by Chris Carter
‘It sounds like you know quite a bit about whisky.’ Hunter didn’t ask the question, but it silently floated in the air, begging for an answer.
‘My father was Scottish, from the Highlands,’ Tracy explained, before having another sip of her drink. ‘So I was introduced to it at a very early age, and I mean – very early age. He used to dip my pacifier in it when I was a baby to get me to go to sleep. After that, from when I was about four onwards, he would allow me a sip of his Scotch on special occasions, like Christmas and New Year. If my grandfather were around, he’d do the same. My mother didn’t like it at all and she used to tell my father off all the time, but he didn’t care. He’d just turn around and say, “Aye, let the lass have a wee snifter, hen. It’s guid for her, aaricht.” ’
To Hunter’s surprise, Tracy’s Scottish accent was absolutely flawless, and terribly sensual.
‘On my sixteenth birthday,’ she continued, ‘my father poured me my first full shot of Scotch.’ She paused, feeling the need to clarify. ‘Have you ever been to Scotland?’
Hunter shook his head. It was his turn to feel a little embarrassed. ‘No, unfortunately not. Actually, I’ve never been out of the country.’
A new, surprised look from Tracy. ‘You need to go sometime. It’s an astounding place, especially the Highlands, but since you’ve never been there, you might not know this – by law, pubs, bars, and restaurants in Scotland have to use a measured shot. No free pouring like over here, so when I say a shot, I mean about this much.’ She indicated on her glass. It was less than half the original measure Hunter had received.
‘Wow.’
‘But as I’ve said, from the age of four onwards, my father wouldn’t just allow me a sip of his Scotch and that was that. He would always explain about the nose, the palate, and the finish, so by the time I started having my own when I was sixteen, I could already discern flavors and underlying tones. Scotch is my favorite drink.’ She paused and made a half-pained face. ‘And I have just bored you stiff, haven’t I?’
‘No, not at all,’ Hunter shook his head. The truth was, he found Tracy very charismatic. Very easy to get comfortable with. ‘That’s a very interesting story.’
Tracy laughed. ‘I can tell that you don’t know many people with Scottish heritage then. They are very serious about their whisky over there, and they start training their young ones early.’
‘And it works,’ Hunter commented, ‘because, as I’ve said, it sounds like you really know your stuff. So now I’m curious. Since you’re a connoisseur, what are you drinking?’ He nodded at her glass.
She paused for a moment.
Hunter couldn’t tell if it was for effect or not.
She looked back at him as she replied. ‘Same as you – Kilchoman, 2010.’
This time Hunter couldn’t hide the frown. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘No.’ She pushed her glass in his direction. ‘There, have a sip.’
Hunter regarded her for a second before reaching for the glass. He first brought it to his nose. As he inhaled the fumes the curious look on his face deepened.
Tracy waited.
Hunter had a small sip and his eyes shot in her direction. Tracy had a whole new smile on her lips. ‘I had you there for a second, didn’t I? With over three hundred different types of whisky served here, it would’ve been an amazing coincidence.’
Hunter returned her glass to the table and pushed it back towards her. ‘Yes, it would’ve been. And yes, you did have me for a second. So what is it, Balvenie?’ Hunter shrugged. ‘Maybe Caribbean Cask or Doublewood?’
The impressed look was back on Tracy’s face. ‘That’s very good,’ she confirmed. ‘Fourteen, Caribbean Cask. You’re talking about me? You sound like a connoisseur yourself.’
Hunter chuckled. ‘Not quite. I have a bottle at home, so its palate is a little familiar to me.’
A tall waiter, carrying a round silver tray, approached Hunter’s table. ‘Here we go: cheeseburger and fries?’
‘That would be mine. Thank you.’ Hunter said.
The waiter placed the plate on the table in front of him. ‘Could I get you anything else – ketchup, mustard, another drink . . .?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you. This will do.’
The waiter looked at Tracy.
‘I’m still going here.’ She lifted her glass. ‘Thank you.’
‘Enjoy.’ He addressed Hunter again. ‘If you need anything else just give me a shout. My name is Max.’
As the waiter walked away, Hunter looked at Tracy. ‘Please help yourself to some fries. There’s enough here to feed about four people.’
‘That is a lot of fries,’ Tracy agreed. ‘But thank you, I’ve eaten already.’
‘Please, have at least a couple.’
Tracy studied Hunter for an instant. He hadn’t touched his food yet. Her next question came out cautiously. ‘Are you fearful of eating in front of others?’
Hunter studied her in return. ‘No,’ he finally said. ‘Not at all.’ He reached for the salt and sprinkled some over the fries.
Tracy was still studying him. He still hadn’t touched his food.
‘It’s OK to be, you know?’ she said in a comforting tone. ‘It’s actually very OK to be. The condition is a lot more common than you’d expect. About ten to twelve percent of Americans are either fearful or embarrassed of eating in front of others. Did you know that?’
‘Well,’ Hunter said, ‘you’re the psychology professor, so I trust you’re right, but I’m really not fearful or embarrassed of eating in front of others. I just thought that it would be a waste because I certainly won’t be able to eat all these fries.’ He finally reached for his cheeseburger and took a bite.
Silence.
Hunter pretended not to notice the confused look on Tracy’s face.
‘And now we are back to our starting point,’ she said at last. ‘Which was – you owe me an explanation.’
‘Do I?’ Hunter asked, once he was done chewing.
‘Well, OK, no, you don’t owe me anything, but I’d love to understand how you knew.’
Hunter played dumb.
‘C’mon. The first time we met back at UCLA we talked for about two minutes outside the reading room. I gave you no clues, but somehow you knew that I was a professor.’
Hunter had another bite of his cheeseburger.
‘I know you didn’t figure any of that out from the books I had with me that night because none of them were on academia, or on the subject I teach. Nonetheless, just now you revealed that you also knew that I’m a psychology professor. How?’
Hunter had a few fries.
‘Obviously, from the phone call you received that night, I gathered that you were a detective with the Homicide Special Section of the LAPD.’
Hunter looked back at Tracy.
‘I had to check that online to find out what it was,’ she explained. ‘So fine, your specialty is figuring things out. At least I’m not that freaked out about you anymore.’
‘Freaked out?’
‘Well, you meet a complete stranger in the middle of the night and within a couple of minutes he’s telling you things about you that he shouldn’t really know. That could be a little unsettling, don’t you think? Especially in a city like LA. You could’ve been a secret stalker for all I knew.’
The word ‘stalker’ triggered Hunter’s brain to re-engage. He put his cheeseburger down.
‘Are you having problems with a stalker?’ Hunter’s tone was so heavy with concern it caused Tracy to do a double-take.
‘What . . .? No. It’s not that. I was just giving an example.’
Hunter remained quiet.
‘The truth is,’ Tracy moved on, ‘you’re right. I’m a psychology professor, and as such I’d love to be able to understand the thought process behind your deduction. What gave it away? How did you piece it together?’
Hunter had a few more fries. ‘Are you sure you don’t want any?’
Tracy sighed
. ‘Will you answer my question if I have some?’
‘Sure.’
Tracy grabbed a few fries and dipped them in the tomato relish that accompanied them.
‘Like I told you before,’ Hunter finally said, ‘it’s just observation.’
‘That’s what you’ve said, yes,’ Tracy agreed. ‘And that’s also why I told you that I couldn’t see it, despite replaying everything I could remember about the episode in my mind countless times. Like I said, none of the books I had with me that night were on academia, or on any subject related to psychology. I didn’t have my badge on display, so how did you figure out that I am a psychology professor at UCLA?’
Hunter was about to reply when he felt his cellphone vibrate inside his pocket. He reached for it and checked the display screen.
‘Give me just a minute,’ he said, getting to his feet and bringing the phone to his ear. ‘Detective Hunter, Homicide Special.’ Hunter listened in silence for several seconds. ‘What?’ Disbelief filled his entire body. ‘Are you sure?’ He consulted his watch – 11:03 p.m. ‘OK. OK. I’m on my way.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ Tracy’s comment came as a whisper. ‘Again?’
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Hunter said. The look on his face was somewhere between confused and incredulous. ‘I have to go.’
Tracy didn’t know what to say, so instead, she kept her surprised eyes on Hunter.
He reached for his wallet and placed a couple of bills on the table. As he took the first steps in the direction of the exit, he paused and looked back at Tracy.
‘I know that this will sound odd but . . . could I call you sometime?’
Tracy really wasn’t expecting that. ‘Umm . . . yeah, sure. I’d like that.’
Hunter winked at her before setting off again.
‘Wait,’ Tracy said, quickly jotting down her number on a paper napkin and getting to her feet. ‘It would help if you actually had my number, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, that would help,’ Hunter replied as he took the napkin. A second later he was gone.
Forty-One
Detective Webb took the keys from Dr. Barnes’ hands and unlocked the front door to her two-bedroom house in Mid-City, a very diverse and densely populated neighborhood in Central Los Angeles. The white door with a decorative beveled glass window opened with a slightly eerie creak.
At the end of their interview back at the police station, Webb had told Dr. Barnes that, given the circumstances, all he could really do was take the note and the bracelet to their forensic lab so they could be tested for fingerprints.
‘No offense, Detective,’ she had said, visibly disappointed, ‘but we both know that chances are, they won’t find any prints other than my own. Who goes through this kind of trouble and forgets to wear gloves?’
‘You’d be surprised, Doctor.’
‘Can’t it be tested for DNA?’ she had pushed.
Webb had to do a double-take. ‘Why, Doctor? Do you think that the person who took the bracelet might’ve worn it for a few hours before leaving it on your car?’
He was unsure if his words had come out with a sarcastic tone or not. By the look Dr. Barnes gave him, they had.
‘No, Detective.’ Her tone had matched his. ‘But what if after it was taken from my house, he placed it in his pocket, or in a bag, or anywhere else where the bracelet could’ve come into contact with something else that contained his DNA?’
Webb had looked even more puzzled then. He sincerely doubted that Dr. Barnes had thought her words through properly.
‘You mean DNA transference? Also known as DNA contamination? That’s a defense argument, Doctor, not an incriminating one.’
Webb had been right. Dr. Barnes hadn’t thought this through at all and right then her frustration had threatened to surpass her fear, but she still had one last angle to try.
‘OK, how about my house? How about searching it for fingerprints or DNA? We’ll have a better chance of finding something there, won’t we?’
Webb had looked back at her with “sorry puppy” eyes.
‘I can’t justify putting in a request for a forensic team, Doctor, not even a forensic agent. There was no burglary. Nothing is actually missing because you have the bracelet with you, and you admitted that you haven’t noticed any signs of a break-in. My captain would never sign the request because, technically, no crime has been committed.’
Frustration didn’t surpass her fear, but it certainly equaled it. She had no idea of what to do next. She felt completely exhausted, but the thought of going back to her house alone filled her heart with dread.
Something about Dr. Barnes had struck a chord within Detective Webb. Maybe it had been her charisma. Maybe it had been the sincerity that came across in every word she spoke. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew he wanted to help her.
Understandably, she felt too rattled and scared to go back to her empty house. Webb had asked her if there was anywhere else she could go and stay for the night – a friend or a family member’s house, for instance.
The thought had already crossed Dr. Barnes’ mind. She had actually considered calling her sister, Erica, who lived with her boyfriend on the opposite side of town. Maybe she could stay the night, but Dr. Barnes and Erica’s boyfriend had never got along well. She had also thought about her best friend, Nancy Morgan, but in the end she’d decided against calling either of them. What she really wanted was to feel safe in her own home.
Webb could easily see her logic, so given the circumstances he did the best he could do – he offered to follow her home and carefully check her house for her.
The eerie creak that came from her front door would’ve given the dark room beyond it a very sinister feel, if not for the fact that the air inside it carried a delicate aroma of roses and summer berries.
‘The light switch is on the wall to your right,’ she said, standing on her porch just a few paces behind Webb.
For an instant, maybe to make the doctor feel a little more secure, Webb almost unholstered his weapon as he switched on the lights and stepped into Dr. Barnes’ house. His hand did actually move towards his gun, but he paused mid-movement, feeling positively silly.
Dr. Barnes’ living room was relatively spacious, and it had undoubtedly been decorated very much with a woman’s touch. There were fluffy cushions on the sofa, scented candles in candleholders, rugs that made you want to lie down and fall asleep on them, vases filled with roses and sweet alyssum, and the walls . . . the walls were peach.
Webb walked over to the center of the room and paused by the navy-blue armchair. Despite his skepticism, his eyes circled the room with the utmost attention.
Dr. Barnes stayed by the door.
The detective checked each and every one of the room’s six windows. All locked. He walked back to the front door and checked its lock. No sign of forced entry. Satisfied, he nodded in the direction of the hallway that took them deeper into the house.
‘Everything else is through there?’ he asked.
‘Everything but the kitchen,’ the doctor replied, indicating a door to his right.
‘I’ll have a look in the kitchen first then,’ Webb said, making his way towards it.
Dr. Barnes finally stepped into her living room and closed the door behind her.
The kitchen was compact, with no real hiding space, unless Webb considered the fridge or the cupboard under the sink. He checked them both. No one hiding anywhere.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘let’s have a look at the rest of the house.’
‘Guest bedroom is the first bedroom on the right,’ Dr. Barnes said as they crossed the living room in the direction of the corridor. ‘First door on the left is the bathroom. The door at the end of the hallway is my bedroom.’
Webb checked every room as carefully as he could, including inside wardrobes and behind shower curtains. All clear.
‘OK,’ he said, getting back on to his feet after looking under Dr. Barnes’ bed. That was the last pla
ce he had to check. ‘The house is clear, Doctor. There’s no one here.’
She finally stepped into her bedroom and looked back at him with a mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. She felt so mentally tired, she was beginning to doubt her own thoughts.
‘Thank you,’ she said, not knowing what else to say. She was sure that Detective Webb had considered all of this to be a huge waste of time, but she could tell that he was a caring and committed police officer. Back at the station, he could’ve ended their interview within five minutes, but he didn’t and she was sure she knew why.
Webb had read the fear in her eyes. He had noticed the discomfort in her movements and despite what he believed and how busy he was, he still gave her all his attention. He gave her every benefit of the doubt. In a way, he did to her what she did to all her patients – he listened to whatever problem she brought him, regardless of it sounding crazy or not, and he tried his best to help her. The fact that he had accompanied her to her house just so she could feel a little more secure was a clear indication of that.
Webb walked over to the double glass doors that opened on to her backyard. They were securely locked. He then made his way to the large window on the east wall. Also locked. He turned to face Dr. Barnes.
‘All locked, Doctor, but I’ve got to be honest with you. I don’t want to scare you or anything, but your locks aren’t great quality.’ He lifted his hands, already aiming to calm her down. ‘They are fine, please don’t get me wrong, but they can be breached.’
‘You don’t want to scare me with a statement like that?’
Webb’s hands stayed up. ‘It sounds worse than it is. All I’m trying to say is that if you really are concerned for your safety and for the safety of your house, you could consider upgrading your locks.’
‘You said that these could be breached?’ she asked, anxiously.
‘Not by just anyone.’ Webb again tried to calm Dr. Barnes down. ‘One would need the knowledge of how to and the correct tools.’