To Kill a Sorcerer (3 page)

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.”

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 watched 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.

That one I felt.

“It’s not possible,” my Samoan friend said.

“My dear fellow,” I told him, “it is merely sleight of hand. Or in this case, sleight of throat.” I patted him on the shoulder, beaming. “The solution is alimentary, Dr. Watson.” I brayed at my sally, loudly enough to draw some attention from the other side of the bar.

“I knew it,” he said. “You’re hammered.”

“An interesting way of phrasing it. New to me, I must admit.” I puffed on my cigarette, thinking my speech a bit slow.

“Can I get you some food, mister?”

“No, thank you. I’m going to have a look round the place, see if Harry’s hiding inside.”

“Whatever, man.”

Walking while inebriated always offered a fascinating experience, especially when one must do it under observation. I sauntered across the deck to the house, feeling as if everyone was watching me and wondering if they could tell I was snockered. Suppressing an urge to laugh, I felt envious that mortals could remain in this unsteady, euphoric state for hours.

The living room had grown dark. The music thumped, and bodies swayed around the giant Christmas tree. The holiday gala had shifted into late party mode.

I turned down an unlit hallway, ambling along, my head buzzing pleasantly, when a door opened at the end. I froze. Three young women spilled out, adjusting their clothes, chattering gaily, and gripping blinking devices.

I did not waste time determining if Sofia stood among them. Still shrouded in darkness, I quickly turned to my right, twisted the knob, slipped inside, eased the door shut. The breathless babble and electronic beeps approached and swept past.

A rattling breath behind me. I whirled. The room was too dim for me to see the person in bed, but the timbre of the snore convinced me a woman made the sound. The party music had enough bass to vibrate the entire room. Some people could sleep through anything.

I crossed to a set of French doors, stepped outside, and emerged onto another patio, alone. A kidney-shaped pool shone with underwater illumination. The water sparkled blue, twinkling in the lights. As I gazed into the shimmering depths, it startled me to see a blurry shape moving there. The shadow turned at the far end and came toward me.

Before I could step back, the ghostly figure of a woman burst from the water. Clad in a transparent green gown, she loomed over me, arms reaching. Her eyes were black pools of madness, and her mouth formed a crooked grin.

“Oh,
hell
no,” I said.

Parting her lips in a pantomimed scream, revealing blackness tinged with raw red, she rose slightly, then pounced. I instinctively raised my arm to ward her off, but she slid through it. Her lunatic eyes filled my vision. I shivered as she possessed my body.

Charges of electricity sparked my insides. My arms jerked as if in seizure. I took an awkward step to the side, not of my own accord. The pool glittered at my feet. She was trying to force me into the water. Fighting, I made to step away, but electric current coursed through me again. I moved in the wrong direction. Now I teetered on the lip. Another surge of otherworldly power and my body leaped into the pool.

After splashdown, I rotated onto my back. My limbs made no effort to prevent me from sinking despite mental orders to keep my body afloat.

I was the car, but the green ghost was driving.

I willed my body to thrash to the surface. Nothing happened. Like a doll a child had dropped, I descended slowly. Water pressure squeezed my eardrums. The coarse surface of the pool’s bottom scraped the back of my head as I settled to a stop. My legs and arms stirred gently. I tried moving again, but the spirit of the woman remained in control, keeping me motionless.

Trapped inside my unresponsive flesh, I felt like the lone survivor in a torpedoed submarine.

Tuesday, December 21, 10:01 p.m.

I held my breath and prayed no one would come out of the house and find me down here. This astral presence would eventually release me, and I did not want to have to answer questions about the encounter. The Sofia picture had been bad enough. Now here I lay, waiting for someone to notice a six-foot-tall man in evening clothes lying at the bottom of a lit swimming pool.

Drowning was not possible. There were other ways to kill me—if only briefly—but holding me underwater was not one of them.

For a brief, suspended moment, blind terror engulfed me at my helplessness. My greatest nightmare is to be captured by an enemy who tortured and killed me, then observed me come back to life while still under restraint. If my captors realized I could not die and existed at their mercy, how many horrifying deaths might they invent for me while they held me as their prisoner?

It took me a moment to relax, after reminding myself I had no enemies at this party. At least, none who wanted me dead.

My initial shock at this etheric invasion slowly wore off. I had seen spirits many times, but never had one invaded my body. Cautiously, I allowed the woman’s psyche to seep into mine, that I might know why she was trying to commit murder. A rising screech began. I immediately threw up filters to keep the woman’s emotions from overwhelming me, but her feelings raged, fiercely intense, smashing through my mental barriers. Like wildfire cresting a dry hill, burgeoning terror broke over my mind, bringing a bizarre mosaic of dark images.