by Chris Carter
‘Did she ever mention anything about emails? Something that’d scared or upset her lately?’ Hunter took over.
Laurent frowned, taking a few seconds to remember. ‘Nothing in particular. I’m not sure about any of them being scary or upsetting, but I’m sure she got a few strange ones from infatuated fans. It happens more than you think. I just tell all my artists to disregard them.’
‘Disregard them?’
‘Fans come with fame, Detective; it’s a package deal that you can’t opt out of. And unfortunately some of them are just plain weird, but they usually mean no harm. All the artists I represent get them every now and then.’ His eyes moved back to the pack of cigarettes on his desk and he quickly debated if he should have another one. He started fidgeting with a black-and-gold Mont Blanc pen instead. ‘I’ve been Kelly’s agent for three years, and in that time I’ve never seen her unhappy, or worried. She always had a smile on her face, as if it were tattooed to her lips. I really can’t remember ever seeing Kelly unhappy.’
‘When did you last speak to Miss Jensen?’ Garcia asked.
‘We were supposed to meet up for lunch on the . . .’ he flipped open a leather-bound diary on his desk and quickly leafed through it, ‘ . . . the 25th February, to discuss Kelly’s upcoming exhibition in Paris. Kelly had been very excited about that particular trip for months, but she never turned up for the meeting, and she never called to cancel either. When I tried getting hold of her, all I got was her answering service. Two days later I gave up trying and contacted the police.’
‘Was she involved with drugs, gambling, anything of the bad sort you know of?’ Garcia asked this time.
Laurent’s eyes widened for an instant. ‘God, no. At least not that I know of. She barely drank. Kelly was your typical good girl.’
‘Financial difficulties?’
‘Not with the kinda money she was making. Every one of her paintings sells for thousands. Probably more now.’
Hunter wondered if he threw a hundred bucks out the window, would Laurent jump after it?
Before leaving, Hunter paused by the door to the office and turned to face Laurent again. ‘Do you know if Miss Jensen was friends with another LA painter – Laura Mitchell?’
Laurent looked at him curiously before shaking his head. ‘Laura Mitchell? I’m not sure. Their styles are very different.’
Hunter turned to look back at him curiously.
‘Believe it or not,’ Laurent clarified, ‘many painters are funny in that way. Some won’t mix with different style artists.’ He pouted reflexively. ‘Some won’t mix with other artists at all. Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering.’ Hunter handed Laurent a card. ‘If you think of anything else, please don’t—’
‘Wait!’ Laurent cut him short. ‘Laura Mitchell and Kelly did meet. It was a few years ago. I’d forgotten all about that. Right at the start of Kelly’s career. I had just started representing her. She was interviewed for a cable TV documentary. Something about the new wave of American artists from the West Coast, or something along those lines. Several artists took part in it. I think it was all filmed at the . . .’ his eyes moved to a blank spot on the wall ‘ . . . Getty Museum or maybe at the Moca, I can’t be sure. But I’m in no doubt Laura Mitchell was one of the artists who was there that day.’
Fifty-Two
Night had already darkened the sky by the time Hunter and Garcia got back to Parker Center. They both felt exhausted.
‘Go home, Carlos,’ Hunter said rubbing his eyes. ‘Spend the night with Anna. Take her out for dinner or a movie or something. There ain’t much we can do now but review information, and our brains are both too fried to process anything at this time.’
Garcia knew Hunter was right. And Anna would really appreciate having her husband for an entire night. He reached for his jacket.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ he asked as Hunter turned his computer on.
‘Five minutes,’ Hunter replied with a nod. ‘Just gonna check something on the net.’
It took Hunter a lot longer than he expected to find any references to the documentary Kelly Jensen’s agent had mentioned. It was a low budget production by the Arts and Entertainment cable TV Channel called Canvas Beauty, The Upcoming Talents from the West Coast. It had only aired once, three years ago. He called the A & E TV network office in LA, but at that time of night, there was no one there who could assist him. He’d have to contact them again in the morning.
Hunter didn’t go straight home after he left his office. His mind was too full of thoughts for him to try to brave the solitude of his apartment.
If the killer was really forcing his victims to kill themselves by impact-activating a trigger mechanism, then they were right about Laura Mitchell, the first victim. She wasn’t supposed to have died on that butcher’s counter. She was supposed to have jumped down from it. The bomb was supposed to have gone off inside her. But the trigger was never activated. She died from suffocation. Her mother had told Hunter about the choking seizures Laura used to suffer when young. Possibly some psychological condition that had ceased to manifest itself after she started painting. Hunter knew that such conditions could easily be shocked back to life by a traumatic experience, like severe panic. The kind of panic she would have experienced in that dark back room, alone, with her mouth and body stitched shut.
Hunter drove around aimlessly for a while before ending up at the oceanfront on Santa Monica Beach.
He liked watching the sea at night. The sound of waves breaking against the sand together with the quietness calmed him. It reminded him of his parents and of when he was a little kid.
His father used to work seventy-hour weeks, jumping between two awfully paid jobs. His mother would take any work that came her way – cleaning, ironing, washing, anything. Hunter couldn’t remember a weekend when his father wasn’t working, and even then they struggled to pay all their bills. But Hunter’s parents never complained. They simply played the cards they were dealt. And no matter how bad a hand they got, they always did it with a smile on their faces.
Every Sunday, after Hunter’s father got home from work, they used to go down to the beach. Most times they got there as everyone else was packing up and getting ready to leave. Sometimes the sun had already set. But Hunter didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it. It was like the whole beach belonged to him and his parents. After Hunter’s mother passed away, his father never stopped taking him to the beach on Sundays. Sometimes, Hunter would catch his father wiping away tears as he watched the waves break.
There were tourists everywhere, especially down Third Street Promenade and in the many beach bars that lined the oceanfront. A boy sped past him in rollerblades, quickly followed by a younger girl, clearly struggling with her technique.
‘Slow down, Tim,’ she called after the boy pleadingly. He didn’t even look back.
Hunter sat on the sand for a while, watching the waves and breathing in the sea breeze. He spotted a group of night surfers in the distance. Five in total, two of them female. They seemed to be having a great time. A boy was practicing his soccer juggling skills close to the water. He was good, Hunter had to admit. A couple holding hands walked past in silence and both nodded a cordial hello at Hunter, who returned the gesture. He watched them walk away, and for a moment he lost himself in a memory. Something few people ever knew about him – he’d been in love once, long ago.
Unconsciously his lips spread into a melancholic smile. As the memory developed, the smile faded and an empty pit took hold of his stomach. A lonely tear threatened to form at the corner of his eye. But the memory was interrupted by his cell phone ringing in his pocket. The display window read – unknown number.
‘Detective Hunter.’
‘Wassup, dawg?’ D-King said in his chilled-out lilt. Loud hip-hop music was playing in the background.
‘Not much,’ Hunter replied.
D-King wasn’t one for beating around the bush. ‘Sorry, dawg, there’s no word on the street, y
ou know what I’m saying. The Chicanos, the Jamaicans, the Russians, the Chinese, the Italians, whoever . . . no one knows anything about no girl getting a stitch job. She wasn’t a gang hit, at least not a known gang.’
‘Yeah, I figured that out since we last talked.’
‘Did you find out who she was?’
‘Yeah.’
D-King waited, but Hunter didn’t follow up.
‘Let me guess, she wasn’t a working girl.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I told you, dawg. I would’ve known if she was.’ There was a hesitant pause. ‘Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll keep asking around. If I hear anything, I’ll give you a holler.’
He disconnected, brushed his hands against each other, clearing off the sand before grabbing his jacket and walking back to his car. The throng of people around the bars was starting to die down, and for a moment Hunter considered going inside. He could do with a shot of single malt . . . or five. Maybe that would completely clear his mind.
A woman sitting at one of the many outside tables laughed loudly, catching Hunter’s attention. She was attractive with short brunette hair and a magnificent smile. Their eyes met for a brief instant and he remembered that Kelly Jensen’s apartment was in Santa Monica. Her art studio wasn’t far either. Culver City was practically the next neighborhood.
The file Hunter had got from Missing Persons said that the investigating officer had visited both locations without any major breakthroughs. The suspicion was that Kelly had been abducted from her home address as she parked her car and made her way into her apartment building. There were no witnesses and no CCTV camera footage.
Hunter checked his watch. He and Garcia had planned on checking out both places tomorrow, but what the hell. He was already there, and there was no way he’d be getting any sleep anytime soon.
Fifty-Three
Kelly Jensen’s apartment was on the second floor of a luxurious building on the exclusive San Vicente Boulevard, a stone’s throw away from the west end of Santa Monica Beach.
Hunter parked his car just outside her apartment block and observed the traffic for a while. Cars came and went every ten to fifteen seconds. As he got out and closed the door behind him, he recognized Kelly’s car as described in the information sheet he’d received from Missing Persons – a candy white 1989 anniversary Pontiac Trans-Am T-top in pristine condition. It was parked just a few spaces from where he had pulled up. Hunter put on a pair of latex gloves before mechanically looking up at the surrounding buildings. There were several lights on. He approached Kelly’s car and cupped his hands over the driver’s window. Its interior looked to be spotlessly clean.
Hunter already had the keys to Kelly’s apartment. They had been sent to Parker Center together with the MPU case files, and those were in the back seat of his car. He let himself into the building and made his way up to the second floor. After fumbling for the right key, he unlocked the door to Kelly’s apartment, stepped inside and paused by the entrance for a moment before trying the light switch. Nothing.
‘Great.’ He flicked on his flashlight.
Her living room was spacious and nicely decorated. Hunter took his time looking around. The tidiness was almost compulsive, except for the dust that had accumulated since Kelly had gone missing. Every object seemed to have its place.
There were a few photo frames on a long glass sideboard against one of the walls – most of the photos were of her and her parents.
The kitchen was open plan, on the west side of the living room. No lights worked there either. Hunter opened the fridge and was immediately slapped across the face by a gust of warm, putrid air.
‘Damn!’ He jumped back, slamming the door shut. The power must’ve been off for a few days now. He exited the kitchen and moved further into the apartment.
The bedroom was enormous, probably bigger than Hunter’s entire one-bedroom flat. In the en-suite bathroom he found a large collection of make-up items and several bottles of face, hand and body creams. Her bed was perfectly made. On her dresser Hunter found another portrait of her parents, some necklaces and bracelets, and a collection of fragrances. The drawers were overflowing with lingerie and summer clothes.
Hunter returned his attention to Kelly’s parents’ portrait. She looked a lot more like her mother than her father. Hunter couldn’t help but think about the pain they were about to go through when the sheriff in Great Falls knocked on their door. It was the worst news any parent could ever receive. He’d been the bearer of such news more times than he cared to remember.
As he placed the frame back on the dresser, his flashlight beam reflected on the silver frame and his body tensed. The frame worked like a mirror, and he caught a glimpse of a dark figure standing right behind him.
Fifty-Four
Click.
Hunter heard the muffled sound of a semi-automatic pistol being cocked inches away from the back of his head. But before the person standing there had a chance to say or do anything, he spun on the balls of his feet and swung his arm around with purpose. The flashlight caught the intruder’s pistol-holding arm with a loud thud.
Gun and flashlight flew across the room, smashing against the wardrobe door and falling to the floor. The flashlight ended up under the bed, facing the wall, its deflected beam now just strong enough to keep the room from slipping into total darkness.
Hunter’s left hand was already at his shoulder holster. He’d managed to wrap his fingers around the handle of his gun when the intruder delivered a well-placed kick to his abdomen, catching Hunter right at the pit of his stomach. Air left him like a ripped balloon and he stumbled backwards, gasping for oxygen. Hunter knew another kick would quickly follow. This time it came in the form of a side sweep to the right side of his body, around the same height as the first one, but Hunter was ready for it. He blocked it with the outside of his forearm and unleashed a devastating blow with his left fist, catching the intruder square in the chest. Hunter used his momentum to step forward and sent in a follow-up punch to the face. It was blocked with martial-art precision. Hunter didn’t miss a step, another left punch to the side of the torso – blocked. Right punch to the chest – blocked. Left elbow to the face – blocked.
What the fuck? Hunter thought. Can this guy see in the dark or what?
A new, higher and more powerful jump kick came from the intruder. Hunter saw it late, but even so, his rapid reaction allowed him to swerve most of his head out of the way. The tip of the intruder’s boot grazed Hunter’s right eyebrow, nicking it. Hunter used his swerving motion to gain speed and pirouetted his body around three hundred and sixty degrees. The movement took only a split second, and at the end of it Hunter delivered a new punch with his left fist straight to the intruder’s ribcage. But some last-minute intuition told him to take some of the power off the strike. Even so, this time there was no blocking. The intruder doubled over and stumbled back. In a blink of an eye Hunter reversed his movement, spinning his body in the opposite direction. As he faced his attacker again, he was holding his gun with his right arm fully extended. The barrel of his weapon just inches away from his attacker’s face.
‘Move and you’ll be having dinner with Elvis.’
‘Fuck, that was a fast draw.’
Hunter frowned. It was a woman’s voice.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ she asked.
‘Me?’ Hunter cocked his gun. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I asked first.’
‘Well, I have a gun.’
‘Yeah? So did I.’
‘Well, guess what? I still have mine, and it’s pointing right at your face.’
A split-second pause.
‘OK, point taken.’ She lifted her hands but didn’t say a word.
‘I’ll ask again, in case you forgot – who the hell are you?’
‘My name is Whitney Myers.’ Her voice was calm.
Hunter waited but Myers offered nothing else. ‘And . . . ? Is your name supposed to mean anything to me . .
. ?’
‘I’m a private missing persons investigator. If you allow me to move I can show you my credentials.’
‘Your hands are going nowhere for now, buttercup.’
He looked at her suspiciously. Even through the weak light coming from under the bed, Hunter could tell Myers was wearing dark trousers and shirt, flat-soled shoes, a small pouch belt around her waist and a black skullcap.
‘You dress more like a burglar than a PI.’
‘Well, you don’t dress like a cop either,’ she stabbed back.
‘How do you know I’m a cop?’
She tilted her head in the direction of the wardrobe. ‘Standard issue LAPD flashlight.’ A short pause. ‘Unlike your gun. Nothing standard about that. HK USP tactical pistol. A Navy Seals favorite. You’re obviously part of some special section, or a pretty big gun fanatic. I’m guessing both.’
Hunter’s gun was still aimed dead at her eyes. ‘If you knew I was a cop, why the hell did you attack me like that?’
‘You never gave me a chance to say a word. I was about to politely ask you to turn around slowly when suddenly you turned into Captain America on crack. I was just defending myself.’
Hunter considered it. ‘If you’re a PI, who hired you?’
‘You know I can’t tell you that. It’s privileged information.’
Hunter’s gaze moved to his gun and then back to Myers. ‘Under the circumstances, I don’t think you’ve got much of a choice.’
‘You and I both know you’re not gonna shoot me.’
Hunter chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you. All I need is a reason.’
Myers didn’t reply.
‘Plus I can arrest you for breaking and entering. You know how it goes. You’ll have to drag a lawyer down to the station, then you’ll be properly interrogated . . . yada, yada, yada . . . and we’ll find out anyway. So you’d better tell me something, or this is about to become a very long night for you.’ Hunter could feel thin lines of blood running down the right side of his face from the cut just above his eyebrow. He stood perfectly still.