To Kill a Sorcerer (21 page)

“Sure,” the tech said. “I’ll do it right now.” He opened his kit, gave Madame Leoni’s massacred body a sidelong look, and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.

“The rounds we recovered looked like forty caliber,” Hamilton said. “If Madame Leoni had a gun, I’m guessing she would have had something smaller than that. She looked like she only weighed ninety pounds.”

I did not have to worry that I carried a forty caliber. All three of us did, and so did many of the officers on the force. Of course, my right hand would test positive for gunshot residue, and if the police decided to confiscate my gun, a ballistics test would show it was the weapon used in this room. None of that pointed to my guilt in the murder of Madame Leoni, but since it placed me at the scene, the blood recovered could be mine. And when the lab results came back, LAPD would request a sample of my plasma for comparison.

“Why would the third man leave?” I said. “If he interrupted the killer and tried to shoot him, why not call for help after?”

“Maybe the killer overwhelmed him,” Gonzales said. He walked to the cabinet I had banged my knees against—where Kanga had stabbed me the second time. “These blood sets and the ones in the store could belong to our mystery man. In fact, we may have three distinct blood types here.”

I knew these two would figure it out. As long as the identity of the shooter remained a mystery, I did not have a problem.

The SID team leader was listening to us as her techs swabbed the blood on the floor.

“Let’s get those typed ASAP,” Hamilton told her. She nodded and made a note on her chart.

I was not looking forward to those results.

“Even if there are only two blood types,” Gonzales continued, “it doesn’t mean we didn’t have a third party—our shooter.”

“It still doesn’t explain why he would leave, especially if he was injured,” I said. “Why not call for help?”

“It’s possible he had something to hide,” Gonzales said. “We don’t know why he was in the store in the first place.”

“I suppose it makes sense, if you assume the gun did not belong to either Madame Leoni or the man who cut her up,” I conceded.

Gonzales was on one knee now, looking closely at the bloodstains on the floor in front of the cabinet. “This is not a pattern of blood dripping from above,” he said, frowning. “This is transfer from clothing that must have been soaked with it. One of our guys was down.” He stood up and looked at the other patch of my blood in the center of the room, three meters away. “If these two samples are from the same guy and those drops out in front . . . how the hell did he get out of here at all?”

The tech who had been swabbing Madame Leoni’s hands walked up to us.

“Negative for GSR,” he reported.

“So the vic didn’t do the shooting,” Gonzales said. “And if not her, who then? The killer? Why? And why are the shots all over the place, including one that hit the floor?” He looked from Hamilton to me. “There was a third person in here.”

“Yes,” Hamilton said.

“That still does not explain the pattern of the shots,” I said.

“No.” Gonzales frowned. “I’ll run a check of all the emergency rooms, see if anybody showed up with a knife wound or gunshot wound.”

“How did he know so fast?” Hamilton said. “Kanga, I mean. How did he know we had talked to her? We were here less than two hours ago.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Unless he was watching the store.”

“Why would he do that?”

“That’s simple,” Gonzales said. “Madame Leoni was more involved in this than she told you. Maybe she was his accomplice. That would give this Kanga guy a damn good reason to keep an eye on her.”

Hamilton was shaking his head. “No way. I can’t see that. Our perp is working alone. He wouldn’t share any of this with anyone.”

“Not in a hundred lifetimes,” I agreed. “There is another possibility. He may have been in this room the whole time we were here.”

“And Madame Leoni knew it,” Gonzales said.

“Not a chance,” Hamilton said. “If Kanga was back here, she did not know about it.”

“That’s right,” I said. “She would not have identified him or given us a name and information about his purchases.”

“Then how the hell did he get back there without her knowing?”

I thought about it. “There’s a liquor store on the corner. She may have gone there to buy her little cigars.”

“If she’s not involved like you two are saying, why kill her at all?” Gonzales asked.

“I’m starting to think the son of a bitch did it to piss us off,” Hamilton said.

“And to terrorize the community,” I added. “And as a message to us for questioning her.”

Hamilton had a familiar expression on his face, one I had seen on the faces of many comrades as we steeled ourselves for battle.

“We’re done here, sir,” the SID team leader said to him. She had to repeat it before he nodded. The forensics group left, laden with their kits.

Hamilton, Gonzales, and I stood there with our hands on our hips, staring about the storage room. As I pretended to look at the bullet hole in the wall, I thought about telling them what really happened and revealing that I was the anonymous gunman. I could explain that I had tried to shoot Kanga three times at point-blank range, and that he had used hand gestures to make me miss every time. I could imagine Detective Gonzales’s reaction.

The ME’s people had returned and were gently lifting Madame Leoni’s body off the table and placing it in a black zippered bag. We moved out of the way as the stretcher rolled past.

“Why’d you change your clothes?” Hamilton asked.

I was wearing a charcoal suit. Earlier I had been wearing a dark blue one. “I just finished on the treadmill when you called. I wanted something clean after my shower.”

“Reyes canceled our brief. She’s got a press conference and said we need to keep on it.”

“I agree. I haven’t filed my reports anyway.”

Gonzales said, “Let’s have a talk with the person at that liquor store. See if Madame Leoni’s been in there today.”

“Sounds good,” Hamilton said. He led the way out. Near the front door, we discarded our gloves and signed out on the crime scene log. The candles were still burning.

As soon as we pulled the door open and stepped outside, three television cameramen shouldered their equipment. Virginia Sanchez stood in front of two other field reporters from competing stations. The crews had also set up lights, and now they turned them on, bathing the sidewalk in front of the store in their glare.

“Detective!” Sanchez shouted, waving her hand. “Detective Hamilton!”

I was behind Gonzales as we came out the door, but now I stepped to one side. The three of us walked up to the reporters, Hamilton in the lead. I hated this exposure but could not avoid it without being conspicuous enough to invite questions.

Hamilton stopped on our side of the crime scene tape.

“Detective Hamilton, is this the work of the Voodoo Killer?” Sanchez asked.

“We have reason to believe it is, yes.”

“He strung her to the ceiling?” one of the other reporters asked.

“No, he didn’t do that this time.”

“So there were differences between this murder and the murders of the two girls?” Sanchez said.

“Yes, but I can’t give you any details.”

“Is it true you now have a suspect?”

“Yes. Two witnesses have provided us with a reliable identification. His name is Kanga. We have circulated his likeness within the department, and his sketch will be made available to the public in the Chief’s press conference at six.”

“Mr. Montero,” Sanchez said, “can you tell us anything about the murderer’s methods so far?”

“Beyond that they have meaning to the killer,” I replied, conscious of Hamilton, “we are not sure why he is doing what he is doing.”

Looking into the cameras, I could feel Kanga on the other side of the lens, marveling that I could be standing here, unmarked and apparently unhurt. I wondered if his mouth was open in disbelief, or if he was staring with a dead calm expression as he digested the information. It would not take him long to realize there was something extraordinary about me.

In the short term, having a serial killer-sorcerer know my greatest secret presented a far greater hazard to my safety than leaving my blood for the LAPD lab boys to analyze.

Hamilton wrapped up the interview and led Gonzales and me away.

The Genie’s Bottle was two addresses down, on the other side of the street next to Fatburger, but it turned out to be a waste of time. The clerk, who also happened to be the owner, said that Madame Leoni rarely came into his store, and never to buy cigars. She had not been there that day.

“So much for that idea,” Hamilton said when the three of us were back on the sidewalk. “Maybe Kanga was never in the back room at all. Maybe he just walked in and took her.”

“Stop a bit,” I said. “Remember when we were talking to her at her desk?”

“Yes,” Hamilton said.

“As soon as we sat down, I smelled something.”

Hamilton’s brow furrowed momentarily, then cleared. “You’re right. French fries—it smelled like french fries.”

We walked up to the window of the Fatburger. Hamilton flashed his badge at the teenager working there. The kid’s eyes widened, and he wiped his hands on his apron.

“Do you know your neighbor over there?” Hamilton asked, pointing at Sympathetic Charms.

“Yeah, Mama Leoni, sure.”

“She come by here today?”

“Yeah, around noon, she came over and got her order of fries, like she does most days.”

“Did you see anyone go into her store while she was over here?” Gonzales asked.

“Go into her store? No, I didn’t see anybody.” He swallowed. “Is she really dead?”

“Yeah, she’s really dead,” Hamilton said. “Okay, thanks.”

“So we know she was out of the store for a few minutes today,” I said, “and that she was a regular customer here, so Kanga could have known her pattern and slipped in.”

“Yes,” Hamilton agreed.

“What does it matter?” Gonzales said. “Whether she knew he was there or not, she’d still be just as dead.”

The three of us separated. Hamilton and Gonzales returned to the station, and I headed home. I was thankful Hamilton had not seen my car, especially after he had noticed I was wearing a different suit. The driver’s seat in the Maserati was soaked in blood, so I was driving the Bird.

I called Preston for an update on Kanga’s whereabouts.

“We’re still looking,” he said, and hung up.

I ground my teeth a bit. What were we going to do when we
did
find him? I could not for the moment think of any conventional methods of attack that would work. How about confronting him with Aliena at my side? She was fast and powerful, but his ability to toss me around by motioning with his hands would work against her, too.

Marcus? If all three of us went after Kanga, and were able to surprise him, it was possible one of us could get to him and snap his damned neck.

But what if we failed?

Thursday, December 23, 5:50 p.m.

After I got home, I logged on to my computer and filled out my official reports on the day’s findings. I sent them to Chief Reyes and Preston in encrypted files and locked my computer.

I had been longing to see Aliena since our kiss under the mistletoe the night before. I was not sure what I should do when she arrived. Should I embrace her, kiss her, or behave exactly as I had when we met yesterday evening?

As I brushed my teeth, I decided to let her take the lead.

She landed on the deck a few minutes later, strolled past the holly bushes into the living room. Dark gray leather motorcycle jacket over a white T-shirt, indigo blue jeans held in place by a thick leather belt with a big silver rodeo buckle, and cowboy boots.

Her honey hair floated about her face, and her brown eyes stood out dark against the pale matte of her skin.

I waited for her. My heart leaped when she cruised up to me and put her arms around my neck. Her eyes roved my face.

My hand on the small of her back, I pressed her to me, kissed her lightly on the mouth. It was as cold as a frozen pole. Her lips were parted, her eyes half-lidded, her mole enticing. I slid my hand up her back and into her hair. She tightened her arms around my neck, and our mouths came together again. Her tongue was gloriously arctic in my mouth, her hair heavy silken strands between my fingers.

We finally broke apart.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” I told her.

“That is very nice to hear.” She kissed me. “I am so happy to see you. I came as soon as I was dressed.”

We stared at each other, entwined in the middle of the room. I rubbed the tip of my nose against hers and nuzzled her ear, loving the coolness of her skin, the firmness of her body against mine.

Then I straightened, remembering my day and my encounter with Kanga.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We need to talk.” I glanced at my watch. “First, though . . .” I grabbed the remote, turned on the big screen TV over the fireplace, and switched to channel five.

Aliena and I sat on the couch holding hands.

The six o’clock news came on, and the lead stories were about the Voodoo Killer’s latest victim and the Chief’s press conference. We watched as Sanchez recapped Madame Leoni’s murder. When the anchor informed us they were going to the news conference with Chief Reyes, I switched the TV off and turned to Aliena.

We had sat on the couch together several times before, but we had never held hands and usually did not sit so close. Gazing at her, that soaring happiness rose in me again. And once again, I suppressed it quickly, for fear she did not share the depth of my emotions.

“Is something wrong, Sebastian?”

“There is more to this story. After Hamilton and I left Madame Leoni’s place, I returned.” I told her about finding Kanga in the storeroom and covering him with my gun. “When I fired at him, he deflected the bullets.”

“How?”

“He waved his hands and the bullets flew away from him. And he could control my gun. He motioned at it, and it twisted around.”

She squeezed my hand.