To Kill a Sorcerer Read Online Free

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