The Night Stalker

by Chris Carter

  If his company’s reception was impressive, Barlett’s office was majestic. The entire west wall was one huge floor-to-ceiling window, offering the sort of panoramic views of Los Angeles few had ever seen. The floors were pristine bare oak boards. The walls were painted white with just a hint of blue. The entire office was full of sharp edges and gleaming surfaces.

  Barlett greeted both detectives with an overpowering handshake.

  ‘Please, come in,’ he said in a smooth, deep voice. ‘I’m sorry for the mess, I just got in. I came straight from the airport.’

  Barlett was thirty-one years old, as tall as Garcia but with a strong, quarterback frame, tanned skin and a full head of brown hair. His eyes were dark, nearly black. His facial bone structure was as attractive as any Hollywood superstar.

  As Hunter explained the reason for their visit, he saw something change inside Barlett’s eyes, as if something precious had been smashed to pieces.

  Barlett sat behind his imposing desk unable to speak for a minute. His stare stayed on Hunter for several seconds before switching to a small picture frame on his desk. The photo showed three couples at what looked like a gala dinner. Patrick and Laura were sitting side by side. They looked happy. They looked in love.

  ‘There’s got to be some sort of mistake.’ The smoothness in his voice had given way to an anguished quiver.

  Hunter shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, no.’

  ‘There must’ve been. Who identified the body?’

  ‘Mr. Barlett,’ Hunter’s voice sounded firmer this time, ‘there’s no mistake.’

  Patrick’s eyes returned to the photo frame for an instant before breaking away and finding refuge in the panoramic view. His hands moved from his desk to his lap, like a kid trying to hide the fact that they were shaking.

  ‘When did you last see Miss Mitchell, Mr. Barlett?’ Garcia asked.

  Silence.

  ‘Mr. Barlett?’

  His gaze moved back to both detectives. ‘Huh? Please call me Patrick.’

  ‘When did you last see Miss Mitchell, Patrick?’ Garcia repeated, a fraction slower this time.

  ‘Weeks ago, on the last night of her exhibition at . . .’ he searched the air for the name but didn’t find it, ‘. . . in West Hollywood somewhere.’

  ‘The Daniel Rossdale Gallery?’ Hunter helped him.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

  ‘Were you invited?’ Garcia again.

  ‘It wasn’t an invitational exhibition.’

  ‘I mean, did Miss Mitchell know you were going? Did she ask you to go?’

  Barlett’s entire demeanor changed into something a lot harder.

  ‘Am I being accused here?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘This is absolutely ridiculous. If you think I’d ever be capable of hurting Laura, then you guys are probably the worst detectives this town has ever seen. Either that, or you didn’t bother doing a background check on us. We have history together. I love Laura. I’d take my own life before I hurt her.’

  Hunter noticed that Barlett didn’t even mention the fact that he wasn’t in town when Laura’s body was found.

  ‘Did you try contacting her again after the exhibition? Apparently you didn’t part on very good terms that night.’

  ‘What?’ Patrick glared at Garcia. ‘That’s bullshit. You need to get your facts right, Detective. I drank a little too much that night and I acted like a jerk, I admit it. But that was all. Nothing more. And yes, I tried calling her the next day to apologize, but all I got was her answering service.’

  ‘Did you leave a message?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she call you back?’

  Barlett gave Garcia a nervous chuckle. ‘No, she never does. I’m used to it.’

  ‘Why do you say you acted like a jerk?’ Garcia again. ‘What happened?’

  Barlett paused, trying to decide if he should say any more. ‘Since it’s obvious you have me as a suspect, I think we should adjourn this conversation until I have my lawyer present.’

  ‘We’re not accusing you of anything, Patrick,’ Garcia countered. ‘We’re just clearing up a few points.’

  ‘Well, it looks and sounds like an interrogation to me. So, if it’s all the same to you, I really think I should have my lawyer present.’ He reached for the phone on his desk.

  Garcia leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his stubbled chin.

  ‘That’s your prerogative, Patrick,’ Hunter took over, ‘but that won’t help anyone. It will certainly waste time, though. Time we could spend hunting Laura’s killer.’

  Patrick paused mid-dial and stared at Hunter.

  ‘I understand this line of enquiry might seem upsetting to you, but at the moment everyone is a suspect and we wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t come knocking at your door. Laura’s final exhibition night seems to be the last time anyone saw Miss Mitchell alive. You were seen arguing with her that night.’ Hunter leaned forward. ‘You’re an intelligent man, so think about it. Given your well-documented outbursts, your history with Laura Mitchell, and the fact that you’ve been trying to get her back for the past four years without success, does it come as a surprise to you that we’re here? What would you do if you were us?’

  ‘I would never hurt Laura,’ Barlett repeated.

  ‘Fine, but this ain’t the way to prove it. No matter what you do, lawyer or no lawyer, you’ll still have to answer our questions. We’ll just get a warrant and drag this thing out for a lot longer.’ Hunter emphatically allowed his eyes to focus on the photo on the desk. Barlett followed his stare. ‘Whoever killed Laura, the woman you loved so much, is still out there. Do you really think that fighting us and wasting time is such a good call?’

  Barlett’s eyes didn’t leave the photograph.

  Hunter and Garcia waited.

  ‘I was jealous, I admit it,’ he finally said as his eyes became glassy. ‘That guy was shadowing Laura everywhere she went like a hungry dog. Staring at her all the time as if she were naked or something. Then I saw them talking. Laura was a very private person, not the flirty type, so of course I was jealous. But there was something different about that guy.’

  ‘Different how?’ Hunter asked.

  ‘I don’t know. The look in his eyes when he stared at her. As I said, he was shadowing her. Just a few steps away from wherever she was, but he wasn’t there for her art.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because not once did he look at any of the paintings. While everyone else was walking around, admiring the exhibition, his eyes were on her . . . only on her. As if Laura was the exhibition.’

  ‘Don’t you think that your opinion of this man could’ve been distorted by the fact that you were jealous of him?’ Garcia suggested.

  Barlett shook his head. ‘I was jealous of him, all right, especially after I saw him chatting to Laura and the way she was smiling at him, but that’s not the reason he caught my attention. I spotted the way he was staring at her way before they talked. I’m telling you, he wasn’t there for the exhibition. He was there for her.’

  ‘And you told Laura that?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Yes, but she wouldn’t listen. She got angry. She thought I was jealous. But I was just trying to protect her.’

  Hunter retrieved a snapshot from a folder he’d brought with him. It was one of the photos they’d got from the Daniel Rossdale Gallery. The one showing the tall, dark-haired stranger who had swapped phone numbers with Laura. He was standing next to her, staring at the camera. Hunter placed the photo on the desk in front of Patrick. ‘Is this the person you’re referring to?’

  Patrick moved closer. His eyebrows contracted. ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  ‘And you’d never seen him before?’

  ‘Not before that night, no.’

  Hunter’s phone rang in his pocket.

  ‘Detective Hunter,’ he answered and listened for a long moment. His eyes lit up as he faced Garcia.

  ‘You’re kidding me.’
r />   Thirty-Four

  ‘So, where exactly are we going?’ Garcia asked, easing his car out of the parking spot.

  ‘Norwalk,’ Hunter said, punching the address he was given over the phone into the GPS system.

  One of the officers they had visiting art galleries with a snapshot of the man who’d swapped phone numbers with Laura Mitchell on the final night of her exhibition had hit gold. The owner of an exclusive gallery in Manhattan Beach had recognized the person in the photo. Nine months ago he’d purchased a canvas by Laura Mitchell from the gallery during one of their exhibitions.

  Most art galleries will ask their clients to allow the purchased piece to remain on display until that particular show is over. The Manhattan Beach Gallery always insisted on taking down a name and contact number for its clients.

  The man’s name was James Smith.

  Norwalk is a mostly middle-class neighborhood located seventeen miles southeast of downtown Los Angeles. It took Hunter and Garcia fifty-five minutes to get from South Figueroa Street to the address they were given on the poorer side of Norwalk.

  The address led them to an old, gray concrete monstrosity. A six-story-high public housing unit with dirty windows which was in desperate need of a coat of paint. Garcia parked his car across the road from the building’s entrance. A group of five guys who were bouncing a basketball around just a few yards away stopped all activity. Ten eyes were glued to Hunter and Garcia.

  ‘jQue passa five-o?’ the tallest and fittest one of the group called as both detectives crossed the street. He had no shirt on and his muscles glistened with sweat. Most of his torso, arms and neck were covered in tattoos. Hunter recognized some of them as prison branding. ‘jQué quieres aquí, puer-cos?’ He let go of the ball and folded his arms defiantly. The other four grouped up behind him like a defensive line-up.

  ‘No somos policías,’ Hunter said, flashing his gym membership card. He knew the group was way too far away to be able to see it properly. ‘I’m from the City of Los Angeles Housing Authority.’ He flicked his head towards Garcia. ‘He’s from Pensions and Welfare.’

  The whole group’s hard-ass demeanor evaporated in an instant.

  ‘Oh man, I gotta go,’ the one with glasses said, checking his watch. ‘I’ve got a job interview in an hour.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ the skinny, shaven-headed one said.

  They all nodded and mumbled in Spanish as the group broke away, all five of them reaching for their cell phones.

  Garcia couldn’t hide his smile.

  The entrance lobby was in as much need of attention as the rest of the building. Dirty walls, water stains on the ceilings, and the stale smell of cigarettes greeted Hunter and Garcia as they came through its metal and wired-glass doors.

  ‘Which floor?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Fourth.’

  Garcia reached for the elevator call button.

  ‘You gotta be kidding, right?’ Hunter chuckled. ‘Have you noticed the state of this place? That’s a risk too far.’ He gestured towards the stairs. ‘Safer to use those.’ They took the steps two at a time.

  The fourth floor corridor was long, narrow, badly lit and it smelled of old fried onions and piss. They passed a semi-open door where a baby was crying somewhere inside. The TV in the living room was on, showing some sort of courtroom program.

  ‘Not really the sort of place you’d expect an art lover to live,’ Garcia commented.

  Apartment 418 was two doors from the end of the corridor. Hunter knocked and waited fifteen seconds.

  No reply.

  He knocked again and moved his ear to the door. Ten seconds later he heard someone approaching from inside. The door unlocked with a loud clang and then was pulled back a fraction, just the length of the security chain. The lights inside the apartment were off. All he could see was a pair of eyes looking out from about a foot away from the door. The sweet smell of jasmine seeped through from inside.

  ‘Mr. Smith?’ Hunter asked. ‘James Smith?’

  Silence.

  Hunter subtly placed the tip of his boot against the bottom of the door and lifted his badge. ‘We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?’

  Two more seconds of silence. Suddenly, in a desperate reaction, the door was pushed forward with a jerk, but Hunter’s foot stopped it from slamming shut.

  ‘James . . . ? What the hell?’ Hunter called.

  The tension on the door relaxed as Smith let go of it. They heard the hustle of foot scuffing inside the apartment, moving deeper within, and away from them. Hunter looked at Garcia quizzically for a split second. They both realized it at the same time.

  ‘Fire escape . . .’

  Thirty-Five

  Hunter pointed to the far end of the hall. ‘Back alley . . . go . . . now.’

  Garcia spun around on the balls of his feet and took off down the corridor like a locomotive. Hunter pushed the apartment’s door open but it halted at the security chain. He slammed his left shoulder hard against it. Once was all it took. The chain came undone from the doorframe, wooden splinters flying through the air. Hunter saw and heard the door at the end of the apartment’s hallway slam shut. He dashed towards it but didn’t get there in time. A step away from it he heard the lock turn. Mechanically he tried the handle. Nothing.

  ‘Smith, c’mon . . .’ He shoved his shoulder against the door. It didn’t budge. He tried again, harder this time. Solid as stone. He took two steps back and sent his boot straight onto the door handle. Once, twice, three times. The door rattled a little but that was all. He knew it was pointless carrying on. The door probably had surface-mounted deadbolt locks on the other side. Hunter could shoot the hinges off, but that would be overkill, and way too hard to justify in a report.

  ‘Smith, c’mon, open up.’

  Chances were he was already halfway down the fire ladder.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Hunter backtracked down the corridor to the next room along on the right, which was on the same side as the room James had locked himself in. The door was shut but not locked. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was in almost complete darkness. Hunter didn’t look for a light switch – no time – and dashed towards the window on the far wall, almost tripping over something on the floor. Just like the room James had gone into, the window faced the building’s back alley. There were no curtains, but the glass had been sprayed with black paint. It was an old-style window. Two panels. The bottom one had slots for fingers at the bottom. No locks, just a single rotating latch. Hunter undid it and pushed the bottom panel up. Stuck.

  ‘Shit.’

  With his fingers in the slots he shook the window so vigorously the entire frame rattled. He tried again. The panel slid up a couple of inches, enough for him to get his hands under the frame. Much better grip. With one big push, the panel creaked and slid all the way up. Hunter craned forward and looked out. James was rushing down the last rungs of the metal fire escape ladder.

  ‘Goddamnit.’

  Smith didn’t look back. He jumped from the ladder and hit the ground running. He was fast and agile.

  Hunter searched the alley for Garcia. He saw Smith zigzag between a few large trash cans and then dive through an open door about twenty yards ahead.

  Garcia finally appeared, coming from the alley’s entrance on the right, sprinting like an Olympic champion.

  ‘The Chinese restaurant’s back door,’ Hunter called from the window. ‘Past those trash cans on the right. He got in through the kitchen.’

  Garcia hesitated for a beat, considering if he should run back the way he came in and try to cut James off at the front of the shops. Going back and around would take too long. By the time he got there James would be gone. He carried on forward, sidestepping the trash cans and disappearing through the same door James had done seconds earlier.

  Hunter turned around and hurried back out of the room. If he was fast and lucky enough, he could cut Smith off at the top of the street. He’d taken only two steps a
way from the window when his eyes caught a glimpse of something on the walls.

  The light that now poured in through the open window had erased the darkness.

  What he saw made him stop dead.

  Thirty-Six

  Garcia rushed through the back door of the Chinese restaurant and found himself inside a crowded kitchen. Lunchtime was in full swing. Three chefs were standing by a large ten-burner cooker where several woks were sizzling away. One of the woks seemed to have caught on fire and flames were shooting up from its bowl at least a foot and a half high. Two sous chefs were by a long metal workstation covered with freshly cut vegetables along with three waitresses. One of them had her back flat against the wall next to the double swinging doors that led to the restaurant’s dining room, as if she’d just been pushed out of the way. On the floor directly in front of her was an overturned metal tray. Several bowls of noodles and soup were scattered on the ground. All eight of them were yelling loudly in Mandarin. Garcia didn’t have to understand them to know that they weren’t yelling at each other, or about the spilled food. It was a nervous reaction.

  Garcia figured from their reaction that he was about ten to fifteen seconds behind Smith.

  All eyes were on Garcia as he came through the alley door. Everyone took a step back. A fraction of a second later they were all yelling and gesticulating at him. Garcia didn’t even miss a step. As he skipped over the dishes on the floor and burst through the swinging doors, he could understand only one word – asshole.

  The shocked expression from the kitchen staff was mirrored on the faces of every customer in the main dining room. Some had turned to look at this new crazy man who’d blasted out of the kitchen, and some were still staring at the restaurant’s front door, where the previous one had just exited.

  Garcia ran through the restaurant, expertly avoiding the manager and a waitress on the way.

  Outside, the street was full of people coming and going in both directions. Garcia looked left, then right. No one was running. No one looked surprised. There was no commotion. Garcia took two steps forward, lifted himself onto the tips of his toes and looked both ways again. He cursed under his breath as he realized that he didn’t even know what Smith was wearing. Only his eyes had been visible when he opened the door to his apartment. From the exhibition picture, he knew what Smith looked like, but not from the back. Any tall male walking away from him could be Smith.