by Chris Carter
Garcia finally saw Hunter’s logic.
‘But that’s not all,’ Hunter carried on. ‘So let’s say that he believed Angela when she told him that his diary wasn’t here and that it had been handed over to the police. If that were you, how would you feel?’
‘Very fucking pissed off.’ The reply came from the forensics agent, not Garcia.
‘So would I,’ Hunter agreed.
It was the agent’s turn to catch up with Hunter’s line of thought.
‘Out of pure frustration and anger,’ he said as a follow-up, ‘he should’ve trashed the place anyway. I don’t really know the details of what’s going on, but from the scenario you’ve just described,’ he nodded at Hunter, ‘most people would’ve trashed the place just to let out their anger.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Hunter added. ‘There’s no mess . . . nothing broken. The killer found out that his diary is now in the hands of the LAPD. That means the end of a secret that he’s been keeping for years. It means that just like that.’ Hunter snapped his fingers. ‘He went from being a ghost – a very prolific and cautious serial killer, who no one even knew existed – to someone now wanted by the police. The kind of self-control one must possess to be able to keep the sort of anger that he must’ve felt locked inside . . . to simply shrug something like this off with nothing more than a threatening message written in lipstick?’ Hunter addressed the forensics agent. ‘All that he’s shown here is incredible discipline, self-control and self-assurance, because just like you’ve said . . .’ He nodded at Garcia before once again indicating the message on the wall. ‘He’s confident enough to give the LAPD an ultimatum. That’s something you don’t see often.’
Right then, Hunter’s cellphone rang inside his jacket pocket. It was Captain Blake. She gave him the address to the safe house he’d requested and explained that different teams of two LAPD special officers would be on rotation and at Angela’s side 24/7. When Hunter disconnected from the call, he turned to face the forensics agent.
‘The message has already been photographed, right?’ he asked.
‘It has,’ the agent confirmed.
‘Could you do me a favor? When you’re done here, could you please wipe the whole thing off the wall?’
‘Sure. No problem.’
‘I’m going to ask Angela to pack a bag,’ Hunter informed Garcia. ‘Then I’ll take her to the safe house.’
‘OK,’ Garcia nodded. ‘I’ll head back to the PAB to file all the paperwork on the digging operation. I’ll be in the office until late, so if you need anything, let me know.’
*
As Garcia left the building, he never noticed the tall man, smoking a cigarette, who was standing across the road from Angela’s apartment building. The man watched Garcia get into his Honda Civic and drive away. He used his smartphone to photograph the car, making sure that he had gotten the license plate. About forty minutes later, the man watched as Hunter and Angela exited the building and got into Hunter’s Buick. Angela had a bag slung over her shoulder.
‘Going somewhere, Angela?’ the man whispered to himself, while once again discreetly photographing everything. ‘And you must be the one who’s got my diary. Detective . . . Hunter,’ he said, checking the name on the card he had taken from Angela’s apartment. ‘Robert Hunter. Nice to make your acquaintance.’
Thirty-Seven
The address that Captain Blake had given Hunter over the phone took him to the city of Calabasas, just north of Malibu. The city was best known for being the gateway to the Santa Monica Mountains recreation area.
As Hunter drove past Encino Golf Course, Angela reached inside her backpack for her cellphone and her headphones.
‘Do you stream music from the Internet, or do you have it saved to your phone?’ Hunter asked, as Angela slotted the first ear bud into her ear.
‘I stream it,’ she replied.
‘I’m sorry,’ Hunter said, placing a hand on Angela’s arm to stop her from slotting the second ear bud into her ear. ‘But unfortunately you won’t be able to do that.’
Angela’s face screwed up into an unhappy ball. ‘Why not?’
‘Because, like I’ve said before, we’re not sure of what this guy is really capable of, but he’s clearly very clued-up and very resourceful. Taking into account that he’s now got your phone number, it’s not too much of a leap to imagine that he could also, somehow, have access to a GPS tracker, or something similar.’
Angela pondered over Hunter’s words. ‘GPS tracking can’t be that simple. Not to track a phone that’s not registered to you. If it were, every goddamn jealous husband . . . wife . . . or whatever would be doing it. The world would be in chaos.’
‘You’re right. It isn’t,’ Hunter agreed. ‘There’s a lot of technology involved, but I’m not taking any chances.’
‘So you’re telling me that I can’t use my phone at all? For however long this thing lasts?’
‘You can use the phone,’ Hunter replied, aware of Angela’s frustration. ‘But not your SIM card. In fact, I think it would be better if you switched off your phone right now.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
Hunter’s head angled slightly to the right. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Oh, that’s just great,’ Angela said, pulling her ear buds from her ears and slouching back on her seat. She switched off her phone and showed it to Hunter. ‘There you go, it’s off, see?’
Hunter acknowledged it with a head gesture, but unfortunately that wasn’t enough. ‘I’ll need you to hand me your SIM card as well.’
‘No way,’ Angela’s lips crooked a smile. ‘Now you have to be joking.’
‘It’s for your own protection, Angela, and if you really just want to use your phone to stream some music, I can get you a tablet by tomorrow.’
‘Do they have a Wi-Fi connection wherever it is that we’re going?’
‘I’m pretty sure they will do.’
Angela shook her head, still clearly annoyed. ‘This whole thing feels like a joke already.’ She opened the glove compartment and began searching for something that she could use to extract her SIM card. It took her just a few seconds to come by a paperclip. She bent it out of shape and inserted one of its ends into the SIM card release aperture. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Hunter the tiny piece of plastic. ‘Happy now?’
Hunter ignored her comment as he placed the SIM card inside his jacket pocket. ‘Do you want me to get you a tablet?’
‘Can you get one tonight?’
‘I doubt it, but I can try. If not, I’ll get you one by tomorrow.’
Angela pulled a face and slouched back into the passenger’s seat. Her attention shifted to the world outside her window and it stayed there for the next hour.
‘Wait a second,’ she finally said, looking at Hunter with doubt in her eyes. ‘We’ve driven down this road before. I recognize that house.’ She indicated the sharp-lined, modern-architectured house they’d just driven past.
‘Yes, we have,’ Hunter admitted.
‘Are we lost?’
‘No. I’m just following protocol.’
‘In case we’re being followed?’ Surprise peppered Angela’s tone. Immediately she turned around in her seat to look at the road behind them.
‘Yes,’ Hunter accepted. ‘In case we were being followed, but you can relax. We’re not.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because I’ve been checking for any tails since we left your apartment. We’ve been driving for over an hour now. If we were being tailed, I would’ve spotted it.’
‘You’re very sure of yourself. What if you’ve made a mistake?’
‘I haven’t. Trust me. This is not my first time doing this.’
The conviction in Hunter’s voice persuaded Angela to drop the argument, but every minute or so after that she would either check the passenger’s side-view mirror or turn around in her seat to look behind them.
Almost two hours after leaving Angela’s apartment in
Studio City, Hunter finally parked his car on the driveway of a small, but very elegant Mexican-style, green-fronted house, at the very end of a nondescript, cul-de-sac.
‘Here we are,’ he said, as he switched off his engine.
With critical eyes, Angela studied the house for a moment.
There was a neat and compact front yard, where a couple of lemon trees took center stage. The bright-red front door contrasted nicely with the avocado-green walls and the terracotta roof, giving the entire structure a very pleasant and somewhat calming feel.
‘How long will I have to stay here?’ she asked.
‘I’m not going to lie to you, Angela,’ Hunter replied. ‘I’m not sure. Hopefully not long, but at the moment I can’t really give you a timeframe.’
‘Great,’ she said, just about to open the passenger door.
‘Just a sec.’ Hunter stopped her, nodding at the two men sitting inside a black Cadillac ATS that was parked across the road from the house.
Angela’s stare followed Hunter’s nod and apprehension clouded her eyes.
‘Who are they?’ she asked.
‘They are LAPD SIS,’ Hunter replied. ‘They’re here for your protection and they are the best at what they do, but before we take you inside, we need to check the house.’
The LAPD Special Investigation Section was an elite, tactical surveillance squad, famous for being masters in disguise and stealth. Every SIS officer was also an expert in close-quarters combat, as well as a distinguished marksman.
‘Check the house?’ Angela frowned. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a safe house.’
‘It is,’ Hunter reassured her. ‘But we have a protocol to follow. It won’t take long.’
As Hunter stepped out of his car, so did the two SIS officers. They displayed their credentials and introduced themselves as James Martin and Darnel Jordan.
Martin was about six-foot one, with short black hair and two-day stubble. His heavy-lidded eyes gave him a rather menacing look, while his long face, dimpled chin and hazel eyes were quite charming.
Jordan was a six-foot two African-American, with the physique of a heavyweight champion. His arms looked like legs and his legs like tree trunks. His voice was deep and velvety. If he ever decided to leave law enforcement, he could easily make a living as a documentary narrator or a voice over.
Jordan waited outside by the car, while Hunter and Martin went in to check the house.
The living room was large and bright with old ceiling beams and exposed brickwork. A large red corner sofa sat next to a half-empty bookcase and two matching armchairs. Opposite the sofa was a wall-mounted TV set. The kitchen was a modern mix of chrome and glass, offset by a four-seater wood dining table. In there, large double doors gave access to a pleasant grassy backyard, which was secluded from prying eyes by a cluster of very tall trees. There were two bedrooms in the house, both very decent in size, accessed via a short hallway at the north end of the living room. In the master bedroom there was a double bed, a tall wardrobe and an old chair. The second bedroom was equipped with two single beds, one wardrobe and not much else. The bathroom, also quite spacious and tiled in white and blue, was at the end of the hallway.
While Hunter checked the inside of the house, Martin checked the backyard.
‘All clear out here,’ Martin said, as he met Hunter back in the kitchen.
Outside, Hunter introduced Angela to Martin and Jordan. She barely looked up at the two SIS agents.
While Martin and Jordan went to get their surveillance equipment from the trunk of the ATS, Hunter took Angela into the house.
‘You get the big room,’ he said, showing her the master bedroom.
Angela hadn’t paid much attention to any of the rooms in the house. She simply threw her backpack on the floor and slumped into bed.
‘There isn’t much food in the house,’ Hunter said, standing by the bedroom door. ‘I’m going to pop to the store to get a few things. What would you like?’
‘Whatever,’ Angela replied. She had linked her fingers behind her head and was just lying there, staring at the white ceiling above her bed.
‘We can order a pizza or whatever else you like.’
Angela’s reply was a dismissive shrug.
Hunter scratched his nose. ‘Angela, I know that this isn’t an ideal situation. I know that you don’t want to be here. None of us do, but unfortunately it’s the predicament that we now find ourselves in. We can’t escape it and we can’t circumvent it. Trust me, I’ve been here before. The best thing to do in this case is to just get on with it in the best way we can.’ He shrugged. ‘Everything in this house is covered by the government. You can request anything you like at the expense of the LAPD – cake, pizza, chicken, salads, shakes . . . whatever – so my suggestion to you is – go nuts.’
‘How about some beers and a few bottles of wine?’ Angela’s gaze finally moved from the ceiling to Hunter.
Hunter’s lips drew a thin line. ‘I can possibly get you one can of beer, but that will be all.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because you won’t get drunk on a single can of beer.’
‘Well, I’ve got nothing better to do tonight. I can’t even listen to my music, can I?’
‘There’s a TV in the living room,’ Hunter retorted. ‘And a radio in the kitchen. You can bring the radio in here if you like. I’ll grab you a couple of books and some magazines from the store as well.’
‘Why can’t I have a drink?’ Angela asked. ‘I’m not going to get drunk, drunk – like falling-down drunk. I never do that anyway, but a little drink might help me fall asleep.’
‘For one, it’s protocol,’ Hunter replied. ‘But the practicality of it is that you need to have your wits about you at all times, in case we need to get you out of the house fast.’
Angela’s eyes widened. ‘Are you for real? I just got here.’
‘I’m not saying that that is what’s going to happen, Angela, but it’s our job to try to cover every possible scenario, and that scenario does exist.’ Hunter paused and checked his watch. ‘So, what would you like me to get you other than a can of beer?’
‘Whatever. I don’t have much of an appetite anyway.’
But you will, Hunter thought. ‘OK. I’ll pick you up some snacks. If later you feel like ordering a pizza or anything, just ask either James or Darnel and they’ll order it for you. For drinks, other than your beer, do you prefer soda, juice, or something else?’
‘I don’t care.’
Hunter could see that Angela would not make this easy.
All of a sudden Angela’s brow creased and her eyes narrowed into two tight slits. She quickly moved from a lying down position to a sitting one.
‘You’ve said that whatever I order will be at the LAPD’s expense, right?’
‘It sure will.’
‘Can I get some cigarettes? Is that allowed?’
Hunter considered the request for a couple of seconds. ‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Awesome.’ A flake of excitement found its way into Angela’s tone of voice. ‘Can I get ten packs, please?’
‘Ten?’ Hunter clearly wasn’t expecting that.
‘I smoke a lot,’ Angela lied. ‘And just a minute ago you told me to go nuts. This is me going nuts.’
Hunter didn’t want to carry on arguing. ‘Fine, ten packs it is. Any brand in particular?’
‘Marlboro Smooth, please.’
In the living room, Hunter told the two SIS agents, who had just finished installing their surveillance equipment, that he was doing a quick grocery run for Angela and asked them if they needed anything. Both agents declined.
Outside, Hunter jumped back into his car and backed out of the driveway. He had driven past a cluster of stores, not that far from where the safe house was located, which included a large Walmart. In there, he grabbed a selection of snacks, a couple of TV dinners, a large bottle of soda, two bottles of juice, two bottles of water, a can of beer and Angela�
��s cigarettes. The trip took him around twenty-five minutes.
As he parked back on the driveway of the safe house, his cellphone rang inside his jacket pocket – ‘unknown number’.
‘Detective Hunter,’ he said, bringing the phone to his ear. ‘UVC Unit.’
‘Hello, Detective Hunter.’ The male voice at the other end of the line was dry, husky and monotone.
Hunter didn’t recognize it.
‘You’ve got something that belongs to me.’ There was a short, but very anxious pause. ‘I need it back.’
Thirty-Eight
This killer certainly had balls. Hunter had to give him that.
Immediately, Hunter tapped the icon for the ‘phone call recording’ application he had installed on his cellphone.
‘Did you hear me, Detective Hunter?’ the caller asked. ‘I need my diary back.’
The caller’s voice sounded authentic to Hunter. He detected no analog or digital pitch shifter, no distortion and no effort from the caller to naturally soften or deepen his tone.
‘Yes, I heard you,’ Hunter finally replied, his tone composed. ‘Sure, you can have it back. Just drop by the Police Administration Building any time and I’ll hand it back to you, how does that sound?’
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Detective.’ Another short pause. ‘What is possible and what you “will” do, is follow my instructions on how to get it back to me. You do that and only the girl dies. You don’t . . . then I’ll be coming for you too.’
Hunter blinked.
Had the caller really just made a direct threat on his life?
Hunter wasn’t just astonished by how confident and fearless the caller sounded, he was intrigued. He had to hear what the man had to say.
‘Follow your instructions?’ Hunter asked. No sarcasm in his voice.
‘That’s correct.’
‘OK,’ Hunter said, sitting back on the driver’s seat. ‘So how would you like me to get your diary back to you? What are the instructions that you would like me to follow?’
‘When you have the diary in your possession,’ the caller replied without missing a beat, ‘I’ll be in touch again with the instructions.’