by Chris Carter
‘Yeah, that’s correct,’ Garcia confirmed it. ‘But this is a very quiet road. We’ve been here for almost an hour and we’ve seen one car drive by, the one with the ballet girls. Do you find it surprising that the killer managed to get in and out of here without anyone seeing him?’
Hunter carried on flipping through the pages. ‘No, not really. But I just need to check on something.’
Hunter finally found the file he was after and quickly reread it before handing it over to Garcia.
‘Check this out,’ he said, tapping his index finger twice at the top of the page.
Garcia read it, made a face, looked up and down the road one last time, then read it again.
‘Oh, man,’ he finally said. ‘We’re going to have to get some uniforms back up here again.’
Eighteen
The Missing Persons investigators had knocked on every door on Allenwood Road and questioned everyone in the houses, including staff if there were any. No one had seen anything. But, up on those hills, that was hardly surprising.
Hollywood Hills might have given out the impression of being a laid-back neighborhood, but the truth was it was more like a secret society with unspoken rules. The reason why so many actors and musicians loved those hills so much was because no matter what happened up here, people tended to keep their mouth shut and to mind their own business. Up on those hills, nothing ever seemed excessive. No one, no matter how odd they looked, no matter how flamboyantly or minimally dressed they were, ever seemed suspicious or out of place. Over the years, Hollywood Hills’ residents had been practically conditioned to look the other way.
The mistake that Missing Persons had made was that they had only questioned people about the night of the abduction.
So far, from the little they had, Hunter and Garcia had already deduced that this killer was very meticulous, and though he could’ve abducted Nicole Wilson from a multitude of locations, he had chosen to do it from inside the Bennetts’ house. Why?
Other than the killer wanting to show off how bold and arrogant he was, the obvious answer was because Allenwood Road was a very quiet street, which severely reduced the risk of the killer being spotted as he dragged his victim out of the house and into a vehicle. But the twist was – neither detective had known how quiet the road really was until they had driven up there.
And the killer wouldn’t have known either without checking for himself.
‘The killer must’ve made at least one recon trip up here prior to the abduction night,’ Garcia said.
Three houses to their left, a man who looked to be in his early sixties stepped out of the front door carrying a golf bag, placed it in the trunk of the Mercedes E-Class that was parked in front of the house, jumped into the driver’s seat and slowly drove away.
‘That’s what I would’ve done,’ Hunter accepted it. ‘If all I wanted to do was to figure out if this road was quiet enough or not. But that wouldn’t have been enough for this guy. He’s too careful. He would’ve wanted specifics.’ He pointed to the car as it drove away. ‘And for that, he would’ve had to survey this road for days.’
Garcia looked a little unsure. ‘Specifics?’
‘Routine,’ Hunter replied. ‘Every street has one. Especially one as exclusive as this. We all do it, Carlos. We all stick to routines because we’re creatures of habit. We go to the gym at specific times, on specific days, or out for a game of golf, or poker nights, or ballet classes, or long walks, or whatever. This killer has planned this abduction too well to risk being spotted coming out of this house carrying his victim by someone going out or coming back from a yoga class. He would’ve wanted to know how this street works. He would’ve wanted to know its routine.’
Hunter turned and faced the Bennetts’ house.
‘But would you like to know something that wasn’t a routine?’ he asked.
Garcia thought about it for a second. ‘The evenings Nicole Wilson babysat for the Bennetts.’
‘Exactly. It happened sporadically. They would only call her when something came up. And according to what Ms. Bennett told Missing Persons,’ Hunter nodded at the files sitting on the passenger seat, ‘she’d called Nicole around noon on the day she was abducted asking if she could babysit that night. It was sort of a last-minute thing. And without knowing beforehand which day he would strike . . .’
‘The killer would’ve had to have surveyed this street for an entire week,’ Garcia agreed. ‘Know its movements, its habits, day by day.’
Hunter nodded. ‘It wouldn’t have been foolproof, but it sure would’ve given him a much better idea of what he should try to avoid. We need to run a door-to-door again. Maybe, if we’re lucky, somebody might’ve noticed something on the days leading up to the abduction.’
Nineteen
For the first time in two weeks dense rain clouds began gathering over Central Los Angeles, announcing that a new summer downpour was imminent, which wasn’t all that surprising given how hot it had been in the past few days. By the time Hunter and Garcia got back to the Police Administration Building, bullet-sized raindrops were coming down in torrents.
While Garcia went back to their office to go over some paperwork, Hunter drove on to Ramirez Street in Downtown Los Angeles where the LAPD Missing Persons Unit’s Special Division was located. He had received a call from Detective Troy Sanders, saying that he’d be more than happy to meet up with Hunter, and that he’d be in his office that afternoon.
Detective Sanders was the head of the MPUSD, but also the detective who’d been in charge of Nicole Wilson’s abduction investigation.
Hunter found Sanders by the vending machine at the far end of the Missing Persons detectives floor, which, in all fairness, was a carbon copy of the Robbery Homicide Division’s – a simple, open-plan space housing a chaotic labyrinth of desks. The noise level resembled a fish market on a Sunday morning.
Sanders was in his early forties and, at exactly six foot, was as tall as Hunter, with a shaved head, a prominent brow, a strong chin and wide shoulders. His eyes, clear and pale blue, contrasted nicely with his tanned skin, and the intense gaze in them suggested both experience and knowledge.
After grabbing a can of soda, a couple of candy bars and a packet of mints from the vending machine, Sanders ushered Hunter into his office, which by comparison was smaller, but a lot tidier, than Hunter and Garcia’s.
‘Mint?’ Sanders offered as he opened the small can of Ice Breakers.
‘No, thank you. I’m OK.’
Sanders popped two into his mouth. ‘Maybe it’s only me, but it’s like this job leaves a bad taste in my mouth on a daily basis. I eat tons of this stuff.’
Hunter could easily sympathize with Sanders.
‘OK. I’ve got the file here, ready for you,’ Sanders said as he walked over to his modest desk and retrieved a green folder that sat on top of a tall and very neatly arranged pile.
Hunter wasn’t too surprised by the number of cases sitting on Sanders’ desk. The LAPD Missing Persons Unit investigated somewhere between two and three hundred adult missing person reports per month, and at least double that number when it came to children under the age of sixteen. Contrary to public belief, and despite the fact that approximately seventy percent of all reported adult missing persons were found, or voluntarily returned within seventy-two hours, a new federal law prohibited the observance of a ‘waiting period’ before accepting a missing persons case. That meant that an investigation had to be launched, and a file had to be created, for every single accepted report.
‘Unfortunately, I’m not sure how much help this will actually be,’ Sanders said, passing the folder to Hunter. A look of disappointment came over him. ‘What we managed to find out isn’t much.’
The Missing Persons report opened with the same portrait photograph of Nicole Wilson that Hunter and Garcia had seen in the file Captain Blake had handed them that morning, followed by her fact sheet. Hunter skipped the basic information and quickly scanned the report, which ind
eed was very brief. It stated that Nicole Wilson was about to start her second year of law school at CSULA, that she sometimes babysat a few nights a week for extra cash, and that just a few weeks ago, at the end of her first year in college, she had managed to land a summer job, running errands and archiving reports for a law firm in downtown LA. Apparently she was also a very quiet and reserved person, preferring to spend her free nights studying in her room or at the library instead of partying in the City of Angels. From what Sanders’ team had gathered, most of her life revolved around college campus and a very small number of college friends, so initially that had been exactly where they had concentrated the bulk of their investigation. But summer break had made talking to students and teachers around campus a little harder than usual. Most of the interviews had been conducted over the phone.
Sanders and his team had followed certain abduction investigation guidelines to the letter. In the case of someone like Nicole Wilson, they were simple – a young and attractive woman goes missing without a ransom request or any known family feud, and sitting at the top of the ‘people of interest’ list would be: the boyfriend (if any), followed by ex-boyfriends, and anyone who had shown a romantic interest in Nicole (male or female). But according to the few people Sanders had managed to talk to, Nicole Wilson hadn’t been dating anyone. In fact, it seemed like she hadn’t dated anyone since she’d started college just over a year ago.
Sanders and his team had also spoken to everyone who worked at the small law firm Nicole had been running errands for since the beginning of summer – two attorneys and one secretary. They all had watertight alibis for the night in question, and pretty much a perfect score when it came to their past. As far as Sanders could tell, none of them had any motive either.
‘All the interview transcripts are in here,’ Sanders said, handing Hunter a second folder, this one yellow in color.
Hunter took the file before asking, ‘Have you checked her dorm room?’
‘Thoroughly. No diary or anything similar,’ Sanders replied, anticipating that that had been the reason why Hunter had asked his question. He then handed Hunter a list of all the items he and his team had found in Nicole’s dorm room.
‘We did find her laptop,’ Sanders added, pointing to the fifth item on the list. ‘Computer forensics took about a day to breach its security, since then we’ve been sieving through all its files, including her emails. So far, we’ve found nothing relevant. I’ll get someone to drop her laptop to you in the next hour, if that’s OK, together with a list of all the files we’ve already been through.’
Hunter saw sadness and disappointment creep into Sanders’ eyes and he understood exactly why. If Nicole Wilson had been murdered only hours after being abducted, there would’ve been very little anyone could’ve done, but she hadn’t. The killer had tortured her, seemingly for almost six days, before finally ending her life. That meant that Missing Persons had had five days, or around one hundred and twenty hours, to get to Nicole, but they didn’t get anywhere near her or her captor. No matter how experienced or seasoned a Missing Persons detective was, in these sorts of circumstances the feeling of failure wrapped up in guilt can run them over like a speed train.
‘Sure, that’d be great. Thank you,’ Hunter agreed.
Sanders popped another mint into his mouth before extending the round tin container in Hunter’s direction.
Once again, Hunter declined.
‘You’ve read the transcript of the telephone conversation between Miss Wilson and Ms. Bennett, right?’ Sanders asked. ‘Just before her abductor took her.’
Hunter nodded.
‘I’ll tell you this much, I have ten years with the LAPD MPU, half of them with the Special Division. I’ve seen some crazy shit, and I’ve investigated some really arrogant bastards, but I’ve never come across anyone with this level of confidence, or an abduction this clean. Forensics spent two days fine-combing the entire house and its grounds, and they got nothing that didn’t belong. Not a single hair. Not a speck of dust. This guy left absolutely nothing behind, other than a forensic black hole. That’s not an easy thing to achieve.’
Hunter looked at the detective for a couple of seconds. Sanders didn’t have to voice it for Hunter to know that he feared exactly what he and Garcia already knew – Nicole Wilson was only the beginning.
Twenty
Their fifteen minutes were up. This had been one hell of a boring meeting, but with elections just around the corner Mayor Richard Bailey had to endure several of those on a daily basis, and he did it with a perfect smile on his lips and a look of total interest on his face. If there was one thing Richard Bailey had learned since joining the world of politics over a decade ago, it was that every vote counted, and the two women sitting before him represented a group of over one thousand voters from South Los Angeles.
‘I completely understand your views,’ Mayor Bailey said, addressing the stick-thin blonde woman who had just finished a five-minute-long monologue that he had paid no attention to. Their chairs had been strategically positioned with their backs toward the round clock on the wall behind them inside the mayor’s office. That way, while facing them, Mayor Bailey could always keep track of the time without appearing rude by consulting his wristwatch every couple of minutes.
‘And if I get to serve another term,’ he continued, dishing out another very well-rehearsed look that made sure his visitors understood what those words really meant, ‘I will certainly put those views forward to the relevant committees. You have my word.’
He stood up and adjusted the sleeves of his jacket.
The women followed suit.
‘It’s been an absolute pleasure, ladies, and I want to thank you for taking the time to come and see me,’ he said, offering his hand. His handshake was as well crafted as his entire performance – strong enough to show strength and authority, but not too overpowering. He escorted both women to the door, before giving them one last ‘goodbye’ smile.
His personal assistant, Grace Hamilton, was standing in the outer office, holding a legal-size envelope.
As always, Grace was impeccably dressed. Today she wore an extremely well-fitting navy-blue suit with a silky white blouse, but the look on her face was far from her usual tranquil and smiling one.
‘Richard,’ she said, taking a step forward once the two women were gone.
Mayor Bailey had insisted that she call him by his first name. The request hadn’t been a flirtatious move, though he did enjoy flirting and was very good at it, but because he didn’t like formalities in his office . . . and it made him feel younger.
He locked eyes with his assistant and paused for a heartbeat. Her eyes were full of fear.
‘Grace, is everything OK?’ There was nothing fake about his expression or tone of voice. The concern in them was all real.
Grace Hamilton never discussed anything with the mayor in his anteroom.
‘Could I have a word in private, please?’ Her voice sounded edgy and urgent.
‘Of course,’ he replied with a single nod before stepping to one side and ushering her into his office.
Grace closed the door behind her and followed Bailey to his large oak desk.
‘What’s the matter?’ Bailey asked, turning to face her.
‘This arrived this morning,’ she finally said, lifting up the envelope she had with her. ‘It was addressed to you, and marked as “urgent – private and confidential”.’
Bailey looked at Grace. ‘Yes? So? We get enough of those every week. Did you check the contents?’
‘I did,’ she said, nodding. ‘It’s a photograph.’ She paused as if she needed to catch her breath. ‘And a note.’
Bailey’s eyes moved to the envelope.
Grace handed it to him.
Without sitting down, Bailey opened it and reached inside. The first item he brought out was the 4x6 Polaroid photograph.
Grace looked away in disgust.
Bailey glanced at the image and froze. A pit immediat
ely opened in his stomach and threatened to swallow him whole.
‘What the fuck?’
The photograph was of a woman’s face, but it was far from a glamorous one. Her dark-brown hair seemed dirty and drenched in sweat and was sticking to her clammy forehead and the sides of her face. Tears had caused her eye makeup to smudge and run down her cheeks, drawing thin dark lines that should’ve run down to her chin, but they hadn’t. Instead, they had been collected by the thick fabric gag that had been tied so tight around her mouth it had stretched her face awkwardly and cut into the edges of her lips. Just past the gag, blood had finished the thin-line design that her tears had started. But what seemed to squeeze Bailey’s heart inside his chest was the look in the woman’s eyes – pleading, full of fear and totally void of hope. It was the look of someone who deep inside knew nobody would come for her in time.
Bailey looked at Grace, his expression a mixture of repugnance and confusion.
She finally looked back at him.
‘Is this for real?’ he asked. ‘I mean, with all this digitalphoto-enhancing crap today, who can be sure, right?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Grace replied, her voice unsteady. ‘That’s a Polaroid picture, Richard. Like in the old days. I don’t think they can Photoshop those.’
The mayor looked back at the picture. ‘No, you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘Do you know who this woman is?’
Grace shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen her before. You?’
‘No, me neither.’
A couple of jittery seconds went by.
‘I was unsure whether I should bring this to you, or hand it straight to the police or the Secret Service.’
Bailey placed the photo on his desk but continued to stare at it. His palms were damp with sweat, his mind full of questions. True, over the years he had received a ton of crazy mail, but never something like this. His mind worked fast.
‘How was this delivered, Grace?’
