by Chris Carter
‘You’ll meet him inside.’ He looked at her appraisingly and the sweat returned to his forehead.
Whitney Myers was thirty-six years old with dark eyes, a small nose, high cheekbones, full lips and a strong jaw. Her smile could be considered a weapon with the power of turning steady legs into gelatinous goo. Many strong and eloquent men had babbled incoherently and giggled like kids after she hit them with it. She looked like a model on a day off, even more beautiful because she wasn’t trying.
Myers started her career as a police officer at the age of twenty-one. She worked harder than anyone in her bureau to move through the ranks and make detective as quickly as she could. Her intelligence, quick thinking and strong character also helped push her forward, and by the age of twenty-seven she finally received her detective’s shield.
Her captain was quick to recognize that Myers had a gift when it came to persuasion. She was calm, articulate, attentive and extremely convincing when putting her point across. She was also good with people. After six months on an intensive and specialized course with the FBI, Myers became one of the chief negotiators for the West and Valley bureaus of the LAPD and the Missing Persons Unit.
But her career as a detective with Los Angeles’ finest came to an abrupt end three years ago, after her efforts to negotiate a suicidal jumper off the roof of an eighteen-story-high skyscraper in Culver City went terribly wrong.
The aftermath of what happened that day put Myers’ entire life under severe scrutiny. An investigation was launched into her conduct, and Internal Affairs came down on her like a heavy downpour. After several weeks, the IA investigation was inconclusive and no charges were brought against her, but her days with the LAPD were over. She’d been running her own missing persons investigation agency since then.
Myers followed McKee through the house, past a double staircase and down a hallway lined with pictures of famous movie stars. The hallway ended in the living room. The room was so imposing it took Myers a few seconds to notice a six-foot-two, broad-shouldered man standing at an arched window. In his right hand he held an almost empty glass of Scotch. Despite being in his mid-fifties, Myers could see he had a boyish charm about him.
‘Whitney, let me introduce you to Leonid Kudrov,’ McKee said.
Leonid put his glass down and shook Myers’ hand. His grip was tense and the expression on his face was the same she’d seen in every face that had ever hired her – desperation.
Nineteen
Myers declined the offer of a drink and listened attentively to Kudrov’s account of events, taking notes every other sentence.
‘Have you called the police?’ she asked while Leonid refilled his glass.
‘Yes, they took my details but they barely listened to what I was saying. Gave me some bullshit about elapsed time, independent adult, or something like that, and kept putting me on hold. That’s when I called Andy and he called you.’
Myers nodded. ‘Because your daughter is thirty years old and you couldn’t substantiate your reason for believing she’s gone missing, it’s normal practice to wait at least twenty-four hours before she can be officially considered a missing person.’ Her voice was naturally confident, the kind that inspired trust.
‘Twenty-four hours? She could be dead in twenty-four hours. That’s bullshit.’
‘Sometimes it’s even more, depending on the evidence given.’
‘I tried telling him that,’ McKee added, wiping his forehead again.
‘She’s an adult, Mr. Kudrov,’ Myers explained. ‘An adult who has simply failed to turn up for a lunch appointment.’
Kudrov glared at Myers and then at McKee. ‘Has she heard a fucking word I said?’
‘Yes,’ Myers replied, crossing her legs and flipping through her notes. ‘She was thirty minutes late for your lunch. You called her several times. She never answered and never returned any of your messages. You panicked and went to her apartment. Once there you found a towel on the kitchen floor, but nothing else seemed out of place except for a bottle of white wine that should’ve been in the fridge. Her car keys were on a tray upstairs. You found her priceless violin in her practice room, but you said that it should’ve been in the safe. From what you could tell there was no sign of any sort of struggle or a break-in, and the place didn’t seem to have been burgled. The building’s concierge said that no one had visited her that night.’ She calmly closed her notebook.
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘Let me explain how the police would think, how they are trained to think. There are way more Missing Persons cases than there are detectives working them. The number one rule is to prioritize, only allocate resources when there’s no doubt the person in question has really gone missing. If she were a minor, an amber alert would’ve been issued all across the country. But as an independent adult who’s only been unreachable for less than twenty-four hours, protocol dictates the police go through a checklist first.’
‘A checklist? You’re shitting me.’
A quick headshake. ‘I shit you not.’
‘Such as?’
Myers leaned forward. ‘Is this an adult who: one – may be in need of assistance? Two – may be the victim of a crime or foul play? Three – may be in need of medical attention? Four – has no pattern of running away or disappearing? Five – may be the victim of parental abduction? And six – is mentally or physically impaired?’ Myers placed her sunglasses on the coffee table next to her. ‘From that list, only having no pattern of running away or disappearing checked out. The police’s initial thoughts would be – because Miss Kudrov is a sane, independent, financially sufficient and unattached adult woman, she could’ve simply decided she needed a break from everything. There’s no one she really needs to give account of her actions to. She doesn’t have a nine-to-five job, and she isn’t married. You said she just got back from a long tour with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.’
Kudrov nodded.
‘It must be very stressful. She could’ve jumped on a plane and gone to the Bahamas. She could’ve met someone in a bar last night and decided to spend a few undisturbed days with that person somewhere else.’
Leonid ran a hand though his cropped hair. ‘Well, she didn’t. I know Katia. If she had to cancel an appointment with me or anyone else, she would’ve called. It’s just the way she is. She doesn’t let people down, least of all me. We have a great relationship. If she had decided that she needed a break, she would’ve at least let me know where she was going.’
‘How about her mother? Am I right in assuming you and she aren’t together any more?’
‘Her mother passed away several years ago.’
Myers kept her eyes on Leonid. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Katia didn’t just decide to take a trip somewhere. I’m telling you, something is wrong.’
He started pacing the room. Emotions were starting to fly high.
‘Mr. Kudrov, please—’
‘Stop calling me Mr. Kudrov,’ he cut her short. ‘I’m not your teacher. Call me Leo.’
‘OK, Leo. I’m not doubting you. I’m just explaining why the police acted the way they did. If Katia hasn’t showed up in twenty-four hours, they’ll be all over this case like ugly on a moose. They’ll use every resource available to find her. But you better be prepared, because with your celebrity status, the circus will come next.’
Leonid squinted at McKee before moving his stare back to Myers. ‘Circus?’
‘When I said that the LAPD will use every resource available, I meant that. Including you and your status. They’ll want you to make your own appeal to the public, to personalize the case. Maybe even hold a conference here at your house. They’ll broadcast Katia’s photo on TV and in the newspapers, and they’ll prefer a family picture instead of a lone shot – it’s more . . . touching. The picture will be copied and plastered all over LA, maybe even the whole of California. Search parties will form. They’ll ask for clothes for the dog search teams. They’ll want hairs and other samp
les for DNA tests. The media will camp outside your gates.’ Myers paused for breath. ‘As I said, it will turn into a circus, but the LAPD Missing Persons Unit is very good at what they do.’ She hesitated for effect. ‘Leo, given your status and social class, we have to consider the possibility that your daughter was kidnapped for ransom. No one has attempted to contact you?’
Leonid shook his head. ‘I’ve been in the house all day and have left specific instructions at my office to divert any unidentified caller to my home line. No calls.’
Myers nodded.
‘Something is wrong. I can feel it.’ Leonid pinned Myers down with a desperate stare. ‘I don’t want this splattered all over the news unless it’s really necessary. Andy told me you are the best at what you do. Better than the LAPD Missing Persons. Can you find her?’ He made it sound less of a question and more like a plea.
Myers gave McKee a look that said, I’m flattered.
He returned a shy smile.
‘I will do my best.’ Myers nodded, her voice confident.
‘So do it.’
‘Do you have a recent picture of your daughter?’
Kudrov was already prepared and handed Myers a colored eight-by-twelve-inch photograph of Katia.
Myers’ eyes grazed the picture. ‘I’ll also need the keys to her apartment, the names and phone numbers of everyone you can think of who she could’ve contacted. And I need it all by yesterday.’
Twenty
Hunter called both contacts on the two Missing Persons personal fact sheets he had with him. Mr. Giles Carlsen, a hair salon manager from Brentwood, had contacted the police ten days ago to report Cathy Greene, his roommate, as missing. On the phone, Carlsen told Hunter that Miss Greene had finally turned up the morning before. She’d been away with a new male friend she’d met in her dance class.
The second contact, Mr. Roy Mitchell, had contacted the police twelve days ago. His 29-year-old daughter, Laura, had simply disappeared. Mr. Mitchell asked Hunter to meet him at his home in Fremont Place in an hour.
Hancock Park is one of the most affluent and desirable areas in all of Southern California. In sharp contrast to most Los Angeles neighborhoods, houses in Hancock Park are set well back from the street, most power and telephone lines are buried, and fences are strongly discouraged. As Hunter turned into Fremont Place, it became obvious that invasion of privacy wasn’t one of the area’s main concerns.
The house’s half-moon-shaped driveway was paved in cobble block and merged into a parking area large enough for two buses. At the center of it stood a massive stone fountain. The sun was just reaching the horizon, and the sky behind the terracotta brick two-story house was being painted in ‘photo moment’ fiery red streaks. Hunter parked his car and climbed out.
The front door was answered by a woman in her mid-fifties. She was a picture of elegance, with longish hair neatly tied in a ponytail, a magnetic smile, and skin most women half her age would kill for. She introduced herself as Denise Mitchell and showed Hunter into a study rich with art, antiques, and leather-bound books. Standing before a tall mahogany sideboard crowded with photographs was a stocky man, a donut shy of being fat. He was at least half a foot shorter than Hunter with a full head of disheveled gray hair and a matching moustache.
‘You must be the detective I spoke to on the phone,’ he said offering his hand. ‘I’m Roy Mitchell.’
His handshake was as practiced as his smile, strong enough to show strength of character but soft enough not to intimidate. Hunter showed him his credentials and Roy Mitchell tensed.
‘Oh God.’
His whisper wasn’t quiet enough to escape his wife’s ears. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, moving closer, her eyes pleading for information.
‘Can you give us a moment, honey,’ Roy replied, trying in vain to conceal his concern.
‘No, I’m not giving you a moment,’ Denise said, her stare now fixed on Hunter. ‘I want to know what happened. What information do you have on my daughter?’
‘Denise, please.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Roy.’ Her eyes never left Hunter. ‘Did you find my daughter? Is she OK?’
Roy Mitchell looked away.
‘What’s going on, Roy? What got you so spooked?’
No reply.
‘Somebody talk to me.’ Her voice faltered.
‘I’m not with the Missing Persons Unit, Mrs. Mitchell,’ Hunter finally offered, showing her his credentials once again. This time she looked at them a lot more attentively than she had at the door.
‘Oh my God, you’re from Homicide?’ She cupped her hands over her nose and mouth as tears filled her eyes.
‘There’s a chance that I’m in the wrong house,’ Hunter said in a steady but comforting voice.
‘What?’ Denise’s hands started shaking.
‘Maybe we should all have a seat.’ Hunter indicated the leather Chesterfield sofa by a six-foot-tall Victorian lampshade.
The Mitchells took the sofa and Hunter one of the two armchairs facing it.
‘At the moment we’re trying to identify someone who shares several physical characteristics with your daughter,’ Hunter explained. ‘Laura’s name is one of four which have come up as a possible match.’
‘As a possible match to a homicide victim?’ Roy asked, placing a hand on his wife’s knee.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Denise started crying.
Roy took a deep breath. ‘I gave the other detective a very recent picture of Laura, do you have it?’
Hunter nodded.
‘And still you can’t be sure if this victim of yours is Laura?’ Denise asked, her mascara starting to run down her face. ‘How come?’
Roy clamped his eyes shut for an instant and a single tear rolled to the tip of his nose. Hunter could see he’d already picked up on the possibility of the victim being unrecognizable. ‘So you’re here to ask us for a blood sample for a DNA test?’ he said.
It was obvious that Roy Mitchell was a lot more clued up on police procedures than most people. Since the introduction of DNA testing, in a situation such as the one Hunter was facing, it was a lot more practical for the police to collect samples and match them to the victim first. That way they could later approach only the identified family, instead of putting several innocent ones through the panic and the traumatic experience of looking at a photograph of a gruesomely disfigured victim.
Hunter shook his head. ‘Sadly, a DNA test won’t help us.’
For a moment it was as if there wasn’t enough air in the room for all three of them. ‘Do you have a picture of the victim?’ Roy finally asked.
Hunter nodded and flipped through several sheets of paper inside the folder he’d brought with him. ‘Mrs. Mitchell,’ he said, catching Denise’s eyes, ‘this woman might not be your daughter. There’s no reason for you to look at this picture right now.’
Denise stared at Hunter with glassy eyes. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Honey, please.’ Roy tried again.
She didn’t even look at him.
Hunter waited, but the determination in her eyes was almost palpable. He placed the close-up of the victim on the coffee table in front of them.
It took Denise Mitchell just a fraction of a second to recognize her. ‘Oh my God!’ Her shivering hands shot to her mouth. ‘What have they done to my baby?’
All of a sudden the room they were in looked different – darker, smaller, the air denser. Hunter sat in silence for several minutes while Roy Mitchell tried to console his wife. Her tears weren’t hysterical; they were simply full of pain – and rage. In different circumstances Hunter would have left, giving the Mitchells some time to grieve before coming back the next morning with a list of questions, but this wasn’t like any other case, this killer wasn’t like any other killer. Right now Hunter didn’t have a choice. Laura’s parents were his best, and at the moment, only source of information on Laura. And he needed information like he needed air.
Denise Mitchell grabbed a tissue from the box on the side table and wiped her tears away before finally standing up. She approached a small desk next to the window where several photo frames were arranged, most of them containing pictures of Laura at different stages of her life.
Roy didn’t follow, instead slumping himself deeper into the sofa, as if he could somehow escape the moment. He made no attempt to wipe away his tears.
Denise turned to face Hunter, and she looked like a complete different woman from the one who’d greeted him at the door minutes earlier. Her eyes were horribly sad.
‘How much did my daughter suffer, Detective?’ Her voice was low and hoarse, her words coated in pain.
Their eyes locked for a long moment and Hunter saw a mixture of grief and anger burning deep inside her.
‘The truth is that we don’t know,’ he finally replied.
With a trembling hand Denise brushed a strand of loose hair behind her right ear. ‘Do you know why, Detective? Why would someone do something like that to anyone? Why would someone do it to my Laura? She was the sweetest girl you could ever meet.’
Hunter held her gaze firmly. ‘I’m not gonna pretend I understand what sort of pain both of you are going through, Mrs. Mitchell. I’m also not gonna pretend this is easy. We’re after the answers to those same questions and at the moment I can’t tell you much because we don’t have much. I’m here because I need your help to catch who did this. You knew Laura better than anyone.’
Denise’s eyes never left Hunter’s face, and he knew what her next question would be even before the words left her lips.
‘Was she . . .’ her voice croaked as she fought the tears catching in her throat yet again, ‘. . . raped?’
Roy Mitchell finally looked up. His stare went from his wife to Hunter.
There were very few things in life Hunter hated more than having to hide the truth from grieving parents, but without an autopsy on Laura’s body, the best he could do was tell Denise and Roy that again he didn’t know. As a psychologist, he knew that the uncertainty of never knowing the answer to such a question would torture them for the rest of their lives, putting their marriage, even their sanity, in jeopardy.
