by Chris Carter
Pasquier queried with his eyes.
‘Amanda Reilly was the second victim.’ Her forehead creased. ‘Do you read our paper?’
‘Not lately. No good reporters to read.’
‘Oh, very funny.’
‘You see, the difference between you and most of the other deadbeat reporters on this paper is that you still have that intuition you just talked about. That gut feeling.’ He smiled and Claire pointed out that he had a piece of lettuce stuck to one of his teeth. He used his little finger to scrape it off. ‘And that’s probably because you’re a nice country girl. You didn’t grow up in a metropolis where money talks and bullshit runs the marathon.’ He did his best to forge a country accent. ‘Us folks here in the big cities have forgotten all about intuition, guts and what it is to do somet’ing just ’cos we loves doing it.’
‘Aw damn, mister, intuition and them guts on its own don’t help me none.’ In contrast, Claire’s country accent was perfect.
Pasquier laughed and swallowed the rest of his food down. ‘You won’t get a peep out of Robert Hunter. He’s a city folk with a country man’s heart. The only cop I know who actually likes his job. And he certainly doesn’t like reporters.’
Claire played with her hair again. ‘Well, I’m open to suggestions. There’s no way I’m giving up on this.’
A wicked smile spread across Pasquier’s face. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. OK, here’s what you’ve got to do . . .’
Fifty-Six
Downtown LA’s financial district is just south of Bunker Hill and north of South Park – this is where LA’s instantly recognizable skyline resides. The area concentrates around Fifth, Sixth, South Flower and Figueroa Streets and remains the southland’s most influential financial and business center. Tyler Financial Services had their office on the seventeenth floor of number 542 South Flower Street.
Dan Tyler sat in the elegant leather chair behind his mahogany desk. He was a kind-looking man in his forties. His brown hair, graying at the temples, was neatly combed back, and the strong lines that shaped his strangely attractive face indicated strength, experience, self-confidence and a degree of suffering. He wore an elegant dark suit and a pale blue shirt complemented by a gray striped tie. His dark brown eyes sat behind thin-rimmed glasses. His office bore the trappings of his profession – expensive-looking furniture, an impressive bar at the corner, several framed photographs on the walls and three interlinked computer monitors on his desk that were constantly displaying the stock market flow. His secretary announced the arrival of the two detectives, and he stood up to greet them by the door.
Dan Tyler showed them inside, indicating the two armchairs in front of his desk and offering both detectives a drink – they declined.
‘I know this is an awkward situation, Mr. Tyler,’ Hunter began. ‘We’ll try to get through it as fast as we can.’
‘Call me Dan, please,’ Tyler said, taking his seat behind his desk. His voice was serene and pleasant, like a storyteller’s.
Hunter quickly explained that it would still be a few days before the house in Malibu was released by forensics.
Tyler nodded. He knew that putting the house back on the market now wasn’t a clever idea.
‘The house didn’t look like an investment property,’ Hunter said. ‘Did you used to live there?’
‘Yes. For many years.’
Hunter noticed a distinct tone in Tyler’s voice and allowed a few silent seconds to go by before nodding towards a silver-framed photograph on Tyler’s desk. An attractive woman with windswept hair and an infectious smile standing by a swimming pool. A beautiful black dog was asleep by her feet. ‘Was that taken at the house?’ he asked, recognizing the pool.
Tyler looked at the photograph. ‘Yes,’ he said with a mixture of pride and sadness.
Hunter intuited the woman in the picture was the source of the sadness. ‘Is that your wife?’
Tyler looked back at him. ‘Kate. Yes.’ A pause. ‘She passed away.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Hunter said and sensed that Tyler’s emotional wound was still raw. ‘Recently?’
‘Twelve months ago.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘It feels recent to me.’
‘I understand.’
Tyler took a deep breath. ‘A lot of people say that, but surviving the woman you love—’ he gave Hunter a quick head shake ‘—I guess it’s something you have to live through to really understand. We were married twenty years.’ Tyler’s eyes were back on the picture.
‘And the house in Malibu was your home?’ Hunter asked.
‘It was her pride and joy,’ Tyler said, nodding. ‘We built it from scratch. Kate was involved in every aspect of the architectural design. It was her dream house. She chose every piece of furniture, every curtain, every color, every detail. Kate’s in every inch of that house.’ Tyler paused and looked down at his clasped hands. ‘After she was gone, I just couldn’t live there anymore. I tried for a while but . . .’ His eyes drifted away. ‘Without realizing, I used to find myself talking to the walls, curtains, pictures . . .’ He smiled. ‘I don’t need the house or anything else to remind me of what Kate and I had.’
‘No children?’ Hunter asked, already guessing the answer, judging by the lack of any other family pictures in the office.
‘Unfortunately, no.’ A different sorrow coated Tyler’s words, and Hunter understood that having no children hadn’t been his choice. He allowed the awkward moment to subside before proceeding.
‘Did you know Amanda Reilly?’
‘We met a couple of times when I approached her company to handle the sale of the house,’ Tyler replied, glad to change the subject.
‘How long ago was that?’
Tyler tilted his head to one side and scratched his temple. ‘About eight months ago, when the house first went up for sale.’
‘Not since?’
‘There was no need. Her company was recommended to me. One of my clients had his house sold through Reilly’s. I didn’t wanna have anything to do with it. I wanted someone who could handle everything. She came across as a very genuine and trustworthy person, and her track record spoke for itself.’ Something changed on his computer screen and Tyler glared at it for a second. ‘We talked on the phone a few times. She’d call me every now and then to update me on any viewings.’
‘Did she call you last week about a viewing this past Saturday?’ Hunter asked, checking his black notebook.
Tyler nodded. ‘She called me on Friday.’ He pulled himself closer to his desk. ‘She sounded really excited. More excited than she did about any of the previous viewings. She said that the prospective buyer—’ Tyler reached for a stylish leather-bound diary on his desk and flipped back a few pages ‘—someone called Ryan Turner, was really eager to see the house.’ He paused and slowly lifted his eyes from the diary. ‘She said she had a good feeling about this guy.’
Fifty-Seven
An unpleasant silence took over Dan Tyler’s office, and Hunter and Garcia looked at each other.
‘Do you have the names of everyone that requested a viewing of the house?’ Hunter asked, nodding at Tyler’s diary.
‘It’s a habit of mine. I don’t go into business with anyone I haven’t checked out. Even though I can’t bring myself to live there anymore, that house is still very dear to me and I wouldn’t sell it to someone who wouldn’t appreciate it. A property developer, for example. Someone who’d knock it down to build something else.’
‘I’m guessing you’d only run background checks on buyers if they’d actually made an offer?’
Tyler nodded halfheartedly. ‘There’s no point spending time and money on someone who’s only window-shopping.’ He shook his head as if he’d made a mistake. ‘I should’ve checked him anyway.’
‘He most certainly used a false name,’ Hunter said. ‘You probably wouldn’t have found anything on him.’
‘And that would’ve gotten every alarm bell in my head going.’ Tyler looked straight into Hun
ter’s eyes. ‘I deal with a lot of rich people, Detective Hunter. They’re all “proud” of what they’ve achieved and who they are. It’s a show-off game for most of them. Mine is bigger than yours kinda thing. A person going for a four-million-dollar house with a nonexistent past is a clear “be aware” sign to me.’
Hunter nodded his understanding. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like a copy of the list of names Miss Reilly has given you over these eight months.’
‘Sure.’ Tyler reached inside his top drawer and handed Hunter a printed list. Seven names in total. Hunter studied Tyler through the top of the list. His eyes questioning.
Tyler smiled thinly. ‘That’s how I make my money, detective. I have to be logical, practical and, above all, think ahead. It was only logical to deduct that you’d want that list of names.’
Hunter read the names in silence. None stood out.
‘None of them made an offer,’ Tyler continued. ‘I never requested a background check on any of them.’ He stood up and approached the bar. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’ he insisted.
‘No, thank you. We’re fine.’
Tyler poured himself a shot of bourbon. ‘It’s hard to believe that a place that’d brought me the happiest days of my life housed such a monstrous act.’ He sipped his drink. ‘Is it true what I read in the paper?’ He hesitated for a second. ‘Did the killer really use the fireplace to burn her?’
Hunter nodded in silence.
For a second Tyler’s stare became distant, and Hunter knew his memory had gone back to the house. To the living room and the fireplace he knew so well. He swallowed and quickly took another sip of his bourbon.
‘And is this really the same killer who decapitated that priest last week?’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ Garcia replied.
‘I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘At the moment it’s all speculation,’ Hunter lied.
Tyler walked up to the large glass window that offered a panoramic view of LA’s financial district. ‘This city has changed so much. I don’t think I understand it anymore.’
‘Did you ever?’ Garcia asked.
Tyler smiled. ‘You’ve gotta point there.’
‘If it’s OK with you, I’d like to show you some photographs that were taken at the house,’ Hunter said and was quick to sense Tyler’s uneasiness. ‘Don’t worry,’ he clarified. ‘They aren’t photos of the victim.’
Tyler stared at his glass. There was something else worrying him. Hunter realized what it was. The pictures would bring back memories of the house and his wife. ‘I know this is hard . . .’
Tyler shook his head and returned to his desk. ‘It’s OK, detective.’
Hunter placed several photographs on Tyler’s desk. They all showed the main living room of the house in Malibu. ‘We were wondering if you could have a look at these pictures. See if anything strikes you as odd or being out of place?’
Tyler allowed his eyes to study each photograph for a few seconds. ‘It’s hard to say. I haven’t been to the house for eight months. The cleaning company might’ve moved things around.’
‘We understand that,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But maybe there’s something that really catches your eye.’
Tyler finished his drink, gathered all the photographs into a single pile and sat back in his chair. He flipped through them carefully, sometimes frowning, sometimes squinting as if trying to remember. Both detectives sat quietly observing his reactions. Halfway through the pictures he stopped. Something had grabbed his attention.
‘Do you see something?’ Hunter asked.
Tyler lifted his right index finger, asking for a minute. He then searched through the rest of the photos until he found the one he was looking for.
‘What do you see?’ Hunter pressed.
Garcia leaned forward, stretching his neck.
Tyler placed the photo on his desk facing the detectives. It showed the large river rock fireplace.
‘Something different about the fireplace?’ Hunter asked.
‘On the mantelpiece,’ Tyler replied.
Both detectives’ eyes shot to the photos. The fireplace mantelpiece was decorated with several objects – small vases, a couple of picture frames, a few figurines . . .
‘What’s different about it?’
‘My memory can be hazy at times, but one thing I remember well is that Kate never kept any picture frames in the living room.’ He tapped the picture with his index finger. ‘In the reception entrance yes, but not in the living room. She was superstitious like that. She thought it was unlucky. Those picture frames on the fireplace—’ he shook his head vigorously ‘—they certainly weren’t there when we lived in the house.’
Fifty-Eight
‘Excuse me, honey,’ the tallest of the four men sitting at the corner table in the old-fashioned diner said to the brunette waitress as she walked past.
‘Yes?’ Mollie turned to face him, trying her best not to look annoyed. The four of them had been pestering her for the past fifteen minutes.
‘Are you tired?’ he asked. The other three were already giggling.
‘Why?’ she replied, a little puzzled.
‘Because, babe, I want you to know that as long as I gotta face, you gotta place to sit.’ They all burst into laughter.
‘Order up,’ came the call from the busy kitchen. Mollie walked back to the counter to collect the order and felt their eyes burn a hole in the back of her red and white dress.
Every table in the small diner was taken. Most of them by sleazy scumbags like the four in the corner who thought every waitress in south LA was dying to go to bed with them. She didn’t like her job and all the abuse that came with it, but she didn’t have a choice. She desperately needed the money.
She took the order to a middle-aged man sitting by himself, and as she placed the plate on the table he grabbed hold of her hand. ‘Excuse me, Miss Candy Pants, but this ain’t what I fucking ordered.’
‘Didn’t you order a double cheeseburger and fries?’
‘Yes, but I specifically said no goddamn pickles. I hate pickles. What the fuck do you call these?’ He lifted the top bun and pointed to three long pickle slices.
‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she said, embarrassed, reaching for the plate. ‘I’ll get the cook to take them off.’
‘No, not take them off,’ he said angrily between clenched teeth. ‘I want him to cook me a new one. This one is ruined.’
‘No problem, sir. I’ll get you a new one right away.’
‘Stupid bitch,’ he murmured as she took the plate.
On her way back to the kitchen, Mollie noticed a Mexican-looking man in his early thirties wearing old, dirty and ripped clothes standing by the entrance door. He caught her eye and as she walked past he asked in a timid voice: ‘Excuse me, miss. Is it OK if I come in for some food? I have some money.’ He tapped his trouser pocket and she heard the rattle of coins.
‘Yes, of course.’ She frowned at the strange question. Turning around, she scanned the busy diner. A table had just vacated by the door where they were. ‘Why don’t you take this table right here and I’ll get you a menu.’
He smiled a sincere smile. ‘Thank you very much, miss. That’s very kind of you. I won’t be long. I’ll eat quick.’
Mollie smiled back, not understanding why he sounded so thankful. She got to the kitchen and was about to explain to Billy, the large Texan cook, about the whole pickle incident when she heard loud yelling coming from the diner floor.
‘Who the hell told you you could sit in here?’ Donna Higgins, the restaurant owner was standing by the entrance table, yelling at its occupant.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Mexican man said shyly. ‘The waitress said it was OK.’
‘Which waitress would that be?’
He looked down shyly without answering. ‘I won’t be long. I’ll eat quick, I promise.’
‘I don’t care how you eat, as long as it’s n
ot in my restaurant.’
‘I’m not asking for charity, miss. I have money. I can pay for my food.’
‘Of course you have money,’ Donna shot back, gesticulating frantically. ‘You probably stole it.’
‘No, I didn’t. I helped someone push his car out of the road and he was kind enough to give me a few bucks.’ He showed her a handful of coins and one-dollar bills. ‘I can eat outside or out the back, miss. I don’t mind. I just want a hot meal, maybe some eggs and bacon and a glass of milk. I haven’t eaten in a few days.’
‘Well, you ain’t getting it here. I bet you’re a fucking illegal immigrant, aren’t you?’
The man tensed.
‘That’s what I thought. Get your stinking self outta my restaurant—’ she pointed to the door ‘—before I call immigration on you.’
His sad eyes wandered the diner. Everyone was looking at him. Without a word, he returned the little money he had back to his trouser pocket and left.
‘Hey!’ He heard someone call as he turned the corner. ‘Hey, wait!’ The female voice called again. He stopped and looked back. The brunette waitress had come out of the diner’s back door carrying a brown paper bag.
‘Do you like pickles?’ Mollie asked.
He frowned.
‘You know, pickles. Like cucumbers.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, they’re nice.’
‘Here.’ She offered him the paper bag. ‘It’s a double cheeseburger with fries and a bottle of milk. There’re pickles in the cheeseburger.’ She smiled.
He stared at her with thankful eyes before reaching into his pocket.
‘No, no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You don’t have to pay me. It’s OK.’
‘I don’t want no charity, miss. I have money to pay for my food.’
‘I know. I saw your money.’ A new comforting smile. ‘But this ain’t charity. They made me too much food for my dinner break. I’m on a diet,’ she lied and offered him the bag once again. ‘Here, take it. I can’t eat all this food. It’d only be thrown away.’