I Am Death (25 page)

It was around six in the morning when, by chance, she ran into Renell, a thirty-two-year-old African-American woman who had gone through everything Alison had gone through, and much more.

Renell worked for a charity group whose main purpose was to help women who had been victims of domestic abuse and violence, be it by partners or parents.

Renell’s charity sheltered Alison that night and for several nights after that. They also gave her food and medical assistance and, when she was well enough, helped her find some decent
work.

As luck would have it, or not, Alison’s story was very similar to Renell’s, whose real name had once been Alisha. They became best friends, and it was Renell who, through her street
contacts, arranged for Alison to get some sort of documentation with her new chosen name.

Now, twelve years later, they were still best of friends.

It was just coming up to lunchtime by the time Garcia got back to the Police Administration Building. A few white clouds had gathered over downtown Los Angeles, providing it
with a much-needed break from the incessant summer heat, even if only in the form of a few scattered shadows.

‘We might have a little crack here,’ he said in an animated voice as soon as he entered the office.

Hunter, who was sitting at his desk running over a few paper files, paused what he was doing and turned to look at his partner.

Garcia immediately proceeded to tell him about the passenger who had caught Sharon Barnard’s attention on the morning flight.

‘Operations is already on it,’ he said. ‘They’re contacting US Airways and the FAA for the passenger manifest of both flights.’ He lifted a hand. ‘OK,
I’m sure that if this is our guy, he no doubt used a bogus name and probably wore some kind of disguise, but if we establish that it could be him, with the manifest we could then get in touch
with the passenger who was sitting next to him. Maybe he or she noticed something Tom Hobbs didn’t. Also –’ this seemed to be what excited Garcia the most because his eyebrows
lifted like a drawbridge – ‘LAX is packed full of CCTV cameras, including the transit corridors. If this is our killer,’ Garcia nodded, ‘we’ll get some sort of
footage.’

Garcia was so focused on the possibility of some sort of breakthrough, however small it might be, that until that moment he’d failed to notice the see-through, plastic evidence bag on
Hunter’s desk. He paused and craned his neck sideways.

The evidence bag contained the brown paper envelope that had been slid under Hunter’s door in the early hours of the morning.

Garcia repositioned himself to have a better look at it. As he did, his breathing froze for a second. He didn’t need to compare it to know that handwriting.

‘What the fuck is that, Robert?’

‘It’s exactly what you think it is.’ Hunter slid the evidence bag towards his partner.

‘It was delivered here?’ Garcia asked without reaching for it.

‘No. Somebody slid it under my door some time in the middle of the night.’

Garcia looked at Hunter as if what he’d just said made no sense.

‘Under your door? As in – under the door to your apartment?’

Hunter confirmed it with a nod.

‘Somebody slid it under your door? Somebody who?’

Hunter shook his head. ‘By the time I noticed the envelope, the person was long gone.’

‘The killer?

‘I can’t think of anyone else, can you?’

‘Holy shit, Robert. Are you telling me that the killer dropped by your apartment to deliver that? He was standing just outside your front door?’

Another nod from Hunter. This time, the movement looked a little more defeated than the previous one.

‘It looks that way. Yes.’

Garcia ran both hands through his hair, pausing as they reached the back of his head. ‘What the hell, Robert? Why? Why would he do that?’

‘I have a suspicion as to why, but I’d like you to read the note first and tell me what you think.’

Despite their investigation not being in the news yet, it wouldn’t have been hard for the killer to get hold of Hunter’s address. All he needed to do was place a call to the PAB and
ask for the name of the detective in charge of the investigation. Once he had Hunter’s name, obtaining his address wouldn’t have taken any longer than five minutes.

‘Has forensics seen this?’

‘Not yet,’ Hunter replied. ‘I wanted you to read it first.’

‘Sure,’ Garcia said, picking up the evidence bag and walking over to his desk. As he sat down, he pulled open the top right-hand drawer, reached inside it and retrieved a pair of
latex gloves. After gloving up, he turned his full attention to the envelope.

It was a typical American diner with a flickering sign outside that read ‘Donny’s’ in large red letters. The diner was located on a strip mall, just a few
blocks away from the heart of the financial district in Downtown LA. Despite it being daytime, the inside was lit by the glow of neon and the sequence of lights from a large jukebox. All the booths
and tables were taken, which wasn’t really surprising because the food was good and inexpensive, and the coffee much better than that served at many of the chain coffee shops found all around
the city. Yes, Donny’s was constantly busy, and lunchtimes were the rush hour of the rush hour.

As a table for two vacated, Alison Atkins, the oldest of the four waitresses working the floor that afternoon, sprayed its surface with some disinfectant soap, wiped it clean with the cloth that
she kept hanging from her work apron and signaled Rita at the door to let her know that she could seat two new customers. Rita immediately sent the couple that had been waiting for the past ten
minutes in Alison’s direction.

As the couple walked past table seven, the second table to the right from the front door, they paid little attention to the man who was sitting alone at it. The man, in return, seemed lost in
thought, oblivious to the loud chatter and constant movement that was going on all around him. To the outside world, it looked like the only thing the man was interested in was the double espresso
sitting on the table in front of him, which he’d been stirring for the past thirty seconds.

The customer sitting at table seven had come to Donny’s diner about an hour earlier. As he’d got to the door, he’d smiled politely at Rita, the young waitress who greeted him,
and asked for a table for one. No tables were available at that time but he said that he didn’t mind waiting, and wait he did, for almost twenty minutes. Once he was finally seated, he once
again waited patiently for the waitress to come back to him and take his order, which took her close to another ten minutes. He did all that waiting with no irritation whatsoever, as if he had all
the time in the world and not a worry in his life.

He finally stopped stirring, tapped his teaspoon against the edge of the espresso cup, placed it down on the saucer and brought the cup to his lips. He had to admit that the coffee at
Donny’s certainly deserved its reputation.

‘Is everything OK, sir?’ Alison asked, coming up to his table and giving the customer her usual magnetic smile.

Alison had stayed true to the promise she had made herself all those years ago while sitting inside that Greyhound bus, heading to Los Angeles. She had completely changed the way she looked, her
accent, her posture, the way she walked . . . everything. There was nothing left of the young Kelly Decker from Summerdale, Alabama. Alison had also grown up to be a very attractive woman. Her
longish, copper-blonde hair sparkled with life under any light, even when tied back in a work-style ponytail like that afternoon. Her skin was soft and well cared for, and her piercing eyes shone
with such distinction that it was almost impossible for anyone not to notice them. Alison had also been blessed with the sort of metabolism that would make her a billionaire if there were any way
she could bottle it. No matter what she ate, she just didn’t seem to put on any weight – ever. Her long legs were strong and toned like an athlete’s, not from exercising at the
gym or at the beach, she never really had time for either, but from the amount of walking her job required daily.

Donny, the diner owner, and all the other waitresses had lost count of the times a customer had slipped Alison a card with his/her name and number, and told her that she should be on the big
screen instead of slaving away for peanuts pay and shitty tips in some greasy diner in South Central.

Alison would always take the card, politely smile back and thank the customer, and then throw it away when she got to the kitchen.

‘You know, Alison,’ Rita, and all of the other waitresses, had told her many times, ‘some of those people and offers could actually be real. This is LA, remember? Hollywood is
just around the corner, girlfriend. It ain’t crazy to think that maybe some of these people mean what they say. This city is riddled with stories of stars who were discovered while waiting
tables or working behind bars. Maybe you should think about giving some of them a chance? Wouldn’t you like to get the fuck out of this dead-end job and your shitty neighborhood? Go live in
Malibu or something?’

Alison would always reply the same way.

‘I like this job, and I love the area I live in.’

That was actually true. Alison was very content with her life. But despite that fact, no matter how much time had gone by, no matter how different she looked, fear would forever live inside her.
The last thing Alison Atkins wanted was to gain notoriety, in any shape or form. She didn’t need to be rich or famous to be happy.

The customer at table seven looked up at Alison and smiled back. In all honesty, his smile was just as disarming as hers.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Everything is just fine, thank you very much.’

The man had also completely changed his appearance from when he’d last eaten at Donny’s, but his transformation hadn’t taken years, merely an hour. In the past years, the man
had become a makeup and prosthetic expert. He could make himself look as attractive or as ugly as the situation demanded. He could change his whole persona, including his accent, at the drop of a
hat. He could pass for several different people in the same day and no one would ever know. Yes, the customer at table seven truly was a modern-day chameleon.

Today the man had chosen to have longish black hair that came down to his jawbone, dark-brown eyes that were framed by round spectacles, which he didn’t need, and a stylish goatee. His
cheekbones looked a touch higher than they naturally were, and his teeth whiter and straighter, giving him a nearly perfect smile. He wore dark trousers with black shoes, a matching blazer jacket
and an expensive-looking blue shirt.

The other three waitresses working the lunch shift had all tried flirting with the customer at table seven, but he seemed deep in thought throughout – eyes forward, blank stare, no frown.
Their attempts went unnoticed.

Alison also found him quite attractive. There was something about him that she found rather familiar, but she couldn’t tell exactly what. Neither Alison, nor any of the other waitresses,
could remember seeing him in Donny’s before.

Despite his eyes not wandering, he’d been observing Alison the whole time he’d been there.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ the man said, renewing his smile. ‘This has been tremendously selfish of me.’

‘What has?’ Alison looked unsure.

‘This place is so busy, there’s a line of people outside waiting for a table, and here I am taking all the time in the world just to finish a cup of coffee. I apologize. If you bring
me my check, I’ll be out of your way in no time.’

His voice was firm, but tender at the same time.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Alison said with a shake of the head. ‘You can take as long as you like.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s dying down now,
anyway.’

‘Really?’ He turned his neck to look around. The place was still heaving. ‘Could’ve fooled me.’

Alison smiled again.

It was the man’s turn to consult his timepiece. ‘No, actually, I really do have to go.’

‘No problem, I’ll get the check for you.’

While Alison returned to the cash register, the man calmly finished his double espresso.

‘Here you go,’ Alison said, placing the check on the table in front of him.

The man noted the amount, reached for his wallet, and placed a few bills on top of the receipt. Right then, Alison noticed two things. One – the man had put down an extra twenty dollars.
Two – his hands looked leathery and shiny, as if he had some sort of thin, protective plastic layer over them. She wondered if it was some sort of treatment for a skin condition.

‘Keep the change,’ he said, getting up.

‘Are you sure?’ She sounded doubtful.

‘Of course I am.’ The man winked so charmingly at Alison, she practically blushed.

In an impulsive move, something Alison almost never did, she threw a question his way, just as he was turning to leave.

‘I haven’t seen you in here before, have I?’

The man looked back at her. ‘No, this is actually my first time eating here.’

‘Well.’ She returned the wink. ‘I really hope you’ll come back.’

Their eyes locked for a few seconds and the man nodded, courteously.

Alison never heard what the man whispered as he turned and walked toward the diner door.

‘You’ll see me a lot sooner than you expect, Alison.’

As if handling some sort of dangerous and unstable substance, Garcia extracted the contents from the evidence bag carefully, before retrieving the single sheet of paper from
inside the envelope.

The note had been folded in half to perfectly fit a regular business envelope.

Hunter waited while Garcia unfolded it and placed it flat on the desk in front of him. Just like the note sent to Mayor Bailey, this one had also been handwritten in red ink. Once again, the
killer had used a ballpoint pen.