The Night Stalker

by Chris Carter

  Doctor Hove’s lab had confirmed that the dust retrieved from under Kelly Jensen’s nails had come from a mixture of mortar and red clay, consistent with common wall bricks. That meant that she could’ve been kept absolutely anywhere, from a self-built underground bunker to an inside room or an outside garage.

  Hunter’s traffic camera gamble didn’t pay off either. The closest road camera to Kelly Jensen’s art studio was a mile away. Her Trans-Am was never spotted on the night she was taken. The South Bureau Traffic Operations’ captain had explained that most of the inner-city cameras were only infraction activated – like going through a red light or breaking the speed limit. They didn’t film twenty-four hours a day. The ones that did were strategically positioned on main roads, avenues and interstates. Their principal function was to alert Traffic Divisions about congestion hotspots and accidents.

  Early the morning after Kelly’s disappearance, a camera in Santa Monica picked up her car as it traveled down San Vicente Boulevard going west, in the direction of her apartment building. But the cameras don’t monitor the whole of the boulevard. The vehicle was lost as it approached the final stretch that led to the beachfront.

  As Hunter had requested, Forensics had picked up the car from Santa Monica and gone over every inch of its interior and boot. The hairs found matched to Kelly Jensen. The few dark fibers retrieved from the driver’s seat matched the ones found on the wall behind the large canvas in Laura Mitchell’s apartment. They came from the same skullcap. There were no fingerprints.

  It was close to midnight, and for the first time since the beginning of spring the sky had clouded over. Menacing rain clouds and strong winds were closing in from the north, bringing with them the unmistakable smell of wet grass and turf. Hunter was sitting in his living room, reading through reports from his research team into Laura, Kelly and Katia’s professional and personal lives. Their backgrounds were totally different from each other. Other than physically having the same overall look and being an artist by profession, the team hadn’t found any other links between the three women.

  Laura had come from a success-story family. Her father, Roy Mitchell, started his life slum-poor. Having run away from violent and abusive parents when young, most of the food Roy ate in his early years came from trash cans in the back alleys of hotels and restaurants. He was only fourteen when he started selling discarded secondhand books he bought from hotel staff. By the age of eighteen he’d opened his first bookstore, and from there business prospered. His autobiography – Back Alley Books – topped the US non-fiction book chart for twelve weeks, and spent a further thirty-three in the top twenty-five. He married the young lawyer who helped him set up his book business, Denise, at the age of twenty. Laura was the younger of their two children.

  Kelly, on the other hand, had had a pretty unadventurous life. Born into a small, church-going family in Montana, she was destined to become just another Treasure State housewife, tending to her husband, kids and garden. Her arts schoolteacher recognized her talent when it came to painting, and for years kept on telling her that she shouldn’t walk away from her gift.

  Katia came from the richest of all three families, but she never took anything for granted. She became a violinist of her own accord, and no matter how much money her family had, talent and dedication can’t be bought. Everything she’d achieved, she did it through her own hard work.

  Hunter put the report down and stretched his arms high above his head. From his small bar, he poured another double dose of single malt. He needed something comforting and rich on the palate this time. His eyes rested on the bottle of Balblair 1997 and his mind was made. He dropped a single cube of ice in his glass and heard it crack as the dense, honey-colored liquid hit it. He brought the glass to his nose and breathed in the sweet, vanilla oak vapors for a moment. He took a small sip, allowing the alcohol to reach every corner of his mouth before swallowing it. If heaven had a taste, this would be pretty close to it.

  Hunter stared out his window at a city that he had never really understood, and that was getting crazier and crazier by the day. How could anyone understand the madness that went around in this town?

  A thin sheet of rain had started falling. Hunter’s gaze dropped to the files and photographs scattered on his coffee table. Laura and Kelly stared back at him with terrified pleading eyes, their ragdoll smiles grotesquely outlined by rough stitches and black thread.

  Knock, knock.

  Hunter frowned as his eyes first shot towards his front room door and then quickly to his watch. Way too late for visitors. Besides, he couldn’t even remember the last time someone knocked on his door.

  Knock, knock, knock. A lot more urgent this time.

  Seventy-Two

  Hunter put down his glass, grabbed his gun from his holster, which was hanging from the back of a chair, and approached his front door. There was no peephole. Hunter hated them: they provided any assailant with a very easy kill shot. Just wait until the lens darkens and put a bullet through it. Training and instinct told him to stay to the right of the doorframe, out of reach of the door swing. That would avoid him being slammed in the face if anyone kicked the door in as he unlocked it. It would also put Hunter out of the direct blast path of a powerful weapon, should anyone be waiting to blow a hole through the door.

  He undid the main lock and pulled the door back, letting it rest, fractionally open, on the security chain. From the outside, only part of his face was visible through the gap.

  ‘Expecting the bad guys?’ Whitney Myers asked with an amused grin.

  She was wearing a cropped, black leather biker’s jacket with an AC/DC T-shirt underneath. Her blue jeans were faded and torn at her left knee, a look that was perfectly complemented by her silver-tip cowboy boots. Hunter looked her up and down. He was not amused.

  ‘Are you gonna invite me in or shoot me with that gun you’re holding behind your back?’

  Hunter closed the door, undid the security chain and pulled it back open again. He was also wearing faded jeans – though his weren’t torn – but not much else.

  It was Myers’ turn to look him up and down. ‘Well, somebody is a gym bunny.’ Her eyes paused at the tight muscles of his abdomen before slowly moving up to his chest, making sure she grabbed a good look of his biceps, and then finally back to his face.

  ‘Did you get lost on your way to a rock gig or something?’ He stood on the doorway, his gun still in his right hand. ‘What in the world are you doing here . . . and at this time of night?’

  As her gaze moved past Hunter and into his apartment, Myers’ expression changed. ‘I’m sorry . . . are you . . . with someone?’

  Hunter allowed the embarrassing moment to stretch for a couple of seconds before shaking his head.

  ‘No.’

  He stepped back and fully opened the door, giving her a silent invitation.

  Hunter’s front room was oddly shaped, with furniture that looked to have belonged to the Salvation Army. There were four mismatched chairs around a square, wooden table that he used as his computer desk. A laptop, together with a printer and a small table lamp were crammed onto it. A few feet away from the far wall was a beaten-up black sofa. The coffee table in front it was overflowing with pictures and police reports. Across the room Myers saw a glass bar with an impressive collection of single malt Scotch.

  ‘I can see you’re not a man who cares for extravagant decoration.’

  Hunter gathered the pictures and papers from the coffee table into a pile and moved them out of the way. He reached for a white T-shirt that was on the back of one of the chairs and put it on.

  Myers looked away, hiding her disappointment. She approached the dark wood sideboard to the right of the glass bar where a few lonely picture frames were arranged. Two of the photographs were black and white and looked to be old. Both were of the same smiling couple. Hunter looked like his father, but he had his mother’s understanding eyes, Myers noted. Most of the other photographs showed Hunter and another man,
heavier and about two inches taller. From Myers’ research she knew he was Hunter’s old RHD partner, Scott Wilson, who’d died in a boat accident a few years ago. Two other photographs showed Hunter receiving commendations from the Mayor of Los Angeles and the Governor of California. The last picture, the one hiding right at the back was of a younger-looking Hunter dressed in a graduation gown and holding a university diploma. He looked like he’d just conquered the world. His father was proudly standing by his side. His smile could’ve brightened a dark day.

  With his arms folded, Hunter stood by the window, waiting.

  Myers’ eyes moved from the pictures to the glass bar and the neatly arranged bottles. ‘Do you mind if I have a drink?’

  ‘If you promise to tell me why you’re here, sure, go right ahead.’

  She poured herself a double dose of Balblair 1997 and dropped a single cube of ice in it.

  Hunter’s face remained impartial but he was impressed. ‘Good choice.’

  Myers had a sip of her drink. ‘Do you have a CD player?’

  Hunter’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why? Are you suddenly in the mood for some Back in Black?’

  She smiled and her gaze moved momentarily down to her shirt. ‘That is my favorite AC/DC album, but we can listen to it later if you like. Right now, you’ve gotta listen to this.’ Myers pulled a CD case from her handbag. ‘’Cause you won’t believe me if I’d told you.’

  Seventy-Three

  The rain was coming down a little harder now, drumming against the window just behind Hunter. The wind had also picked up.

  ‘Give me a sec,’ he said before disappearing down a small corridor. Moments later he returned with a portable stereo system.

  ‘I found this on the Internet, almost by chance,’ Myers said as Hunter cleared the table, placed the stereo on it and plugged it in.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘An interview.’

  Hunter paused and looked up. ‘With Katia?’

  Myers nodded and handed him the CD. ‘It was first aired by KUSC Radio. It’s a dedicated classical music FM station.’

  Hunter nodded. ‘Yeah, I know it. It’s run by the University of Southern California.’

  Myers pulled a face. ‘I didn’t know you were into classical music.’

  ‘I’m not, but I read a lot.’

  Myers moved on.

  ‘The entire interview is about an hour long with a few classical pieces thrown in so the whole thing isn’t just talk. In the first half, Katia is talking to the radio DJ, answering questions he puts to her. In the second half, she’s answering questions that were phoned or emailed in by listeners.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘I’m not that cruel, so I’m not gonna make you listen to the whole thing. I’ve copied only the important bits.’

  Hunter slotted the CD in, pressed play, and adjusted the volume.

  ‘Welcome back. This is KUSC Radio, the best in classical music in Los Angeles and California.’ The DJ’s voice sounded exactly like what most people would expect the voice of a classical music station DJ to sound like – velvety and soothing. ‘We’re back with our special guest this afternoon, someone most of you will need no introduction to. The Los Angeles Philharmonic concertmistress, Katia Kudrov.’

  A small section of a violin solo faded in for several seconds and then out again.

  ‘OK, just before the break we talked about your early beginnings and how much you struggled to dominate your instrument, but now we’re moving onto something a little more personal – love and romance. Is that OK?’

  There was a small pause, as if Katia was considering something.

  ‘Yeah, sure, as long as you don’t make me blush.’ Her voice was delicate but not fragile. There was confidence in her tone.

  ‘I promise I won’t. OK, you describe yourself as a hopeless romantic. Why?’

  A timid chuckle. ‘’Cause I am, really. And here comes the first blush. My favorite movie is Pretty Woman.’ Giggles.

  ‘Yeah, I’d say that’s reason enough to blush,’ the DJ laughed.

  ‘I’m like a little girl when it comes to love. I know this might sound naïve, but I’d love for that kind of fairy tale to exist.’

  ‘The “true love” fairy tale?’

  ‘Yes. The magical make-you-float-on-air kind of love. Sparks flying the first time you set eyes on someone and you just know you were made for each other.’

  ‘Have you ever been that much in love?’

  Another chuckle. ‘No, not yet. But there’s no rush, and I have my music. That really does make me float on air.’

  ‘I’d say your music makes us all float on air.’

  ‘Thank you.’ A short pause. ‘And now I’m really blushing.’

  ‘So, judging by your comment about sparks flying the first time you set eyes on someone means you believe in love at first sight?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And what would someone have to say or do to grab your attention?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing. I believe that love is a lot more than words, or looks. It’s something that hits you and then just takes over, without any warning. I believe that when you meet the person you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with—’

  ‘The proverbial “soul mate”?’ the DJ interrupted.

  ‘Yes, your soul mate. I think that when we meet that person, we just know. Even from a silent moment. Even if he doesn’t say a word at first.’

  ‘OK, I guess I can see what you mean, but he can’t be silent forever. He’ll have to say something eventually. So what would that have to be? How would he grab your attention?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have to do or say anything in particular, but let me tell you my favorite romantic story.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘As a teenager, my grandmother’s first ever job was as a flower girl in a street market in Perm in the old Soviet Union. My grandfather worked in a tailor shop, just a few streets from the market. Her first day at work was the very first time he saw her, and just like that, he fell madly in love. My grandfather was an attractive man, but he was also very, very shy. It took him sixty days to gather up the courage to finally say something to her.’

  ‘Sixty?’ the DJ commented.

  ‘Every morning on his way to work he walked past her stall. Every morning he’d promise himself that’d be the day he’d speak to her. And every morning when he saw her, he’d become too nervous. Instead of speaking to her, he’d just walk on in silence.’

  ‘OK, so what happened?’

  ‘What my grandfather didn’t know was that my grandmother had also fallen in love with him from the first day she saw him. Every day she watched him walk past the flower stall, and every day she hoped that he’d stop and ask her out. So one morning, he gathered all the courage he could muster, walked up to my grandmother, looked her in the eye and managed to whisper five little words: “You take my breath away.”’

  Myers reached over and pressed the pause button.

  Hunter’s memory flashed back to the deciphered answering machine recording Myers had given him a few days ago. The very first words Katia’s kidnapper had said had been exactly those – YOU TAKE MY BREATH AWAY . . .

  By the way Myers looked at Hunter, he knew that there was more to come.

  Seventy-Four

  ‘Fifty-nine days walking past the flower stall in silence,’ Myers said, her stare fixed on Hunter. ‘Fifty-nine silent messages left on Katia’s answering machine. And I’m sure you remember the first five words on the sixtieth message.’

  Hunter nodded but said nothing.

  ‘Now this next part of the interview comes after a couple of commercial breaks. The DJ is asking Katia questions that were phoned or emailed in by listeners.’ She pressed the pause button again and the interview resumed. It started with animated laughter.

  ‘OK,’ the DJ said, ‘I’ve got another question here from one of our callers. This is going back to you being a hopeless romantic,
and about you finding your knight in shining armor.’

  ‘OK . . .’ Katia sounded hesitant.

  ‘The question is: you said that you believe that love is a lot more than words, or looks. You also said that you believe that when you meet the right person, your “soul mate”, you’ll just know. Even from a silent moment, like your grandparents. What I’d like to know is how long is that moment? How much silence do you need before you know?’

  ‘Umm.’

  Laughter from the DJ. ‘That’s not a bad question. So how long is that moment? How quickly do you think you’ll be able to know if you’ve met the right person?’

  There was a pause as Katia thought about it. ‘Twelve seconds,’ she finally replied.

  Hunter’s stare met Myers but neither said a word.

  ‘Twelve seconds?’ the DJ asked. ‘That’s a strange number. Why twelve?’

  ‘Well, I’d probably know in ten seconds flat, but I’d give it another two seconds just to be absolutely sure.’ Katia and the DJ both laughed.

  ‘That’s a very good answer,’ the DJ agreed.

  Myers reached over and pressed the stop button. ‘Before you ask,’ she said, ‘I checked, the station has no record of who called in with that question.’

  ‘Remind me when that was aired again?’

  ‘Eight months ago, but this recording was passed on to other radio stations.’ She retrieved a notebook from her bag. ‘KCSN in Northridge, KQSC and KDB in Santa Barbara, KDSC in Thousand Oaks and even KTMV, which is a smooth jazz station. It’s been aired all over the court. I got this from KUSC’s website. Anyone can listen to it online, or download it. Even if the kidnapper wasn’t the one who called in with the question, he could’ve heard the interview and got his idea from there.’ She had another sip of her Scotch. ‘You and I know that those twelve seconds of silence in every message weren’t just coincidence.’