The Night Stalker

by Chris Carter

  The red-haired woman behind the reception counter at the A & E TV network entry lobby was what you’d call striking rather than pretty.

  She smiled politely as Hunter and Garcia approached the counter before lifting her index finger to signal that she’d only be a moment.

  Seconds later she touched her earpiece and a blinking blue light went off.

  ‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’ Her gaze bounced between both detectives and settled on Hunter. Her smile gained an extra twinkle. He explained that they needed to talk to someone about an old documentary their studio had produced. The receptionist glanced at their badges and her demeanor changed. A quick internal call and two minutes later they were being shown into an office at the end of a long corridor. The placard on the door read Bryan Coleman – Director of Production.

  The man sitting behind the desk smiled as Hunter and Garcia appeared at his door. He too had a hands-free earpiece on. The blue light was blinking. He motioned both detectives inside, stood up and moved to the front of his desk. He was at least two inches taller than Hunter, with close-cropped dark hair and piercing brown eyes set closely together behind horn-rimmed glasses.

  Hunter closed the door behind him and waited. The two chairs in front of Coleman’s desk were occupied by boxes. Both detectives stood.

  ‘We need to get that redelivered today . . .’ Coleman said into the hands-free while nodding at Hunter and Garcia. He listened for only half a second before cutting off whomever he was speaking to. ‘Listen, if we don’t get it redelivered today, we’re gonna get our account transferred to a different company, do you get me?’ Another pause. ‘Yeah, this afternoon is fine, before three o’clock even better . . . I’ll be waiting.’ He removed the hands-free from his right ear and threw it on his desk.

  ‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ Coleman said, shaking both detectives’ hands before clearing the boxes off the two seats. ‘We’re expanding. We were supposed to be moving premises, but a few months ago the company across the hall from us went bust.’ He shrugged indifferently. ‘Recession, you know? So we decided to take their offices instead. It’s easier, but no less stressful.’ He pointed to the phone on his desk. ‘Delivery companies are slick little bastards. If you let them, they’ll walk all over you.’

  Hunter and Garcia nodded politely.

  ‘So?’ Coleman clapped his hands together. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We’re looking for a documentary about West Coast artists that was produced by your network,’ Hunter said, taking a seat.

  ‘Do you know the name of this documentary?’

  Hunter checked his notebook. ‘Yes, it’s called Canvas Beauty, The Upcoming Talents from the West Coast.’

  Coleman cocked his head back. ‘Canvas Beauty?’ he said with a surprised chuckle. ‘Wow. That was three maybe four years ago.’

  ‘Three,’ Hunter confirmed.

  ‘I was in the production team for that. Very low budget stuff.’ Coleman took off his glasses and started polishing them with a piece of cloth. ‘That documentary was a fluke. A promotional trick. You sure that’s the one you want?’

  Hunter rested his left elbow on the arm of his chair and his chin on his knuckles. ‘What do you mean, a fluke?’

  ‘The only reason it was shot in the first place was because of our regional director at the time,’ Coleman explained. ‘His daughter was an artist, a painter. She’d been trying to break into the scene for some time without much success. So suddenly a new documentary script found its way to the top of our schedule. You know the drill – include a few truly talented upcoming artists, heavily feature his daughter in the middle of it all and hope for the best.’

  ‘Did it work?’

  Coleman nodded hesitantly. ‘I guess it did its job. She got noticed and I think she’s doing OK with her art. That regional director left us a couple of years ago, so I wouldn’t really know.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ Garcia asked. ‘The regional director’s daughter?’

  ‘Ummm . . .’ Coleman started fidgeting with a ballpoint pen. ‘Martina,’ he remembered. ‘That’s it, Martina Greene. May I ask why you’re interested in that particular documentary?’

  ‘We just wanna have a look at it and find out which other artists were featured,’ Hunter replied. ‘Were they filmed individually? I mean, on different locations, on different days?’

  Another chuckle from Coleman. ‘Nope. As I said, it was really low budget. Even our director wouldn’t be able to justify spending real money on it. So we crammed the whole thing into one day’s shooting. We got all the artists together one afternoon at the . . .’ he looked away for a second as if struggling to recall, ‘. . . Moca Museum in South Grand Avenue.’

  ‘Were they all women?’

  Coleman frowned and thought about it for an instant. ‘On that particular documentary, yes.’

  ‘And do you know if it was aired again? Maybe recently?’

  ‘I can check, but I wouldn’t think so. As I said, it wasn’t a very good piece of work.’ He pulled himself closer to his computer and typed something into his keyboard.

  When the result came back a few seconds later, he repositioned his computer monitor so Hunter and Garcia could have a look. ‘Nope, aired once two weeks after it was produced and that was it.’

  ‘Do you have any more recent documentaries or interviews in the same vein as that one?’ Garcia asked. ‘I mean, featuring Los Angeles female painters?’

  A look of interest came over Coleman’s face. ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘If you could just show us whatever you have, we’d be very grateful,’ Hunter was quick to answer. He didn’t want Coleman’s curiosity piqued further.

  Too late. Once a reporter, always a reporter.

  Coleman twitched in his chair before returning to his computer. ‘When you say “more recent”, how recent do you mean?’

  ‘A year, maybe two.’

  This time the search took a little longer.

  ‘OK, in the past two years we’ve produced three programs on painters,’ Coleman said, ‘but they weren’t exclusively on Los Angeles or Californian artists.’

  Garcia frowned. ‘That’s it, three programs in two years?’

  ‘Very few people are interested in the art of painting, or in the life of modern painters,’ Coleman explained, sitting back in his chair. ‘We live in a capitalist world where money rules, Detective, and to us viewing numbers is what translates into money – advertising time. If we air a documentary on hip-hop, rap, or whatever trendy new singer is storming the charts, our viewing numbers hit the roof. We air one on painters or any less popular branch of the arts, that number drops to less than a third, even during prime time. Get the picture?’

  ‘Could we get copies of all three,’ Hunter said, ‘together with the Canvas Beauty one?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’ll also need a copy of the work log for the Canvas Beauty documentary. Names of everyone who worked on it – cameraman, make-up artists, production and editing team . . . everyone.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll put you in touch with Tom, our archives guy. He’ll get you whatever you need.’

  As Hunter closed the door behind him, Coleman reached for the phone and dialed the private number of a very good friend of his: Donald Robbins, the lead crime reporter at the LA Times.

  Sixty-Five

  The CCTV files from Mr. Wang’s convenience store had finished uncompressing. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find from the footage, but the Missing Persons investigator’s assumption that Kelly Jensen had been abducted from Santa Monica, either while parking her car, or walking from it to her apartment building didn’t sit right. Even in the dead of night, San Vicente Boulevard was way too busy. Cars drove by every ten seconds or so. Someone could look out the window at any time. It was just too risky. A risk that her killer could’ve easily avoided by taking Kelly from her much quieter studio in Culver City. And the small parking lot at the back provided a perfect locat
ion for an abduction. It was secluded and badly lit. If Hunter were the one planning to kidnap Kelly, that’s where he’d have done it from.

  Hunter checked his watch. It was late. Before leaving the office, he quickly read through the email he’d received from Jenkins, a good friend from the Records and Identification Division. It contained all the information he’d requested about Whitney Myers and her time with the force, but Hunter had found it hard to concentrate. The punishing headache that had been pounding his brain for the past two hours was threatening to intensify. He needed food. But the cupboards and the fridge back in his place hadn’t seen supplies in days. Besides, the only thing he knew how to cook well was popcorn, and he’d already had his share of it this month. He decided to go for something a little healthier. He printed out the contents of the attachment to Jenkins’ email, grabbed the laptop and headed for his car.

  Uncle Kelome’s, a small Hawaiian restaurant in Baldwin Hills, served the best Aloha-style shrimp in the whole of Los Angeles. Hunter loved the food and the relaxed atmosphere. And right now there was nothing that he needed more than to relax, even if only for a few minutes while having his favorite, Volcano Shrimp Platter. The fact that their bar also kept a respectful stock of single malt Scotch was a welcome bonus.

  Hunter placed his order at the counter and took a table at the far end of the dining room, hidden away from the often noisy bar. He sat down and buried his head in his hands. His headache was so intense it felt like his brain was about to burst inside his head.

  A waitress brought him his drink and placed it on the table in front of him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said without looking up.

  ‘Not a problem, but if you’d like those files I promised you, I’m gonna need my ID back.’

  Hunter lifted his head too quickly, and for a fraction of a second his vision was filled with blurry dots. His eyes quickly refocused on Whitney Myers’ face.

  She smiled.

  Hunter didn’t.

  ‘Can I sit down?’ she asked, already pulling out the chair opposite him.

  Despite himself, Hunter appraised Myers. She looked different tonight. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders. She was wearing a dark blue pencil skirt suit. The top button on her blazer was undone, showing a silk white blouse underneath. Her make-up was so light it was almost invisible, but it skillfully accentuated her features. Hunter noticed that the group of guys sitting at the table to his right had all turned to look at her; two of them were almost drooling. Hunter’s eyes moved from Myers to the glass in front of him and then back to her.

  ‘Balvenie, 12-year-old single malt,’ she announced before touching her glass against his. She was drinking the same. ‘It’s always a pleasure finding someone else who appreciates a proper drink.’

  Hunter placed his hands on the table but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Wow, you look shattered,’ she continued. ‘And I’m sorry about that.’ She gestured towards the cut above his eyebrow before placing a palm on the left side of her torso. ‘You were right, my ribs aren’t broken, but they’re bruised to shit.’

  Still silence from Hunter, but it didn’t seem to bother her.

  ‘I must admit, your file is quite a read. A child prodigy. Really?’ She pulled a face. ‘Attended the prestigious Mirman School for the Super Brainy on a scholarship, and cruised through their entire curriculum in two years. After that, Stanford, also on a scholarship. Received your PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology at the age of twenty-three? That’s impressive.’

  Not a word from Hunter. Myers carried on.

  ‘Made detective in record time and was immediately asked to join the RHD . . . now that really is impressive. You must’ve kissed a lot of ass or impressed the hell out of some important people.’

  Still nothing from Hunter.

  ‘Now a detective with the infamous HSS, and you’re affectionately called the one-man zombie squad by most of your department.’ She smiled. ‘Cute nickname. Did you come up with that yourself?’

  She continued, unfazed by his lack of response.

  ‘Your specialty is ultra-violent crime, and you hold an impressive arrest record. Your book is still mandatory reading at the FBI National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crimes. Have I left anything out?’

  Hunter had never written a book, but one of his university professors was so impressed with his thesis paper on Criminal Conduct that he forwarded it to his friend at the FBI academy in Virginia, who passed it on to the academy director. A few weeks later a young Robert Hunter was invited to Quantico to talk to a class of experienced officers and instructors. The one-day talk became a week-long seminar, and at the end of it the director asked Hunter’s permission to use his thesis as required reading material for all field officers. Now no one graduates from Quantico without reading it.

  ‘So you read my life story,’ Hunter finally said. ‘It must’ve been a pretty boring few minutes.’

  ‘On the contrary. I thought it was very colorful.’ Myers smiled again. ‘Though there’s a strange gap. For a couple of years it seems you just disappeared off the face of the earth. Not a scrap of information on you anywhere. And my research team is the best there is.’

  Hunter said nothing.

  ‘I have to ask you this: why the hell did you become a cop? With a résumé like that you could be with the FBI, NSA, CIA, take your pick.’

  ‘Do you have an obsession with getting me a new job?’

  She smiled.

  The waitress brought Hunter his shrimp platter. As she walked away, Hunter’s eyes moved from his glass to Myers. ‘I ordered orange juice.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied casually. ‘But you would’ve ordered Scotch anyway. I was just saving you some time.’ She paused. ‘You must be hungry. Look at the size of that platter.’

  ‘Would you like some?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks. Knock yourself out.’

  Hunter dipped a jumbo shrimp into the pot of hot sauce and took a bite.

  Myers waited a few seconds. ‘If you’re as good as your file says you are, then you’ve also checked me out, and by now you will know I lied.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘There’s no ex-boyfriend.’

  Myers studied Hunter’s face for a moment. ‘But you already knew that yesterday, right?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘If you knew I was lying, why didn’t you take me in?’

  ‘No point. You used to be a cop. You knew there was really nothing we could do to force you to tell us who your client really is. If you didn’t want to co-operate, we would’ve just wasted a lot of time. And time is something I don’t have. Call it a little professional courtesy.’

  Myers smiled. ‘Bullshit. You thought you could find out whom I was working for on your own. But it wasn’t quite so easy, was it?’

  They regarded each other for a moment.

  ‘The reason I was in Kelly Jensen’s apartment last night was because I wanted to follow a hunch,’ Myers finally admitted, taking a sip of her drink.

  ‘And that hunch was . . . ?’

  ‘That Kelly’s disappearance and the disappearance of the woman I’m looking for were connected.’

  Hunter put his fork down.

  ‘I didn’t find anything in her apartment to confirm that hunch. She wasn’t taken from there. But there are other similarities that are hard to ignore.’

  ‘What other similarities?’

  ‘How many victims?’ Myers countered. ‘How many victims have you got so far? And I’m seriously not fucking around this time. If you wanna know what I know, you’ve gotta talk to me.’

  Hunter sat back and used a paper napkin to wipe his mouth. ‘Kelly Jensen was the second victim.’

  Myers nodded and placed a photograph of an attractive brunette on the table. ‘Was this the first victim?’ She held her breath.

  Hunter’s eyes moved to the picture. On looks, the woman in it could’ve been Laura or Kelly’s sister. He shook his he
ad. ‘No, that’s not her . . . Who is this?’

  Myers breathed out. ‘She’s not on any Missing Persons list,’ she continued. ‘Her father tried to report her as missing but MP ran her through their regular six-point checklist. She met only one condition, so they weren’t immediately prepared to allocate time to her.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Hunter repeated.

  Myers sat back. ‘Her name is Katia Kudrov. She’s the principal violinist concertmistress with the Los Angeles Philharmonic.’

  ‘A musician?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Myers paused. ‘The first victim, was her name Laura Mitchell?’

  Hunter sat back in his chair. It was obvious that Myers had done her homework where missing persons were concerned.

  Myers waited.

  ‘Yes, Laura Mitchell was the first victim we found.’

  The tips of Myers’ fingers moved straight to her upper lip. ‘She was also a painter. This killer is after artists.’

  ‘Wait up, it’s too soon to get to that conclusion. And artist is too vast a field. If we’re gonna go down that path then we’d have to include dancers, actresses, sculptors, magicians, jugglers . . . the list goes on and on. So far, he’s kidnapped and killed two painters, and that’s all we have to go on. The fact that Katia’s profession falls into the vast category of being an artist is a simple coincidence at this point.’ Hunter tapped the picture on the table. ‘When did she go missing?’

  ‘Four days ago. Laura went missing about a week after Kelly, right?’

  ‘You’re good with names and dates.’

  ‘Yes, I’m very good with names and dates. So we have no specific time signature between kidnapping and murder?’

  ‘We?’

  Myers glared at Hunter. ‘Katia Kudrov is still my private case. At the moment she’s a missing person, not a homicide victim. I spent most of today checking Katia’s background against Kelly’s.’ She placed a folder on the table. ‘Other than being the same age and sharing some physical characteristics, they’ve got absolutely nothing else in common. No substantial link.’