To Kill a Sorcerer (11 page)

I did not ask her if she meant magical. Hamilton had his gun. Besides, he spoke up first.

“Do we know what the drug does, Tasha?”

“Yes. It immobilizes the victim, leaving her conscious but unable to perform voluntary muscle movement.”

“So,” Hamilton said, “you’re saying it’s possible these girls really did watch him arrange that rope, totally helpless, allowed themselves to be tied up and suspended from the ceiling, and then hung there as he prepared to cut them open.”

“I wish you hadn’t spelled it out like that, but yes, that seems to be what this drug would do.”

“Christ.” Hamilton rubbed his hand over his face. “What a nightmare.”

“You say you found it in her trachea,” I said. “Did you check the Barlow girl?”

“Yes. It was there, too.”

“Inhalation?”

“Yes. The quantities in her system were tiny.”

“Mist? Powder?”

“I don’t know, but they’re definitely aspirating it.”

“Anything on the way he cut her up?” Hamilton asked. We looked back at the body.

“I don’t know why he cut her the way he did, but he removed her heart, just like he did with Sherri Barlow.”

Hamilton and I exchanged a glance.

“Did you finish the rape kit?” he asked.

“Yes. Negative on that. And—”

“And she was a virgin,” I finished for her.

She gave me a searching look. “What is this, Sebastian?” She sounded perplexed, frightened. “Do you know what this guy is doing?”

“No.” But I was starting to see a pattern. I felt a stirring, a memory of something ancient, a story I had thought a myth.

“What about the weapon?” Hamilton asked.

“Very sharp, smooth-edged.” She drew her gloved hand along the bilateral wound. “As you can see, the cut is incisive, as if the killer slashed vertically with real force. And he didn’t remove her heart with the knife.”

“What?” I said.

“That wound is ragged. We’re evaluating high-def photos of the injury now. We’ll know more in an hour or so. I’ll forward them to your people.”

“I appreciate that, Tasha.”

“Come over here,” she said. “Take a look at this blood analysis.” She led us to her computer station, snapping off her gloves and tossing them in a trash can. She sat in front of the monitor, and Hamilton and I stood on either side of her as she tapped the keyboard.

“This is from a small blood sample outside the general bleed-out pool. It contains herbs and spices.”

“Say again?” Hamilton said.

“It’s the victim’s blood, but it’s contaminated.”

“Herbs were found at the Barlow scene, too,” I said.

“On the ground,” she said. “We didn’t find any blood with spices mixed in.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Hamilton agreed.

“You know he’s probably hunting his next victim right now, and you two don’t know who he is or when he’ll do it again. Which means I’ll have another dead girl in here, a girl who is walking around alive right now.”

“Tasha . . .” Hamilton said. He had the same frustrated rage on his face that I felt in my tightening jaw.

“I know my people,” I said. “They’ll give us something to track.”

“That takes time.”

“Yes.” I didn’t say anything more, and neither did Hamilton.

“I’m sorry, you two. I know you’re probably sleeping less than I am over this. If we find anything else, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay,” Hamilton said.

“Does Preston have all of the blood and chem results?” I asked.

“Yes, I forwarded them to your geek squad. You have very good people working for you.”

“They like you, too. We all do. Perhaps we should have a closer working relationship,” I said.

She gave me that skeptical look again. “Get out of here, you animal. Animals, that is,” she said, including Hamilton with a glance.

“What did I say?” he asked.

“That’s what I mean.”

We were almost to the front exit when my cell buzzed. I glanced at the ID. Excellent.

“Yes, Mr. Preston. What do you have for me?”

“We’ve finished the analyses on the Barlow girl,” he said. A genius in multiple disciplines, Preston was my Most Valuable Player, the man in charge of BioLaw.

“What about Patterson?”

“We’re almost finished. You plan on stopping by?”

“Yes, we’re on our way.”

“Good.” He disconnected.

Hamilton and I climbed into the car and I maneuvered us out of the lot.

“We’re on our way where?” he asked.

“We’ve got Watanabe’s analysis. Let’s talk to my people.”

Wednesday, December 22, 7:18 p.m.

BioLaw Industries, my research facility and forensics laboratory, was located on Camellia Avenue just off Moorpark in Studio City, in a three-story white brick building with palm trees at the edges.

Hamilton and I crossed the marble foyer, the polished stone reflecting the winking, colored Christmas lights decorating the interior.

After riding the elevator to the second floor, we entered Preston’s corner office and found him sitting in his high-backed chair, tapping his keyboard. A multitude of printouts formed a paper drift on his desk.

Dexter Preston was a mountain of a man, and by that, I do not mean big, I mean obese. At twenty-six, he was balding and had the pink complexion of a man who rarely set eyes on the sun.

“You know we have treadmills in the gym downstairs, don’t you?” I said.

“Screw treadmills. Who has time for that?”

“You’re a blob.” I was not what you would call politically correct in my approach to Preston. Part of it was genuine fear for the man. That kind of weight put a strain on his heart. Part of it was selfishness. I did not want to lose his unique genius. “You’re going to give my medical plan a beating someday.” Hamilton and I sat in the guest chairs in front of Preston’s desk.

“You can afford it.” He tapped his keyboard a couple of more times and turned to us. “Okay, first of all, the blood samples.” He rummaged under a pile of scientific journals, pulled out a stack of printouts, and handed us each a picture of the crime scene. The LAPD’s science specialists had blocked the area into grids. “The blood taken from grid B3 is the victim’s blood, but there are traces of garlic, cinnamon, Cajun pepper, salt, and basil in it.”

“Watanabe mentioned that. And it’s not from the herbs that fell on the ground?”

“Nope. They were definitely mixed in, like a seasoning.”

Hamilton turned to Preston sharply. “You think the killer drank her blood?”

“Like a spicy cocktail,” Preston replied. His voice turned thoughtful. “And that ties in with the search I ran on the other herbs found at the Barlow home.”

“And?” I asked.

“No complete matches yet on the combinations, but I am getting some bizarre possibilities. Real conjurer stuff.”

“Ah, shit, not the mystical crap again,” Hamilton said.

“I suppose you put Reed on that?” Augustus Reed was our resident expert on the occult, including its history, current practice, ramifications on society in general, and popularity on the internet. I had found him in Argentina, studying the spirit world—with a Macumba priest as his tutor.

“I gave him everything I had. I’ll keep an eye on the background as well.”

“Anything on the killer?” Hamilton asked.

“The discovery of blood mixed with spices confirms the killer’s ritual is multiphasic,” Preston told him.

“How is that?”

“All of the herbs in the spilled blood are different from those recovered at the first murder. That indicates each crime is unique, which suggests they are individual parts of a sequence.”

Hamilton gave me a sour glance, as if my prediction at the Houdini Mansion had created the murderer’s serial purpose. “Is this guy crazy or what?” he asked Preston.

“Not sure, detective, but I doubt it. Sociopathic probably. He’s doing something meticulous here.”

“What else do you have on him?”

“Not a thing. He left no other trace.”

“Did you get the manufacturing sources on the incense from Charlie?” I asked.

“Yup. I have Smitty working on it now. We should have some local retailers for you to check out later tonight.”

“Okay, good. Now, what about the chem analysis of the paralyzing agent?”

On the monitor in front of us, Hamilton and I could see a table of chemical composition.

“Whatever this is, it’s unusual. We had the same problem identifying its exact structure, but it’s similar to a mix of sodium pentothal and phenobarbital.”

“Truth serum?” Hamilton asked.

Preston gave him a respectful nod. “What we have here is a perfect immobilizing drug. All autonomic functions like respiration would continue, but voluntary muscle movement would be impossible. The ME’s lab girls were right about that.”

“There are boys there, too,” Hamilton said.

“Not many. And who cares about them anyway? That Watanabe is a dish, hey?”

Hamilton opened his mouth, probably to say something about Preston’s chances with our beautiful ME, but no sound came out.

“How long would it last?” I asked.

“Twenty to thirty minutes. It would depend on the dosage, and that would have to be calculated very carefully in any case. If our guy used too much, he could kill them.”

“What form?”

“Aerosol.”

“Any idea on the delivery method?”

“I’m guessing a device similar to the rescue inhalers used for asthma.”

“You think he sprays it in their faces?” Hamilton asked. Watanabe had also said the girls aspirated the drug into their lungs.

“Yes. Probably as soon as he’s near them. And if he made a sudden movement to bait them, they might gasp involuntarily and inhale a good percentage of the particles—if he sprayed it at exactly the right moment.”

“That was one
probably
, two
if
s, and a
might
,” Hamilton commented.

“It’s not like we have a lot to go on. But they’re definitely inhaling the hypnotic.”

“Yeah, okay, at this point, I guess what matters most is that he’s able to do it all.”

“When will Reed have his report ready for us?” I asked Preston.

“You know him. He likes to work at night. He said he’d be ready for you at nine.” He raised his right hand and kissed his fingertips. “He also wants to make sure you bring the delectable Aliena.”

“That is bordering on sexual harassment, Mr. Preston.”

“It’d be more fun to do it to her face.”

“Don’t be so sure. Tell Mr. Reed we’ll meet him at nine.”

“You got it, boss.”

I glanced at my watch as we left the building. Seven forty. We climbed into the car.

“Well,” Hamilton said, “what do you say you buy me dinner?”

“We just ate lunch two hours ago.” It was not that I minded. Food does not have to be a necessity to be enjoyable.

“I’m hungry again. That Chinese stuff goes right through you. Everybody knows that.”

I drove us to Hamburger Hamlet on Van Nuys Boulevard. Hamilton ordered the caliente burger, I chose the classic Reuben.

“And a pitcher of Sam Adams,” I told the waitress.

She finished scribbling. “I’ll bring your beer right away.” When she returned with the Sam Adams and two frosty mugs, we both reached for the pitcher.

“No, I’ll pour,” he said. “Since you’re the one always doing the paying, I could at least do the pouring.”

I appreciated the compliment.

“Not that I mind you paying. After seeing your balance sheet, it doesn’t bother me at all.”

“It doesn’t bother me, either.”

He filled our glasses. We toasted each other briefly and took long drinks.

“Good call,” he said.

“I know you don’t like this conjurer stuff, but we may want to start doing some background on it anyway. It doesn’t mean we believe he’s really capable of magic.”

“Yeah, you’re right. If this psycho really thinks he’s putting together a magical or religious ritual, we might be able to trace him that way. I suppose your man is going to do a search that includes occult shops?”

“If they sell Tashua Jong incense or black candles, they will be on Smitty’s list.”

We had finished eating and were killing off the last of the beer when we saw Aliena waiting for us on the sidewalk.

She wore low-rise blue jeans with a wide leather belt that accentuated the sinful span of her hips and a dark gray motorcycle jacket. Her golden, shoulder-length mane of hair was artfully mussed as usual. She looked like a goddess from another world.

A woman stood with her, wearing black denim and a long wool coat. I recognized her. Katherine. A very wicked vampiress. The first time I met her at 49, she had regarded me with the cool, contemplative eye of the connoisseur.

“How did they get here?” Hamilton asked.

“Probably flew.”

“Ha-ha. How did Aliena know we were here? You come here often?”

“No, she could smell us.”

“Always a smart-ass. Who’s her friend?”

“Katherine.”

“We should have dinner with them once in a while. Katherine can sit on my side.”

“Kat doesn’t eat in restaurants.” And, with the exception of customers and staff, they contain no food as far as she is concerned.

“Oh, why not?”

“She and Aliena haven’t found a restaurant in the area that serves the kind of food they like.”

“What do they like?”

“Natural stuff. Raw.”

“Uhh. No wonder Aliena always looks so pale.” He continued to watch her. “Hot, though. That booty won’t quit.”

“Yes, Aliena is very beautiful and sexy.”

“And she’s your girl. Maybe she could hook me up with that Katherine. She’s hot as hell.”

“Maybe.”

“So you and Aliena. Is it serious?”

“Aliena doesn’t get serious with anyone.” And more’s the pity.

“Do you know Katherine’s story?”

“It’s long and complicated. Trust me, pursuing her is not a good idea.”

“Why not? Is there something wrong with her?”

“That is it exactly. There is something wrong with her. You don’t want to get too close.”

“I think I’d like to get very close, preferably in a hot tub.”

“What about Tasha?”