To Kill a Sorcerer Page 15

  “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.”

  Twenty-Five

  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.

  Hamilton flashed his badge. “Detective Hamilton, LAPD. This is my associate, Mr. Montero. Are you Madame Leoni?”

  “You can call me Mama Leoni.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you carry Tashua Jong incense?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Yes or no, Ms. Leoni?”

  “My legal name is Madame Leoni.”

  “Yeah, we checked. Do you carry the incense or not?”

  “If you checked, then you know I do.” She tipped the end of her cigar into an ashtray sitting on a shelf filled with smooth rocks of all sizes. Small placards advertised them as amulets infused with the protective power of Mana, the invisible force that extends throughout the universe. The sign did not indicate whether the Mana was positive or negative.

  I also noticed what was on the shelf just behind her. “Black candles,” I said. “Do you sell herbs?”

  “This is about that Voodoo Killer, isn’t it?”

  “Madame Leoni,” Hamilton said.

  She gestured toward a row of glassed-in shelves on the other side of the store.

  Hami
lton tapped his BlackBerry, calling up the list of herbs recovered at the two crime scenes as we walked across the store. I scanned the labels behind the glass quickly. Every raw herb recovered by the SID teams was here. Hamilton finished his comparison.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said softly. His phone buzzed. “Okay. The sketch artist has a picture based on Mrs. Beasley’s description. He’s sending it now.” He dabbed his forehead. “It’s hot as hell in here.” We waited. The black-and-white line drawing finally printed across the display. “Pretty good,” he murmured. “Now we have something to show people.”

  I turned back to Madame Leoni. She was standing right behind Hamilton. She reached up and swiped her hand across the back of his neck. He flinched.

  “What the hell?”

  She was pulling away when I grabbed her forearm and jerked her to me. She had a lazy smile on her face.

  “Why you stop me, huh?”

  “What are you doing?” Her palm glistened with Hamilton’s sweat.

  “He’s a special one,” she said, gazing at Hamilton. “Handsome with the heart of a warrior.” She twisted her arm from my grasp and rubbed her sweat-covered palm over something she held in her other hand.

  “What is that?” Hamilton asked.

  I could finally see it clearly. “It’s a voodoo doll.”

  “Oh, boy,” he said.

  Madame Leoni turned to him slowly, his tone apparently surprising her. “You don’t believe?”

  “In mystical voodoo mumbo-jumbo? No.”

  Her eyes glittered as she continued to massage the head of the doll. The doll was black on the right side and white on the other, with eyes, mouth, and heart sewn on.

  “Why’s it look like that?” Hamilton asked.

  “The black side is used for cursing people or putting the Eye on them,” I told him. “The white side is for good luck or to attract helpful spirits.”

  “And now it represents you, Mr. Policeman,” she said to him.

  “Sure, whatever. Madame Leoni, do you have a place where we can sit down and talk?” He walked to the front of the store, turned her Open sign around, and set the deadbolt on the door. “You’re closed for a few minutes.”

  “This way.”

  She led us to a small desk near the back of the store with two chairs facing it. The aroma of French fries permeated the air. Madame Leoni placed the voodoo doll on the desk in front of her.

  “Take a look at this man,” Hamilton said, setting his BlackBerry next to the doll.

  Madame Leoni made a show of pulling a pair of glasses out of a large purse and putting them on, then picking up the BlackBerry and peering at it.

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Take your time, Mama,” I said. “You want to be sure.”

  “Damn sure,” Hamilton said.

  She set the phone down, took off her glasses. “You doubt me? You doubt my abilities?”

  We waited.

  She pulled the doll smeared with Hamilton’s sweat close, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a large, silver pin that looked like a small javelin. Fine beads of perspiration dotted her upper lip. She leered at each of us in turn.

  “And now . . .”

  Hamilton leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead.” He appeared relaxed, though his brow glistened with sweat.

  Madame Leoni spoke some low, guttural words, her hand caressing the doll. The figure’s arms and legs were splayed in an attitude of helplessness, the sweat-smudged part of the head darkly discolored. She raised her hand to shoulder level, still chanting, focused on the doll. The air thickened so that even I felt perspiration standing on my forehead. The street outside seemed part of another world. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a fierce grimace that was nothing short of scary. She leaned back and then lunged forward.

  “Wait!” Hamilton leaned forward, his hand extended in a “stop” gesture. “Wait.”

  Madame Leoni halted, the shining point of the lance hovering above the red heart of the doll. Her grimace turned ghastly.

  “So, you do believe. You leave Mama Leoni alone now, yes?”

  I had had enough. I reached over fast and gripped her wrist. She squawked in surprise. I slammed her hand down. The pin pierced the heart of the doll.

  “¡Mierda!” Hamilton’s hand was at his chest, his eyes wide. I turned to him.

  “Well?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  I released Madame Leoni’s arm and leaned back in my chair, crossing my legs and lighting a cigarette. “A true priestess would not use your dramatic, staged performance. They do not rely on psychology. They have real power.”

  Madame Leoni peered at me with narrowed eyes, rubbing her wrist.

  “Now,” I continued, “we know you are a charlatan, but you have an excellent reputation in the area.”

  “Save your breath. I am trusted for a reason. You can ask for help somewhere else.”

  “I’m not asking. I’m telling.” I glanced around her shop. “It would not be difficult to take all of this away from you. And not very many companies are looking to hire someone with your . . . experience.”

  Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. My threat was an empty one. To hurt her would be abominable. She had my sympathies. Her charade touched me, and I knew she worked hard to keep her business successful. But unlike Benny, she knew something, and I intended to press her until I knew it, too.

  “We realize you have nothing to do with these murders,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect. It always worked on these types. “Madame Leoni, let no more girls die to this man.”

  “But I know nothing about these things,” she wailed. She was lying. “If you ask me to give you names, I will be ruined. My reputation depends on trust.”

  “We only want one name,” I said, pointing to Hamilton’s BlackBerry, which was still displaying the sketch Mrs. Beasley had provided. “No one will know you have told us anything. We do not wish you any harm.”

  I took a long drag off my cigarette and exhaled the smoke. Madame Leoni scrutinized the sketch. We would get what we wanted. With the fear of my threat fresh in her mind, no fish like her could possibly resist the hook I was baiting.

  “He looks like a man who has been a customer for the last two years or so. He spends a great deal of money here.”

  Hamilton had his notebook out. “Name?”

  “If you catch this man and put him away, he will not be able to buy anything from me again.”

  This was the part I had been waiting for. “Twenty thousand.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “No, Montero,” Hamilton interrupted.

  “Twenty thousand dollars.” I kept my gaze on Madame Leoni. “That should more than make up for any lost revenue you will suffer.”

  “The police could not afford that.”

  “And we won’t be paying it,” Hamilton said.

  “Steve, be quiet. Well?”

  “Make it twenty-five,” she said, quickly appraising my suit and watch, her greed getting the better of her. I hate greed. It leads to so many other problems.

  “Fifteen.” I motioned at her to keep still when she opened her mouth, gestured at the merchandise on the shelves around us. “Fifteen is enough to cover the purchases of this man for the next hundred years, based on what I see. If you speak again, I will go to ten.” I stood up, stubbed my cigarette out in the ashtray, and leaned over her.

  “Then I will grab you by your chicken neck,” I said softly, “and rip a lock of hair out of your scalp and take it to a real Candomblé priest.” Her eyes widened. “I won’t have him kill you. But your bowels will be a misery, your vision will fail, your skin will itch, and I swear by all that’s holy, you will never live another healthy day in your life.”

  “Fifteen is reasonable,” she said. Her face registered her horror at losing $5,000. “His name is Kanga.”

  I sat back down.

  “Kanga what?” Hamilton asked.
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  “I only know him by that name.”

  “Did he ever pay by credit card?”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t remember.”

  “When was he last here?” I asked.

  “About three weeks ago.”

  “Do you remember the other things he bought?”

  She thought about it. “A grimoire. Clavicula Salomonis, one of the oldest books of spells.”

  Hamilton shot me a glance.

  “Want the spelling now?” I asked him.

  “Christ.” He turned to Madame Leoni. “Do you have another copy of this book in the store?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. Mr. Montero would like to buy it. Now, what else did this man purchase?”

  “You seem to know the rest. Herbs, incense, black candles, a few other things.”

  “Any other books?” I asked her.

  “I believe there was one other, let me think . . . I don’t remember the title, just that it was a book about traveling in the spirit world.”

  “Do you have another copy of that one?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “I’d like to buy that as well, please.”

  Hamilton was scribbling notes. “Did you see his car?”

  “No.”

  “I want you to work with a sketch artist to improve this picture,” he told her.

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll need to see your credit and debit card receipts for the last three months,” Hamilton told her.

  “Now?”

  “Please.”

  She went behind the counter, under the cash register, and came back with three bundled packs of credit card receipts. We stood to leave when Madame Leoni’s trembling voice stopped us.

  “You—you won’t tell anyone? Tell them that—that I don’t have the power?” Two fat tears rolled over the skull and crossbones tattoos, streaking down her cheeks. Blank terror stood in her eyes.

  Taking both her hands in mine, I kissed her knuckles. She gave a sharp gasp of astonishment.

  “No, Mama,” I said. “That we would never do.”

  ***

  Once back in the car, Hamilton said, “Sebastian, we don’t normally threaten people like Madame Leoni. She’s not a criminal.”