by Chris Carter
‘Pass me the flashlight, Carlos.’
Garcia handed it to him and Hunter moved its beam to a point on the brick directly behind the large canvas.
‘Something else?’ Garcia asked.
‘Not sure yet, but brick walls are notorious for pulling fibers out of fabrics if you lean against them.’ Hunter kept inching the beam up. When he got to a point about six feet from the floor, he paused and moved forward, stopping just millimeters from the wall, careful not to disrupt the dust. ‘I think we might have something.’
He reached for his phone and dialed the number for the Forensics team.
Twenty-Seven
West Hollywood is famous for its nightlife, celebrity culture and diverse atmosphere. Themed bars, chic restaurants, futuristic and exotic nightclubs, art galleries, designer boutiques, sports centers, and the most varied selection of live music venues will keep you entertained from sunset to sunset. Informally referred to as ‘WeHo’ by most Angelinos, the word is that if you can’t get your kicks in West Hollywood, then you’re probably already dead.
It was just past 6:00 p.m. when Hunter and Garcia got to the Daniel Rossdale Art Gallery in Wilshire Boulevard. The building was small, but stylish. Smoked glass together with concrete-and-metal frames were used to create a pyramid-style structure that could be considered a sculpture on its own.
Calvin Lange, the gallery’s curator and Laura Mitchell’s closest friend, had agreed to a meeting. Laura’s last exhibition had been at his gallery.
Hunter and Garcia were shown to Calvin Lange’s office by an attractive and elegantly dressed assistant.
Lange was sitting behind his desk, but stood up as both detectives entered the room. He was a wiry, sandy-haired, smiling man in his early-thirties.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said as he firmly shook their hands. ‘You said over the phone that this was about Laura Mitchell?’ He indicated the two leather chairs in front of his desk and waited for both detectives to have a seat. ‘Have there been any problems with any of her paintings purchased from this gallery?’ He paused and quickly studied both detectives’ expressions. Then he remembered Laura’s mother’s phone call to him two weeks ago. ‘Is she OK?’
Hunter filled him in.
Calvin Lange’s eyes flicked from Hunter to Garcia and then back to Hunter. His lips parted but no words came out. For an instant he looked like a little kid who’d just been told Santa Claus was a con. Still in shocked silence, he approached the minibar built into the tall wooden unit on the north wall, and with a trembling hand reached for a glass. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ His voice quivered.
‘We’re fine,’ Hunter said, taking in all his movements.
Lange poured himself a large glass of Cognac and quickly took a mouthful. That seemed to bring some of the color back to his face.
‘I was told by Mrs. Mitchell that you were probably Laura’s closest friend outside the family,’ Hunter said.
‘Maybe . . .’ Lange shook his head as if disoriented. ‘I’m not sure. Laura was a very private person, but we got on well. She was . . . fantastic: funny, talented, intelligent, beautiful . . .’
‘She exhibited in this gallery not so long ago, is that right?’ Garcia asked.
Lange told them that Laura’s exhibition had run from the 1st to the 28th February and it’d been a tremendous success – very well attended, and all of the twenty-three pieces she’d exhibited had been sold. Laura had only been present for about two hours on the opening and closing nights, and Lange said she hadn’t seemed at all upset, worried or anxious at either of them.
‘Was that the last time you saw her?’ Hunter asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And did you use to keep in contact regularly? Phone calls, texts, that sort of thing?’
Lange moved his head from side to side. ‘Not that regularly. We usually chatted on the phone two maybe three times a month. It really depended on how busy we both were. Sometimes we did lunch, dinner or drinks together, but again, nothing regular.’
‘Mrs. Mitchell also told me that her ex-fiancé was here on her closing night,’ Hunter said.
Lange’s eyes shot in Hunter’s direction.
‘Do you remember seeing him talking to Laura at all?’
Lange took another sip of his Cognac and Hunter noticed his hands had started shaking again.
‘Yes, I’d forgotten all about that. He’d had a little too much to drink. He really upset her that night,’ Lange recalled. ‘They were by the staircase at the back of the gallery, away from the main floor and the crowd. I was looking for her because I wanted to introduce her to an important buyer from Switzerland. When I finally found her, I went over and that’s when I noticed she looked unhappy. As I joined them, he walked away angrily.’
‘Did she tell you what happened?’
‘No, she didn’t want to talk about it. She went straight into the ladies’ room and came out again about ten minutes later, but before doing so, she asked me to get him out of here, before he made a scene with the guests.’
‘A scene?’ Hunter questioned. ‘Did she tell you why?’
Lange shook his head. ‘But I sensed it was because he was jealous.’
Garcia craned his neck. ‘Jealous of whom? Did Laura have a date with her that night?’
‘No, but I saw her talking to someone earlier that night. And I know they swapped phone numbers because she told me.’
‘Could you describe him?’ Garcia asked.
Lange bit his lower lip and looked at a distant nothing as if considering something. ‘I can do better than that. I think I might have a picture of him.’
Twenty-Eight
Calvin Lange lifted his right index finger at both detectives, asking them for a minute, and reached for the phone on his desk.
‘Nat, we still have the photos from Laura Mitchell’s exhibition, right? . . . Great, can you bring your laptop into my office, please . . . Yeah, now is good.’ Lange put the phone down and explained that they always photographed and sometimes videoed their exhibitions, especially the artists’ nights. The photos were used for brochures, advertisement campaigns and their own website.
‘How about your CCTV footage?’ Hunter asked. He’d noticed six cameras in total on their way up to Lange’s office.
Lange gave him an embarrassed headshake. ‘We recycle hard drive space every two weeks.’
There was a soft knock on the door and the same assistant who had guided Hunter and Garcia into Lange’s office earlier stepped into the room carrying a white laptop.
‘You’ve met Nat,’ Lange said, motioning her to his desk.
‘Not properly,’ she replied with the same smile she’d given them earlier. Her eyes stayed on Hunter.
‘Natalie Foster is my assistant,’ Lange explained, ‘but she’s a great photographer and very good with computers. She’s also our webmaster.’
Natalie shook both detectives’ hands. ‘Please, call me Nat.’
‘These are detectives from the Homicide Division,’ Lange told her.
Natalie’s smile quickly slipped from her face. ‘Homicide?’
Hunter explained the reason for their visit and Natalie’s entire body tensed. Her eyes searched for Lange’s and Hunter could tell her mind had flooded with questions.
‘We need to take a look at the photographs from Laura’s exhibition, Nat,’ Lange said.
It took a few seconds for his words to register. ‘Umm . . . yes, of course.’ She placed the laptop on Lange’s desk and fired it up. As the computer booted, an anxious silence hovered over the room. Natalie typed in a password and scrolled a trembling finger across the laptop’s mouse pad as she searched for the pictures directory.
Hunter grabbed a small bottle of water from the drinks cabinet. ‘Here, have some of this, it’ll help.’ He poured some into a glass with ice and brought it over to her.
‘Thank you.’ She forced a smile before taking two large sips and returning her attention to the computer.
A few
more mouse clicks later and Natalie set the picture display to full screen.
‘OK, here they are.’
The first picture was a wide shot of the main gallery floor on the opening night of Laura Mitchell’s exhibition. It looked full to capacity.
‘How many people were here that night?’ Hunter asked.
‘About a hundred and fifty.’ Lange looked at Natalie for confirmation. She nodded. ‘And there were a few more outside waiting to get in.’
‘Entry wasn’t by invitation only?’ Garcia asked.
‘Not always, it depends on the artist,’ Lange replied. ‘Most, especially the more famous and egocentric ones, like to make their launch nights invitation- and RSVP-only.’
‘But not Laura.’
‘Not Laura,’ Lange confirmed. ‘She wasn’t like most artists who think they’re God’s gift. She insisted her exhibitions were open to everyone and anyone. Even on artists’ nights.’
Most of the photographs were of Laura smiling and chatting to people. She was usually surrounded by a group of four or five. A few of the photographs showed her posing in front of a canvas or with a fan. She certainly was a very attractive woman. Hunter could hardly make the connection with the crime-scene photos he’d seen.
‘Wait,’ Lange said, stepping closer. His eyes squinted as he studied the photograph that had just appeared on the screen. ‘I think that’s him – the guy who swapped numbers with Laura.’ He pointed to someone standing at the back of the frame. He was tall with short dark hair and was dressed in a dark suit, but his face was partially obscured by a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Natalie used the zoom feature at the bottom of the screen to enlarge it, but it didn’t make the man’s face any clearer. He looked to be around the same age as Laura Mitchell.
‘Have any of you seen him before?’ Hunter asked.
Lange shook his head, but Natalie looked uncertain. ‘I think I have, at one of our previous exhibitions.’
‘Are you sure? Can you remember which one?’
She took a moment. ‘I can’t remember which exhibition it was, but he looks familiar.’
‘Are you sure you saw him here in the gallery? Not in a coffee shop, restaurant, nightclub . . . ?’
Natalie searched her memory again. ‘No, I think it was here at the gallery.’
‘OK, if you see him again, or you remember which exhibition, you call me, all right? If he comes in, don’t try to talk to him, just call me.’
Natalie nodded and moved on with the pictures.
‘Stop,’ Lange said again a few pictures later. This time he indicated another tall, well-built man standing just a couple of paces behind Laura. He was looking at her as if she was the only person in the room. ‘That’s her ex-fiancé. I think his name is . . .’
‘Patrick Barlett,’ Hunter confirmed, once again enlarging the picture. ‘We’ll need a copy of all these files.’
‘Sure,’ Natalie said. ‘I can burn them onto a CD for you before you leave.’
Just a few pictures from the end of the archive, Lange told Natalie to stop again. There he was. The tall, mysterious, phone-swapping stranger. He was standing right next to Laura. But this time he was looking straight at the camera.
Twenty-Nine
Small but very well equipped, Gustavo Suarez’s studio was set in the basement of a single-story house in Jefferson Park, South Los Angeles.
Gus had been an audio engineer for twenty-seven years, and with a perfect-pitch ear it took a single note from any instrument for him to immediately place it on a music scale. But his understanding of sounds went much beyond musical notes. He was fascinated by their vibrations and modulations, what created them and how they could be altered by location and the environment. Because of his knowledge, gifted ear and experience, Gus had been called upon by the LAPD on several occasions where some sort of sound, noise or audio recording played a critical part in an ongoing investigation.
Whitney Myers had met Gus for the first time through the FBI, while training to be a negotiator. Their paths crossed again soon after, when she became a detective for the LAPD. As a private investigator, Myers had required Gus’ expertize on only two other occasions.
Gus was forty-seven years old, with a shaved head and more tattoos than a Hell’s Angel. But despite the intimidating look, he was as docile as a puppy. He opened the door to Frank Cohen and was instantly disappointed.
‘Where’s Whitney?’ he asked, looking past Cohen’s shoulders.
‘Sorry, Gus, it’s only me. She’s tied up.’
‘Damn, man. I got my best shirt on.’ He ran his hands down the front of his freshly ironed dark blue shirt. ‘Even splashed on some cologne and all.’
‘Splashed?’ Cohen took a step back and covered his nose. ‘You smell like you bathed in the stuff. What the hell is it, Old Spice?’
Gus frowned. ‘I like Old Spice.’
‘Yeah, no shit. More than most by the smell of it.’
Gus disregarded his comment and guided him down to the basement and into his studio.
‘So how can I help you guys this time? Whitney didn’t tell me much over the phone.’ He took a seat in his engineer’s chair and wheeled himself closer to his sound desk.
Cohen handed him Myers’ digital recorder. ‘We got this from an answering machine.’
Gus brought the device closer to his right ear and pressed play. As the strange sound came through, he reached for the bowl of Skittles next to the recording console. Gus had a thing for Skittles, they helped him relax and concentrate.
‘We think there’s a voice, or a whisper, or something hidden in the middle of all that static,’ Cohen offered.
Gus swirled a bunch of Skittles from his right cheek to his left one. ‘It’s not hidden, it’s just there,’ he announced, playing the recording from the beginning again. ‘Definitely someone’s voice.’ He got up, walked over to a cabinet and retrieved a thin cable that looked like iPod headphones. ‘Let me hook this thing up so we can have a better listen.’
Through the studio speakers, the sound was louder, the out-of-breath whisper more evident, but not clearer.
‘Is he using a device to conceal his voice?’ Cohen asked, stepping closer.
Gus shook his head. ‘It doesn’t sound like it. This is pure static. Interference caused by another radio wave electronic device or a bad signal. Whoever made the call was probably standing next to something, or on a spot affected by a signal dip. I’d say the static noise was unintentional.’
‘Can you clean it up?’
‘Of course.’ Gus smiled smugly and turned on the computer monitor to his left. As the recording played again, audio lines vibrated animatedly on the screen. Gus had another handful of Skittles while watching them attentively.
‘OK, let’s tweak this baby a little.’ He clicked a few buttons and slid some faders on the digital equalizer inside the application on his screen. The static noise was reduced by at least 90 per cent. The out-of-breath whisper now came through much clearer. Gus reached for a pair of professional headphones and listened to the whole thing again. ‘OK, now this was deliberate.’
‘What was?’ Cohen craned his neck in Gus’ direction.
‘The forced whisper. Whoever’s voice this is, it isn’t naturally hoarse and whispering soft. And that is clever.’
‘In what way?’
‘Every human voice travels along certain frequencies that are part of one’s personal identity, as identifiable as fingerprints or the retina. They have certain high, low and medium tones that don’t vary, even if you try to disguise your voice by naturally altering it in any way, like a falsetto or baritone or whatever. With the right equipment, we can still identify those tones and match them to someone’s voice.’
‘You have that equipment, right?’
Gus looked offended. ‘Of course I’ve got that equipment. Look around. I’ve got whatever you need for voice identification.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
Gus leaned back in his
chair and let out a long sigh. ‘I’ll show you. Place the tips of your fingers just below your Adam’s apple.’
‘What?’
‘Like this.’ Gus placed the tips of two of his fingers on his throat.
Cohen pulled a face.
‘Just do it.’
Reluctantly Cohen copied Gus’ movement.
‘Now, say something, anything, but try to disguise it in some way . . . high, low, gravel, child’s voice, it doesn’t matter. When you do, you’ll feel your vocal cords vibrate. Trust me.’
Cohen looked at Gus with a you’ve-gotta-be-kidding-me face.
‘Go on.’
He finally conceded and, putting on an extremely high-pitched voice, recited the opening three lines of Othello.
‘Wow, profound. I never took you for a Shakespeare fan,’ Gus said, suppressing a smile. ‘Did you feel them vibrate?’
Cohen nodded.
‘When we have any sort of vocal cord vibration, then we have those distinct frequencies I told you about. Now, do the same thing but go for a very soft whisper instead.’
Cohen repeated the same three lines in the most delicate whisper he could muster. His eyes narrowed as he looked back at Gus. ‘No vibration.’
‘Exactly,’ Gus confirmed. ‘That’s because the sounds aren’t being formed by your vocal cords, but by a combination of the air being exhaled from your lungs, and your mouth and tongue movements.’
‘Like whistling?’
‘Like whistling. No vibration, no identifiable frequencies.’
‘Smart motherfucker.’
