by Chris Carter
Myers fixed Hunter down with a solid stare. She could see the resolve in his eyes. He wasn’t about to let her go easy. But Myers also wasn’t about to tell Hunter the truth about Katia and Leonid Kudrov. She wasn’t prepared to tell him her secrets, or that – out of habit and as a way of keeping her updated with who her potential clients could be – Myers was sent a daily list of names, including photographs, of new additions to the Missing Persons Unit database. The list was compiled and filtered by her LAPD informer, Carl O’Connor.
O’Connor wasn’t a detective with the MPU. Pure and simple, he was a computer geek, an old friend, and the database administrator for the Valley Bureau of the LAPD. His unlimited access to essential information where missing persons were concerned had given Myers the advantage she needed in many cases. When she received Kelly Jensen’s photograph, Myers immediately saw the resemblance to Katia Kudrov, and that was why she was at Kelly Jensen’s apartment in that specific moment. She was looking for clues.
There was no way she was telling Hunter all that. But Myers knew she had to tell him something. She improvised as fast as she could.
‘OK. The person I’m working for is an ex-boyfriend,’ she lied with the steadiest of faces.
Hunter frowned. ‘Name?’
Myers smiled. ‘You know I can’t give you his name. Not without his consent or a court order. You have neither.’
‘And he went to you instead of the Missing Persons Unit?’
‘What can I say? Some people just don’t trust the LAPD.’
Myers relaxed her right arm.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ Hunter called with a lilt in his voice. ‘Easy there, pumpkin. What are you doing?’
She brought her hand to the side of her body, rubbing it while taking a deep breath. ‘I think you’ve broken a couple of my ribs.’
Hunter didn’t move. ‘No I haven’t. And at least you’re not bleeding.’
Myers glanced at the cut above Hunter’s eyebrow. ‘I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. I had you right in my sights. You were supposed to be knocked out cold.’
‘Lucky for me I got out of the way, then,’ Hunter said, gently stretching his neck. ‘How did you get in here? There were no signs of forced entry.’
Myers gave Hunter a charming smile. This was getting complicated. She stood her ground.
‘I’m doing all the talking here, and you still haven’t told me your name or shown me any police ID yet. Hell, I’m not even sure for a fact that you are LAPD. I know you’re not MPU. So who are you?’
‘How do you know I’m not with the Missing Persons Unit?’
Her face went dead serious. ‘’Cause I used to be part of them.’
Fifty-Five
Hunter kept his gaze on Myers for several seconds. She held his stare with identical determination.
‘OK,’ Hunter finally said, ‘let’s see that PI license you were talking about. But very slowly.’
‘Let’s see that police badge you were talking about,’ Myers challenged.
Hunter pulled open the left side of his leather jacket. His badge was clipped onto his belt.
Myers acknowledged it with a nod, unzipped her pouch belt and handed Hunter a black leather wallet.
He scrutinized her identity card before returning his attention to Myers. Dark eyes, small nose, high cheekbones, full lips, perfect skin, and an athlete’s body.
Hunter finally holstered his weapon before picking up his flashlight together with Myers’ gun – a Sig Sauer P226 X-5 semi-auto pistol.
‘Being a PI must pay well,’ he said, releasing the magazine and checking for a chambered round before handing the empty pistol back to Myers. ‘This is a two and a half grand gun.’ He slipped the magazine into his pocket.
‘Why? Are you looking for a new job? I could certainly use a guy like you. Good benefits and health insurance.’
Hunter took a paper tissue from a dispenser on the dresser and cleared some of the blood from his face. ‘Yeah? Well, I couldn’t use a boss like you.’
Myers smiled. ‘Oh, you’re quick with the comebacks too? I guess the chicks dig that.’
Hunter ignored her comment.
‘Are you gonna tell me who you are now, or shall I just call you Mr. Detective?’ she asked, folding her arms.
‘My name is Robert Hunter.’ He handed her wallet back to her. ‘I’m a detective with the LAPD.’
‘Which section?’ She nodded at his badge. ‘As I said, I know you’re not Missing Persons.’
Hunter placed the flashlight on the dresser. ‘Homicide Special.’
Myers eyes widened. She knew exactly what that meant. For a beat she seemed lost for words. ‘When?’ she asked.
‘When what?’
‘Don’t play dumb. You don’t look the type, and I’m through fucking around. Do you know when Jensen died?’
Hunter studied Myers’ face and saw a hint of desperation there. He mechanically checked his watch before conceding. ‘Yesterday.’
‘Was her body found yesterday or did she die yesterday?’
‘Both. She’d been dead for only a few hours when we found her.’
‘Whoever took her kept her for almost three weeks before killing her?’
Hunter didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Myers knew exactly the implications of such an act by a kidnapper/ murderer.
‘How was she murdered?’ she asked.
Silence.
‘Oh c’mon, I’m not asking for any major investigation secrets. I know the protocol and I know what you can and cannot disclose. If not from you, how long do you think it’ll take me to find that information out? A couple of phone calls, maybe. I’ve still got contacts and connections in the force.’
Hunter still said nothing.
‘Fine. I’ll find out my way then.’
‘The killer used a knife.’
Myers ran the tips of her fingers against her upper lip.
‘How many victims?’
Hunter looked back at her curiously.
She continued. ‘How many victims have you got so far? If you’re Homicide Special it means this guy has either killed before or Kelly Jensen was killed in a particularly horrific way . . . or both. And if I had to take a guess I’d say both.’
Hunter remained silent.
‘You’re looking for a serial killer, aren’t you?’
‘For someone who used to be a cop, you sure jump to conclusions very quickly.’
Myers’ eyes moved away from Hunter.
‘OK, it’s your turn to share,’ he said. ‘Who’s this ex-boyfriend you’re working for?’
Myers didn’t want to embroil herself further in her lie. ‘You want information from me now?’ Her eyebrows arched.
‘Are we back playing games again, sweetheart?’ Hunter challenged. ‘I thought you said you were through fucking around.’
Myers glared at him again.
‘Kelly Jensen is dead. Murdered in a way your nightmares couldn’t produce. Your Missing Persons case is over. That’s all you need to know.’
‘Client/investigator confidentiality privileges don’t end once the case is over. You know that.’
‘The ex-boyfriend could be a suspect.’
A second of hesitation.
‘He isn’t,’ Myers said confidently. ‘Or do you think I didn’t have him thoroughly checked out before taking the case. And you said that Kelly was killed yesterday. He’s been out of the country for five days.’
‘If you’re so sure of his innocence, why not give me his name and let me check him out too.’
A long, uncomfortable moment played out between them before Myers put out her right arm, the palm of her hand facing up. Her eyes staring straight into Hunter’s. ‘Can I have my ammunitions clip back?’
Hunter knew she was asking for a trust gesture. A give in order to receive kind of thing. He slowly retrieved the magazine from his pocket and placed it in her hand. Myers didn’t load it into her gun. Instead, she just stared at it for a long moment.
Her lie was snowballing into something she knew she wouldn’t be able to control. She needed to get out of there before she made a mistake.
‘You know I can’t give you his name. If I do I’ll never get another client again. But I can hand you everything I have on the case. Maybe you can find something there.’
Hunter saw her right eye twitch ever so slightly.
Myers looked down and checked her watch. ‘Give me a few hours to gather everything together and you can have whatever I have.’
Hunter continued to observe her.
‘I know where to find you.’
Hunter watched Myers leave the room before reaching into his pocket. He looked down at the Private Investigator’s ID he’d slipped out of her leather wallet.
‘And I know where to find you,’ he whispered to himself.
Fifty-Six
Kelly Jensen’s art studio was a refurbished mechanic’s garage behind a row of shops in Culver City. The street was narrow and hidden away from the main roads, at the top of a small hill. To the right of her studio was a small parking lot, where all the shop owners kept their vehicles during the day. At that time at night it was completely empty. The only light came from a lamppost on the corner, its bulb old and yellowing. Hunter looked around for security cameras. Nothing.
The studio was spacious and well organized. There were shelves and drawers for every different paint color, type of brush, palette, and canvas sizes. All finished paintings were placed on a large wooden rack that occupied the entirety of the north wall. There was only one canvas stand, positioned just a few feet from the large window that faced west. Kelly liked watching the sunset while working, Hunter guessed. A paint-splattered cloth covered the painting on the stand. Unlike Laura Mitchell, Kelly seemed to only work on one canvas at a time.
Hunter lifted the stained cloth and checked the painting underneath it. Dark, shadowy skies against a placid lake that surrounded the ruins of an old building on top of a steep sloping hill. Hunter stepped back to get a better view.
Kelly was a realist painter, and the effect she achieved with that particular canvas was so vivid it was like standing at the shore, looking out into the horizon. But she’d done something Hunter had never seen before. It was as though the whole scenery was seen through a smoky glass. Everything had a sad, gray tint to it, as if the weather was about to close in on you with a vengeance. The painting looked so real it made Hunter feel cold. He pulled the collar of his jacket tighter against his neck.
Kelly’s ample working space was uncluttered. The only furniture around the place were the shelves and drawer units against the walls, the storing rack, and an old, beat-up armchair several feet away from the window, facing the canvas stand. There were no six-foot canvases, partitions, or anything else for that matter. No place for anyone to hide behind. There was an improvised kitchen area in one corner, and a small bathroom in the opposite one. Hunter checked everywhere. There was no way the killer could’ve waited and then sneaked up on Kelly in there without her noticing it.
Hunter walked back up to the window and stared out into the night. Because her studio was at the top of a hill, the view was unobstructed and quite astonishing. No wonder Kelly used to paint facing that view. He checked the locks. All quite new and very secure. The small parking lot was to the far left, but only part of it was visible from the window.
Suddenly, just a couple of feet from where he was, something moved outside the window with incredible agility.
‘Shit!’ Hunter jumped back, his hand going for his gun.
The black cat ran the length of the window ledge in just a split second. Hunter stood motionless, both arms extended, his grip tight around his pistol handle, his pulse racing.
‘Goddamn it! Not twice in one night,’ he finally breathed out. How could he not have noticed the cat? He moved closer and looked again. The lack of any light outside made the window work almost as a two-way mirror. At night, a person dressed all in black could have observed Kelly without being noticed. Hunter unlocked the window, pushed it open and welcomed the cool breeze that kissed his face. He leaned forward and looked out, first right then left, in the direction of the parking lot. That’s when he noticed something at the far wall blink at him.
Fifty-Seven
The shrieking scream that came from her TV made Jessica Black wake with a start. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa and hadn’t even noticed the old, black-and-white B-movie horror film that had started.
She rubbed her gritty eyes, pulled herself up into a sitting position, and looked around her living room for Mark, her boyfriend. He was nowhere to be seen.
The woman on the screen screamed again and Jessica groggily reached for the remote control that had fallen between her legs, and switched the set off. The scented candle she’d lit earlier had burned halfway through, and the entire room now carried the sweet smell of apples and cinnamon. Jessica watched the flame burn for a minute. Her Wechter acoustic guitar was resting by the side of the sofa next to her. Still watching the flame, she ran her hand across the strings and allowed her memories to catch up with her.
Jessica had got her first acoustic guitar on her tenth birthday. Her father had bought it for her as a present in a garage sale. It was an old and scratched plank of wood with rusty strings that sounded more like a dying dog than a musical instrument. But even at that age, Jessica understood her father had spent money he couldn’t afford just to make her happy. And happy she was.
Her fascination with the instrument had started two years earlier. Just like every afternoon before she had gotten sick, her mother had taken Jessica to the park close to where they lived. That day there was an old black man playing guitar just yards away from the bench her mother liked to sit on. That day, instead of running around with the other kids, Jessica sat on the grass in front of the old man and watched him play all afternoon, mesmerized by the sounds he could get out of only six strings.
The old man never returned to the park, but Jessica never forgot him. A week later her mother fell ill with something no one could diagnose. Her disease advanced quickly, eating away at her from the inside and transforming her from a smiling, vital woman into an unrecognizable bag of skin and bones. Jessica’s father faded along with his wife. As the disease progressed, so did his depression. His pay as a supermarket clerk was barely enough to keep them going, and when he lost his job two months after his wife had gotten ill, their financial situation collapsed.
Jessica’s mother died the day after doctors finally found out she had developed a rare carcinoid tumor.
Jessica’s last happy memory of her mother was that day in the park, both of them listening to the old guitar man.
Jessica took to the guitar as if that memory lived in every note she plucked. She had no money for lessons, magazines or music books, but she spent every possible second with her beloved instrument. Soon she’d developed her own unique style of tapping and fingerpicking the strings, exploring every sound the instrument could give her. She could play the guitar like no one had ever heard. At the age of nineteen she was offered a record deal by a small independent record company based in South Los Angeles. Through them she’d released six albums and done countless tours over the years. Jessica became well known and well respected in the jazz music scene, but her music wasn’t mainstream enough to be played by the most popular radio stations.
Three years ago, the manager of her record company decided to go back to basics and record a few videos of Jessica playing by herself before uploading them onto YouTube. He was betting on her beauty as well as her talent.
Jessica was stunning in a simple way. Five foot six with a dancer’s lithe body, straight shoulder-length black hair, magnetic dark brown eyes, full lips and flawless skin. She attracted looks anywhere she went.
The gamble paid off, but even he hadn’t expected it to take off as it did. Through word of mouth and social networking, Jessica’s YouTube videos went stratospheric. Over one million worldwide hits in the first month alone, pla
cing her name on YouTube’s front page as the most watched clip. Today, as many of Jessica’s albums were sold and downloaded as those of mainstream, world-famous pop bands.
Jessica’s attention returned to her living room. A single, empty dinner plate and a half-drunk bottle of red wine sat on the small glass table in front of her. Seeing that made her remember that she’d eaten alone, and reality finally caught up with her. Mark wasn’t in. And he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon.
Jessica and Mark had met at the Catalina Jazz Club on Sunset Boulevard two years ago, after one of her gigs. That night she had been sitting at the bar, surrounded by fans and a few music reporters when she’d noticed someone hanging out by the stage. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a strong physique. His long midnight-black hair was tied back Viking-style. But his good looks weren’t what caught Jessica’s attention. It was the intriguing way he was studying her guitar.
She’d excused herself from the crowd and approached him, wondering what was so interesting about her instrument. They’d chatted for a while and she found out that Mark was also a guitarist. He’d been classically trained, but instead of following that route he’d formed his own hard rock band. They were called Dust, and they’d just signed their first record deal a few days before.
The chat turned into dinner somewhere along Sunset Strip. Mark was funny, intelligent and charming. Several more dates followed and eight months later they’d rented a large warehouse loft conversion in Burbank together.
With the help of the Internet and the music video channels, Dust’s first album became a worldwide sensation. Their second had just been mixed down and it was scheduled for release in a month’s time. Their grueling touring schedule was about to begin again. As a pre-tour warm-up they were doing a series of eight secret gigs in smaller venues all around California. The first one was tonight in Fortuna. Mark and the band had left that morning.
