To Kill a Sorcerer by Greg Mongrain Page A

her up as if she were a helpless child.
    In a life and death situation, people become extraordinarily aggressive. They will kick and claw in an attempt to beat off an attacker. So far, our killer seemed able to subdue healthy, athletic young girls without a fight.
    The thin cord binding her ankles looped over a hook screwed into the ceiling. There were two other hooks in the room, each with a hanging plant.
    “Detectives?” Kennedy stuck her head in the door. “We have a man out here. You might want to take a look. Says he was invited by Montero.”
    By the time we were out the door, the officers at the perimeter were finishing a mandatory search of Charlie “Chimney” Habib. Although in his late fifties, Charlie dressed as if still attending UCLA, wearing baggy khaki shorts with cargo pockets, brown leather sandals with white athletic socks, and a faded T-shirt featuring a World War II pinup.
    He also had on his glasses, with lenses as thick as space shuttle portholes. He stared about vaguely. He had got himself declared legally blind, but I knew he could see more than he let on.
    “Hey, hey, watch the threads,” Charlie said as Chen finished patting him down. “I’m here by request.” He looked in the wrong direction. “And if you’re a girl, maybe we could do lunch sometime.”
    Charlie’s nickname was Chimney because he always reeked of smoke. Some of that smell had to do with the incense he manufactured.
    “I guess he’s okay,” Chen said. “Smells funny.”
    “Then laugh, my friend,” Charlie said, gazing into the air.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hamilton turn to me. Explanation at this point was useless. As the old adage says, an ounce of demonstration . . .
    “Charlie,” I said, holding out my hand. He looked vaguely in my direction. I took his hand and squeezed it hard. “Thank you for coming by so fast.”
    His face scrunched, and his vision improved a bit. “Ah, Montero, good to see you again.”
    “What’s wrong with your eyes?” Gonzales asked him.
    “I am aware of no problem,” Charlie said. “You have something for me to smell?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    Hamilton took his elbow and led him to the door. He was required to sign the crime scene log. Kennedy held the pen out to him. He reached past it and grazed the front of her uniform, copping a cheap feel.
    “Oh!” he said. “Sorry.”
    She jabbed the pen into the soft center of his hand. “Do that again,” she said sweetly, “and I’ll break your fingers.”
    “Charming.” He scribbled his name without looking.
    Hamilton took him by the arm. “We’re going to have you stand just outside the front door, okay? Back to the scene, facing out here, toward the street.”
    “Yes, yes,” Charlie said, sounding impatient now. “Let’s do it.”
    Hamilton nodded at Kennedy, and she opened the door. Hamilton began to turn Charlie around when Charlie shook him off.
    “I do not need to go nearer. I know this smell. It’s a natural brand. Tashua Jong.”
    “You can tell already?” Gonzales asked.
    Charlie gazed somewhere above the detective’s right shoulder. “Yes, of course. Why else am I here?”
    Gonzales grunted. “You have a spelling on that?”
    Charlie spelled it. “Manufactured, coincidentally, by a subsidiary of mine in India, as well as several other companies.” He sniffed again. “I doubt if even an examination of the ashes could tell you which manufacturer, as they all combine the same medicinal herbs. It is used primarily for meditation.”
    “Do you meditate, Charlie?” Gonzales asked.
    The portholes revolved as Charlie’s magnified gaze slowly pointed at each of us. “Yes, I do.”
    “Do you burn incense?”
    “Yes, of course. Millions of people do.”
    “Yes, but do you use this Tisha Young stuff?”
    “Tashua Jong. Yes.”
    “Is it an expensive brand?”
    “Comparatively speaking, I suppose. But incense is not a luxury item. Burning it is still cheap.”
    Gonzales wrote in his