by Chris Carter
There was one more question Hunter wanted to ask them, but he needed to choose his words carefully. He tried to sound casual. ‘Was your father into modern art?’
By the look on their faces, Hunter couldn’t have asked a more surprising question.
‘Like sculptures, for example,’ he added.
Their confused looks intensified.
‘No,’ Olivia said before looking at Allison. Then they both said in unison.
‘Mom was.’
Fourteen
If Hunter’s question had surprised Allison and Olivia, their answer had certainly had the same effect on him.
‘Why do you ask?’ Olivia enquired, her eyes squinting a fraction.
Hunter held her gaze. He had to come up with something good. Neither of Mr. Nicholson’s daughters knew about the sculpture left behind by the killer, and the psychological trauma that that knowledge would bring would haunt them forever.
‘Something we found in your father’s room,’ he replied matter-of-factly. ‘We think it might be a piece of a broken sculpture or something like that.’
‘In my father’s room?’
Hunter nodded. ‘It might’ve been left there on purpose.’
Those words seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. Both women tensed.
‘Left there by the killer?’ Allison asked.
‘Yes.’
Olivia’s eyes filled up with tears once again.
‘What is it?’ Allison pushed. ‘Can we see it?’
‘The forensics lab has it. They’re running it through a few tests,’ Hunter replied calmly and with conviction. ‘But you said your mother liked sculptures. Modern art sculptures?’ He swiftly steered the subject back to where he wanted it.
‘Yes,’ Olivia replied, wiping a tear from her cheek. ‘I guess you can say that. Mom loved pottery. A hobby she picked up in her later years.’ She indicated a medium-sized vase on the coffee table, holding a bouquet of yellow-and-white flowers. ‘That’s one of hers, and so are the ones in my entrance room.’
Both detectives acknowledged it.
‘But Mom also liked creating sculptures.’ Allison this time. She turned and pointed to a piece sitting on one of the bookshelves. It was about ten inches high and it portrayed two androgynous-looking figures. The first was standing with its legs apart. Both of its arms were stretched out in front of its body pointing down. The second figure, identical in shape to the first one, was directly in front of it, but it looked as if it was falling backward. Its stiff body reclined at forty-five degrees. Its arms also stretched out in front of its body, holding on to the arms of the first figure.
‘Do you mind if we have a look at it?’ Hunter asked.
‘Please do.’
Hunter picked it up and studied the piece for a moment. It was made out of clay, with a wooden base.
‘Trust,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ Garcia’s eyes moved from the piece to Hunter.
‘Trust,’ he said again. ‘I’ll catch you if you fall.’
Olivia and Allison looked at him surprised. ‘That’s exactly right,’ Allison said. ‘Mom made me one just like it. Dad has one too. It means that we could always trust each other. That we’d always be there for each other, no matter what.’
‘It’s a very nice sculpture.’ Hunter placed it back on the shelf.
‘This piece you found in Dad’s room,’ Olivia said. ‘What was it made of?’
‘Some kind of thin metal alloy,’ Hunter lied again. ‘Could be mainly bronze.’
Garcia bit his lip.
‘So it wasn’t from one of Mom’s sculptures. She only used clay.’
‘Did she create many pieces?’
‘Vases – a few. Sculptures – only six, I think.’ Olivia looked at Allison for confirmation. She nodded. ‘As Ally said, she’s got one the same as mine in her apartment. The other four are in Dad’s study.’
Fifteen
Hunter saw no use in taking up any more of Olivia and Allison’s grieving time. But their revelation aroused his curiosity, and before the day was over, he wanted to go back to Derek Nicholson’s house and have a look in the study and at the four other sculptures by Lindsay Nicholson, Derek’s deceased wife.
‘Your poker face in there was impressive,’ Garcia said as they got back into his car. ‘A piece of thin metal left behind by the killer that could’ve come from some sort of sculpture? Inventive. I was starting to believe it. But tell me something, what if their mother had created metal sculptures as well?’
‘Chances were that she wouldn’t have,’ Hunter replied, buckling up.
‘How do you know?’
‘Most sculptors, especially amateur ones, like to stick to the same material for their pieces. Something that they’re comfortable with. The few who move from one substance to another very rarely go from a malleable one like clay to something as hard as metal. It requires a different sculpturing technique.’
Garcia looked at his partner and pulled a surprised face. ‘I never took you for an art buff.’
‘I’m not. I just read a lot.’
Hunter had only gone into Derek Nicholson’s study very briefly. That was the room Melinda Wallis was sitting in when he got to the house for the first time yesterday morning. In the evening, when he revisited the crime scene, he would focus all his attention on the room upstairs.
It took them only ten minutes to drive to Cheviot Hills from Olivia’s place in Westwood. They unlocked the door and stepped into a house that Hunter was sure one day had been home to a happy family. Now, that building was forever tainted with the stains of a brutal homicide. Every single happy memory that those walls once held completely erased by one act of unthinkable evil.
The air inside the house was warm and stale, and it carried a distinct mixture of unpleasant smells. Garcia rubbed his nose, cleared his throat a couple of times and allowed his partner to lead the way.
Hunter opened the door to a long, wood-paneled room where bookshelves lined two of the walls. The space was reminiscent of a court-of-law judge’s chambers, with a large twin desk, comfortable armchairs and the musty odor of old, leather-bound books. They spotted the four sculptures Olivia had mentioned straight away. Two were on the bookshelves, one was on Derek Nicholson’s desk, and one was on a side table next to a whisky-colored leather armchair. Unconventional-looking as they were, however, none of them even remotely resembled the grotesque piece left behind by the killer.
‘Well, at least we know that the killer wasn’t trying to mimic any of these,’ Garcia said, placing the sculpture he was holding back down on the side table. ‘God knows what he was trying to do or mimic.’
Hunter had looked at all the sculptures and was now studying some of the books on the shelves. Almost all of them were criminal-law related, but a handful were about pottery and ceramics. Two of them were about modern sculpture. Hunter pulled one out of the shelf and flipped through its first few pages.
‘Do you think his murder could really be related to what he said to his nurse?’ Garcia asked. ‘Something about making his peace with someone and telling them the truth about something?’
‘I’m not sure. But I know we all have secrets, some more important than others. One of Derek Nicholson’s secrets was so important to him . . . it bothered him so much, that he didn’t want to leave this life without clearing things up, without “making his peace”.’ Hunter used his fingers to draw quotation marks in the air.
‘And that’s gotta mean something, right?’ Garcia said.
‘It’s gotta mean something,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But we don’t know if he did or not. Make his peace, that is.’
‘According to his nurse, he told her about this making his peace business sometime between her first and second week here. Since then, other than the weekend nurse and his two daughters, it looks like he’d only talked to two other people.’
Hunter nodded. ‘DA Bradley and our mysterious, six foot tall, brown-eyed visitor.’ He replaced the book on
the shelf and reached for the second volume on sculpture. ‘Maybe the DA knows who he is. I’ll try to talk to him tomorrow.’
‘The weekdays nurse used the room upstairs,’ Garcia commented. ‘But Melinda had the one above the garage outside. It’s no coincidence the killer picked a weekend night for the murder, is it?’
‘No.’ For no reason Hunter’s eyes darted towards the ceiling and then the walls. ‘Somehow the killer knew the habits of this house. He knew when people came and went. He knew Derek Nicholson’s daughters would visit him for a few hours every day and then leave. He knew when he would be alone and the best time to strike. He might’ve even known that the burglar alarm wasn’t usually engaged, or that Derek Nicholson didn’t like air conditioning and the balcony door that led into his room would probably have been unlocked at this time of year.’
‘So that means that the killer staked out the house,’ Garcia said. ‘And not for just a day.’
Hunter moved his head as if pondering Garcia’s words.
‘You think it’s more than that, don’t you?’ Garcia asked.
Hunter nodded. ‘I think the killer has been in here before. I think the killer knew the family.’
Sixteen
‘So, do you know what the problem is?’ Andrew Nashorn asked the mechanic, who was hunched over the inboard engine pit inside the cabin of his midsized sailboat.
Nashorn was fifty-one years old with a full head of light brown hair, a thick chest and arms, and a swagger that told everybody that he still knew how to handle himself in a fistfight. The scar above his left eyebrow and the crooked nose came from his early boxing days.
Nashorn spent the entire year waiting for the official start of the summer. It’s true that in Los Angeles, and most of southern California, summer is an almost endless season, but those first few official weeks were considered by many boat owners as the best for sailing. The winds were kinder and practically unceasing. The ocean calmer than ever. The water was clearer, and clouds seemed to go paint the sky somewhere else for a couple of weeks.
Nashorn always filed for his two-week holiday at the beginning of every year. The period was always the same – the first few weeks of summer. He’d been doing so for the last twenty years. And for the last twenty years his vacation had been exactly the same, he’d pack a few clothes, some supplies, his fishing gear, and disappear into the Pacific for fourteen days.
Nashorn didn’t eat fish; he didn’t like the taste of it. He fished simply for sport, and because it relaxed him. He’d always throw his catch back into the water as soon as he unhooked it from his line. He used only circle hooks, because they were kinder to the fish.
Despite having many friends, Nashorn always sailed alone. He’d been married once, over twenty years ago. His wife, Jane, suffered a heart attack in their kitchen one afternoon while he was out working. It happened so quickly she never managed to get to the phone. They’d only been married for about three years. Nashorn never even knew she had a heart condition.
Jane’s death devastated him. To Nashorn, she simply was the one. From the first day they met, he knew he wanted to grow old with her, or so he hoped. The first two years after her death were torturous. More than once Nashorn thought about ending his life so he could be with Jane again. He even had a special bullet set aside for the occasion – a .38 hollow point – but that day never came. Little by little, Nashorn managed to step out of his dark depression. But he never remarried, and since then, not a day went by that he didn’t think of her.
Officially, summer had started yesterday, and Nashorn had planned to set sail this afternoon, but when he tried engaging his 29 h.p. diesel engine, the motor coughed and rattled a few times before stalling. He tried it again, but the engine just wouldn’t start. Some sailors might’ve considered taking off with a dead engine – after all, it was a sailboat – but that would’ve been careless, and careless was something Nashorn was not.
He was lucky, though. He was about to call Warren Donnelly, his usual mechanic, when another mechanic, who had just finished servicing the boat right next to his, heard the engine coughing like a dying dog and asked if Nashorn needed any help. That saved Nashorn at least a couple of hours, maybe more.
The mechanic had been looking over the small engine for just over five minutes now.
‘So,’ Nashorn said again, ‘how bad is it? Can it be fixed today?’
Without looking up, the mechanic lifted a finger, asking for one more minute.
Nashorn moved closer, trying to look over the mechanic’s shoulder.
‘There’s a crack in your lube-oil pump,’ the mechanic finally said, in the calmest of voices. ‘You’ve been leaking oil for a day, maybe two. Some of it has dripped onto the fuel-injection nozzle and clogged it.’
Nashorn looked at the mechanic with a blank stare. He knew very little about engines. ‘Can you fix it?’
‘The oil pump can’t be mended, the crack is too big. You need a new one.’
‘Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding.’
The mechanic smiled. ‘Fortunately, that’s one of the most common oil pumps around. They don’t crack that easy, but it happens. I think I might have a spare one somewhere in my bag.’
‘Oh, that’d be awesome.’ Nashorn lips broke into a half smile. ‘Could you check?’
‘Not a problem.’ The mechanic moved back from the engine pit and checked the large toolbox by the steps. ‘I guess it’s your lucky day. I’ve got one. It’s not brand new, but it’s in good condition and it will certainly do the trick.’
Nashorn’s half smile turned into a full one.
‘But before changing the pump, I need to clean the oil mess and unblock the fuel-injection nozzle. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, fifteen tops.’
Nashorn checked his watch. ‘That’d be just awesome. I can set off before sundown.’
The mechanic returned to the engine pit, and using an already-stained cloth, started cleaning away some of the oil that had dripped onto the fuel line.
‘So, are you sailing far?’
Nashorn walked over to the fridge and grabbed two beers. ‘I don’t know yet. I don’t really plan anything. I just try to go with the wind. Beer?’
‘No thanks. I had too many of those over the weekend.’
Nashorn twisted the cap off one of the bottles, had a sip and returned the other one to the fridge. ‘This is the only vacation I take in the year. Two weeks away from everything.’
‘And you can’t wait to get started, right? I know exactly what you mean. Me, I can say that I haven’t had a vacation for . . .’ The mechanic paused for a second and then laughed, sadly. ‘Wow, I can’t even remember the last time I had a vacation.’
‘You see, I couldn’t do that. It would drive me nuts. I need these two weeks to myself.’
‘Oh shit!’ the mechanic interrupted, jerking backwards. Liquid squirted up from the engine and onto the floor.
‘What happened?’ Nashorn moved forward, looking worried.
‘One of the high-pressure fuel-injection lines disconnected.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
The mechanic looked around quickly as if searching for something. ‘I need to get a clamp to fix it back in place. Can you do me a favor and hold this hose just like this while I grab a pressure clamp.’
‘Sure.’ Nashorn put his beer down and held the hose in place as the mechanic showed him.
‘Don’t let go of that, I’ll be right back.’
Nashorn kept his finger and his attention firmly on the thin dark rubber pipe. He could hear the mechanic rummaging through the toolbox behind him. ‘This isn’t gonna delay you fixing the engine is it?’
No reply.
‘I’d really love to set sail before nightfall.’
Silence. The rummaging had stopped.
‘Hello . . . ?’ Nashorn twisted his body awkwardly to look back.
At that exact moment the mechanic swung a metal wrench around as if it were a baseball bat. Time went
into slow motion for Nashorn. The wrench collided with his face with a chilling cracking sound. His jaw fractured in one, two, three places. The skin started to rupture at the base of the jaw, and did so all the way to his chin, exposing flesh and bone. Blood splattered high into the air in all directions. Three of Nashorn’s teeth shattered and were violently projected against the wall. A large bone splinter broke loose from his fractured jaw and perforated his gum, just under the now-missing first molar, its tip touching the exposed nerve left there by the missing tooth. Pain darkened his eyes. The hit was so powerful and well placed that Nashorn’s body was catapulted backwards; his back slammed against the engine, his head against the wooden panel above it.
Nashorn’s vision blurred instantly. Blood flooded his mouth and trickled down into his throat, blocking his airways and making him gasp for air. He tried to speak but the only sound he could muster was a pitiful, gurgling noise. Just before he lost consciousness, he saw the mechanic standing high above him, still holding the wrench.
‘You . . .’ the mechanic said with an evil smile. ‘I’ll take my time with.’
Seventeen
Hunter got to the PAB at 8:33 a.m., just minutes after Garcia.
‘Goddamn, did they get you too?’ Garcia asked.
‘The reporters outside, you mean?’
Garcia nodded. ‘Are they camping outside or what? I got out of my car and instantly had three of them shouting questions at me.’
‘Our victim was a prosecutor, who was dismembered in his own house, on his deathbed three days ago. That’s the stuff TV series are made of, Carlos. They could kill each other to be the first to get an insight from someone working the case. It will only get worse.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Garcia poured Hunter and himself a large cup of coffee each from the machine on the corner. ‘Any luck with those?’ he asked, handing his partner a cup and nodding at the books under Hunter’s arm.
Hunter had taken all the modern art and sculpture books he could find in Derek Nicholson’s study home with him last night.
