton replaced the gun after engaging the safety.

“I saw that,” Mrs. Beasley said. “You’re gonna get me killed.”

Hamilton sat. “This is a nice neighborhood,” he said.

“You can say that after what happened to Jessie?” She poured us each a cup of coffee and, without asking if we wanted them, added cream and sugar.

“That was one in a million, you know that,” Hamilton said, taking a sip.

“Don’t tell me what I know, young man.” Her voice had plenty of snap in it. She appeared to be in her early seventies, healthy, and sharp. I wondered what had been the cause of Mr. Beasley’s death, and whether or not he had been sad to go. “I know Los Angeles, and I know Hollywood, and I know the Valley. Lots of murders and drugs, lots of violence around here, always has been. This neighborhood is better than some, and thank the Lord my Theo left me this place and enough to take care of myself, but I’ve never felt safe here, not even when he was alive.”

“That’s why you keep a pistol handy?” I asked.

“Damn straight.”

“You have a permit, of course,” Hamilton said.

“It’s in the drawer under the gun,” she said, crossing her legs and taking a delicate sip of coffee, “along with my spare clips and extra boxes of ammo. Theo gave me that Beretta for our forty-eighth anniversary. It’s the ninety-two SB. Fifteen in the clip and one in the hole. I’m a crack shot with it.”

“I’m sure,” Hamilton said, not sounding thrilled. He set his coffee cup on the table and pulled out his notebook. “Now, Mrs. Beasley, you called and told the desk officer you saw something yesterday? Before Miss Patterson was murdered?”

“That’s right. I was baking pies. Two blueberry and a crackleberry. I was cleaning out the mixing bowl at the sink after the crackleberry when I seen a man walking in front of my house.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I may be old, but my eyesight is sharp as ever. He was a tall black fella with short hair like yours. He had a mustache and a chin beard, one of them that’s so popular nowadays on TV.”

“Are you sure he was black?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, it was afternoon. I could see him well enough.”

Hamilton was probably thinking the same thing I was thinking: black serial killers were virtually unknown.

“Do you remember anything else about his face?” Hamilton asked.

“No.”

“Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“A dark suit. Them Santa Ana winds were fierce yesterday, and his jacket was flapping all over.”

“You say he was my height?”

“Yes, maybe a little thinner, though. And he had a big briefcase.”

Hamilton continued scribbling. “Then what did he do?”

“He crossed the street at the corner—I didn’t see him. I was still washing dishes, but when I looked up again, he was ringing the bell at the Patterson house.”

“Did you see Jessica answer the door?”

She flapped the heel of one of her slippers. “No. I was still rinsing the bowl, I guess. But I did look up right after she let him in, I think. That’s why I thought to call you. Even then, it seemed strange to me.”

“What seemed strange?”

Mrs. Beasley set her cup and saucer down. “It looked like Jessica was hanging on to him while he tried to close the door. I thought maybe she had fainted.”

We were back in the car after taking Mrs. Beasley’s statement. She had given us each a piece of crackleberry pie on a paper plate, covered with plastic wrap. A sketch artist was on his way to her place.

Greenleaf appeared quiet as we headed back toward Ventura Boulevard.

“She must have seen them right after he dosed Jessica with the spray,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“You know the numbers on black serial killers.”

“Yes.” White males seemed to have a monopoly on serial killing.

“I don’t suppose she could have got that part wrong,” I mused.

“Come on,” he said, “if she got that wrong, she got it all wrong. She sounded damn sure. She even noticed his hair was short like mine and that he had one of those mustache-goatee beards. We’ve got our first description of this guy,” he said. “We finally caught a break.”

I glanced at him. “Tall, black, short hair, wearing a dark suit.”

“I have an alibi for both murders.”

“Just checking.”

Our next stop was India West, the incense retailer at the top of Smitty’s list, a little shop on Western Avenue, sandwiched between a State Farm Insurance agent and a tattoo parlor.

We pushed through the glass door and heard the familiar tinkling bell. India West was a small place specializing in essential oils, lotions, incense, bath-and-body items, and candles. Strong incense smoldered at different points around the store, but there was a more familiar burning scent under it all.

Hamilton and I did a slow walk-through of the candle section.

“No black,” he said.

A man finally emerged from the back and stepped from behind the counter. Mid-twenties, skinny, and tattooed, with thick black hair and glassy hazel eyes. His walk had been breezy when he first came out, but at the sight of Hamilton and me in our suits, his air became distinctly wary.

“Can I help you?”

Hamilton flashed his badge. “What’s your name?”

“Benjamin Sanford.”

“You work here, or you own the place?”

“Both.”

“We understand you sell . . .” He pulled Smitty’s list out of his jacket and glanced at it. “ . . . Tashua Jong incense here.”

“Yes.” I could smell his breath. It was that rank combination of beer and marijuana. It’s one of our favorites. Hand rolled, you know. Many of my customers burn it exclusively.”

That had to be good for business. I had spotted it on the shelves. It was the most expensive incense available.

“Having this upscale location probably helps,” I said.

He didn’t say anything to that. He just waited. When I glanced at his tattoos, he followed my look, folded his arms across his chest.

“We’re going to need a list of customers who have purchased it.”

“Yeah, right. My clientele is exclusive, and they expect privacy.”

“What were you in for?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Benny,” Hamilton said, “stop wasting our time. You want us to run you? I’m guessing if we do a little checking on this nice establishment of yours, well, maybe not everything’s perfectly kosher.
Capisce
?”

“Two years for distributing,” Benny said.

“Still in the business?” Hamilton asked.

“No.”

“This would be an ideal place to operate if you wanted a perfect storefront for the distribution of marijuana. I mean, we are somewhat lax about that in California, aren’t we?”

“I swear I’m not selling dope. I don’t—”

“Listen, you little shit,” Hamilton said, “we can smell the fucking ganja in the back, so shut it. We couldn’t care less about that. We don’t want to listen to any more whining about your exclusive clientele. All we want is a list of customers who have purchased that brand of incense.”

“You want to ream my asshole, too? You start questioning those people—”

“Shut up,” Hamilton said, real quiet. Benny shut up. Hamilton wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at the ceiling, toward the corner of the store to the right of the entrance.

Fixed in perfect position to view the store and checkout counter was a security camera, its red light on.

“How long do you keep the tapes?” Hamilton asked.

“I don’t date them. I just bought a gross, and I keep replacing them. That was like a year ago.”

“Even if you don’t date them,” I said, “the machine must have a time-date stamp.”

“Sure, of course.”

Hamilton closed his notebook. “I guess you better show us where they are.”

“I guess you better show me a warrant.”

“I love smart guys who watch TV. You want me to get a warrant? Tell you what. I get a warrant, and I’m not just coming back for your tapes. I’m coming back for your ass. You want to look over your shoulder every time you get high, big shot? You want a patrol car stopping by every week? Now shut your trap. Where are the tapes?”

“In the office.”

“After you.”

We followed him to the back of the store and into a small office. There was a plain task chair in front of a nice wooden desk. A pipe sat on top of it, tipped into a round glass ashtray next to a laptop computer. A frosty bottle of Coors Light dripped near the mouse.

“That’s not mine.” He gestured at the pipe.

“It never is,” Hamilton said.

Benny grabbed a brown moving box off the guest chair next to his desk. “They’re right here.”

Hamilton looked inside. “A year? What the hell are you talking about? There are only about twenty tapes in here.”

“What? Oh, the camera is motion-sensor activated. I can’t afford to have it recording all day. It only starts taping when someone is in the store.”

“That saves us some time. Is it okay if we take these with us?”

“If I give them to you, you leave me alone, right?” Benny’s red eyes shifted between Hamilton and me. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“As long as they don’t show you killing anyone or selling dope, or doing anything else illegal, then yes.”

“Man, those tapes show normal business, I swear.”

Considering Benny’s past, I believed him. He was cooperating with us, and he was handing over the video without a lot of resistance. That convinced me he had no knowledge of these crimes or of the possibility that one of his clients could be involved.

He gave us a list of customers who had purchased Tashua Jong incense in the last three months. Hamilton and I left with the list and the box of tapes.

“He didn’t put up much of a fight for these things,” Hamilton commented once we were outside.

“No, but that’s because he knows absolutely nothing about these murders. And on the off chance that he’s tampered with the tapes, my techs will know.”

“I’m taking these to the crime lab.”

We stopped on opposite sides of the car. I chirped the locks.

“Why?” I asked as I opened my door. “They already have enough work. You know that. Chief Reyes has already given you approval to use my specialists on this. The ME’s office uses my labs. Why do you keep fighting that?”

He opened his door and tossed the box on the backseat. We both climbed in and buckled up. “Because I don’t like operating outside the department.”

“It’s not outside the department. My people file full, official LAPD reports. They fill out your forms better than
your
forensics specialists do. And all the information is available in encrypted online sites to those personnel with approved access.”

He still looked sour. “Yes, okay, your people are the fastest and the best.” He was able to say that as if those were terrible qualities for my employees to possess.

“It’s approved. As you are aware.” I started the car and pulled into traffic.

“It’s nothing to do with approval. I don’t like handing evidence over to civilians.”

“So that’s it. Is that also why you don’t like working with me?”

“You’re damn right that’s part of it.”

“And the fact that I’m good at this doesn’t matter.”

“Man, I couldn’t care less if you were the incarnation of fucking Sherlock Holmes. I—”

“You don’t like the way I manipulate the department, that my money gives me privilege, and that I am allowed to do a job you had to work hard to attain. Truly, I understand.”

“So you would feel the same way in my place?”

“No, but the behavior is predictable. I have seen it many times.”

He snorted. “You always talk like that, like you’ve been everywhere and done everything.”

I looked over at him briefly, shifted into fifth.

“You’d be surprised.”

He tilted his head back and stared through the sunroof. “You are so full of it.”

Thursday, December 23, 1:04 p.m.

The next place on our list was Madame Leoni’s, an occult shop on Hazeltine. It was lunchtime, so we stopped at Cotija Loca, my favorite place for a carne asada burrito. I got outside two of them while Hamilton worked his way through the cheese enchilada combo.

“Why do I always eat more when I’m working with you?” he asked.

“Because I’m always buying?”

“Yes, that’s probably it.”

Madame Leoni’s place, Sympathetic Charms, sat on a quiet street, located next to a dentist and a Fatburger. The interior was dim and stuffy. Candles—dozens of them—burned everywhere. Smoke from their wicks thickened the air, adding to an already balmy atmosphere.

A woman who could only be Madame Leoni stood near a bookcase. She had long hair, braided, with what looked like small bones twisted into the braids at strategic places. According to our information, she was in her late thirties. When she turned to us and smiled, she revealed teeth already badly tobacco-stained. She was as thin as a crack addict, pointed elbows and knobby knees sticking out of a multi-print dress. She was no addict, though. Her eyes were clear and assessing as we walked into her store.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” A thin cigar jutted from the corner of her mouth. Necklaces dripping with pendants looped her neck, and she had a tattoo of a skull under each eye. The jewelry and tattoos were all jujus for protection from malevolent spirits.

The background Reed and Smitty had provided described Madame Leoni as a minor conjurer, authenticity unverified. The people in this community knew her as a witch, able to provide customers with fetishised objects like voodoo dolls and protective amulets. In the final paragraph, Reed had expressed his doubts about her abilities.