The Executioner (21 page)

‘No, thank you. We’re fine.’

Tyler poured himself a shot of bourbon. ‘It’s hard to believe that a place that’d brought me the happiest days of my life housed such a monstrous act.’ He sipped his drink. ‘Is it true what I read in the paper?’ He hesitated for a second. ‘Did the killer really use the fireplace to burn her?’

Hunter nodded in silence.

For a second Tyler’s stare became distant, and Hunter knew his memory had gone back to the house. To the living room and the fireplace he knew so well. He swallowed and quickly took another sip of his bourbon.

‘And is this really the same killer who decapitated that priest last week?’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ Garcia replied.

‘I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.’

‘At the moment it’s all speculation,’ Hunter lied.

Tyler walked up to the large glass window that offered a panoramic view of LA’s financial district. ‘This city has changed so much. I don’t think I understand it anymore.’

‘Did you ever?’ Garcia asked.

Tyler smiled. ‘You’ve gotta point there.’

‘If it’s OK with you, I’d like to show you some photographs that were taken at the house,’ Hunter said and was quick to sense Tyler’s uneasiness. ‘Don’t worry,’ he clarified. ‘They aren’t photos of the victim.’

Tyler stared at his glass. There was something else worrying him. Hunter realized what it was. The pictures would bring back memories of the house and his wife. ‘I know this is hard . . .’

Tyler shook his head and returned to his desk. ‘It’s OK, detective.’

Hunter placed several photographs on Tyler’s desk. They all showed the main living room of the house in Malibu. ‘We were wondering if you could have a look at these pictures. See if anything strikes you as odd or being out of place?’

Tyler allowed his eyes to study each photograph for a few seconds. ‘It’s hard to say. I haven’t been to the house for eight months. The cleaning company might’ve moved things around.’

‘We understand that,’ Hunter agreed. ‘But maybe there’s something that really catches your eye.’

Tyler finished his drink, gathered all the photographs into a single pile and sat back in his chair. He flipped through them carefully, sometimes frowning, sometimes squinting as if trying to remember. Both detectives sat quietly observing his reactions. Halfway through the pictures he stopped. Something had grabbed his attention.

‘Do you see something?’ Hunter asked.

Tyler lifted his right index finger, asking for a minute. He then searched through the rest of the photos until he found the one he was looking for.

‘What do you see?’ Hunter pressed.

Garcia leaned forward, stretching his neck.

Tyler placed the photo on his desk facing the detectives. It showed the large river rock fireplace.

‘Something different about the fireplace?’ Hunter asked.

‘On the mantelpiece,’ Tyler replied.

Both detectives’ eyes shot to the photos. The fireplace mantelpiece was decorated with several objects – small vases, a couple of picture frames, a few figurines . . .

‘What’s different about it?’

‘My memory can be hazy at times, but one thing I remember well is that Kate never kept any picture frames in the living room.’ He tapped the picture with his index finger. ‘In the reception entrance yes, but not in the living room. She was superstitious like that. She thought it was unlucky. Those picture frames on the fireplace—’ he shook his head vigorously ‘—they certainly weren’t there when we lived in the house.’

‘Excuse me, honey,’ the tallest of the four men sitting at the corner table in the old-fashioned diner said to the brunette waitress as she walked past.

‘Yes?’ Mollie turned to face him, trying her best not to look annoyed. The four of them had been pestering her for the past fifteen minutes.

‘Are you tired?’ he asked. The other three were already giggling.

‘Why?’ she replied, a little puzzled.

‘Because, babe, I want you to know that as long as I gotta face, you gotta place to sit.’ They all burst into laughter.

‘Order up,’ came the call from the busy kitchen. Mollie walked back to the counter to collect the order and felt their eyes burn a hole in the back of her red and white dress.

Every table in the small diner was taken. Most of them by sleazy scumbags like the four in the corner who thought every waitress in south LA was dying to go to bed with them. She didn’t like her job and all the abuse that came with it, but she didn’t have a choice. She desperately needed the money.

She took the order to a middle-aged man sitting by himself, and as she placed the plate on the table he grabbed hold of her hand. ‘Excuse me, Miss Candy Pants, but this ain’t what I fucking ordered.’

‘Didn’t you order a double cheeseburger and fries?’

‘Yes, but I specifically said no goddamn pickles. I hate pickles. What the fuck do you call these?’ He lifted the top bun and pointed to three long pickle slices.

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ she said, embarrassed, reaching for the plate. ‘I’ll get the cook to take them off.’

‘No, not take them off,’ he said angrily between clenched teeth. ‘I want him to cook me a new one. This one is ruined.’

‘No problem, sir. I’ll get you a new one right away.’

‘Stupid bitch,’ he murmured as she took the plate.

On her way back to the kitchen, Mollie noticed a Mexican-looking man in his early thirties wearing old, dirty and ripped clothes standing by the entrance door. He caught her eye and as she walked past he asked in a timid voice: ‘Excuse me, miss. Is it OK if I come in for some food? I have some money.’ He tapped his trouser pocket and she heard the rattle of coins.

‘Yes, of course.’ She frowned at the strange question. Turning around, she scanned the busy diner. A table had just vacated by the door where they were. ‘Why don’t you take this table right here and I’ll get you a menu.’

He smiled a sincere smile. ‘Thank you very much, miss. That’s very kind of you. I won’t be long. I’ll eat quick.’

Mollie smiled back, not understanding why he sounded so thankful. She got to the kitchen and was about to explain to Billy, the large Texan cook, about the whole pickle incident when she heard loud yelling coming from the diner floor.

‘Who the hell told you you could sit in here?’ Donna Higgins, the restaurant owner was standing by the entrance table, yelling at its occupant.

‘I’m sorry,’ the Mexican man said shyly. ‘The waitress said it was OK.’

‘Which waitress would that be?’

He looked down shyly without answering. ‘I won’t be long. I’ll eat quick, I promise.’

‘I don’t care how you eat, as long as it’s not in my restaurant.’

‘I’m not asking for charity, miss. I have money. I can pay for my food.’

‘Of course you have money,’ Donna shot back, gesticulating frantically. ‘You probably stole it.’

‘No, I didn’t. I helped someone push his car out of the road and he was kind enough to give me a few bucks.’ He showed her a handful of coins and one-dollar bills. ‘I can eat outside or out the back, miss. I don’t mind. I just want a hot meal, maybe some eggs and bacon and a glass of milk. I haven’t eaten in a few days.’

‘Well, you ain’t getting it here. I bet you’re a fucking illegal immigrant, aren’t you?’

The man tensed.

‘That’s what I thought. Get your stinking self outta my restaurant—’ she pointed to the door ‘—before I call immigration on you.’

His sad eyes wandered the diner. Everyone was looking at him. Without a word, he returned the little money he had back to his trouser pocket and left.

‘Hey!’ He heard someone call as he turned the corner. ‘Hey, wait!’ The female voice called again. He stopped and looked back. The brunette waitress had come out of the diner’s back door carrying a brown paper bag.

‘Do you like pickles?’ Mollie asked.

He frowned.

‘You know, pickles. Like cucumbers.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, they’re nice.’

‘Here.’ She offered him the paper bag. ‘It’s a double cheeseburger with fries and a bottle of milk. There’re pickles in the cheeseburger.’ She smiled.

He stared at her with thankful eyes before reaching into his pocket.

‘No, no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You don’t have to pay me. It’s OK.’

‘I don’t want no charity, miss. I have money to pay for my food.’

‘I know. I saw your money.’ A new comforting smile. ‘But this ain’t charity. They made me too much food for my dinner break. I’m on a diet,’ she lied and offered him the bag once again. ‘Here, take it. I can’t eat all this food. It’d only be thrown away.’

He hesitated for a moment before taking the bag and smiling. ‘Thank you very much. You’re a very kind person.’

Mollie watched him walk away before returning to the diner.

‘You can find yourself another job, you little bitch,’ Donna Higgins told her as soon as she walked through the back door into the kitchen.

‘What? Why?’

‘Who told you you could take a break when I have a packed floor in there?’

‘It was only a three-minute break.’

‘I don’t give a shit. You took a break when you weren’t supposed to and you stole food.’

The waitress’s jaw dropped. ‘I didn’t steal any food.’

‘Oh no? How about the cheeseburger and fries and the bottle of milk you took from the fridge?’

Her face tightened. ‘I was gonna pay for that.’

‘Of course you gonna pay for that. That’s why you’re getting no wages for today.’

‘What?’ She could feel panic starting to take over. ‘Please, Mrs. Higgins, I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have taken the food and I’ll pay for it. I’ll work extra hours if you like. I really need the money for my rent.’

‘Oh poor you.’ Donna Higgins made a silly face. ‘You should’ve thought of that before stealing from me. Now get your stuff and get the hell outta my restaurant.’

He’d been sitting at the same table by the front window of the small diner for over eight hours. His deep-set eyes checking the faces of every passenger who boarded or stepped off any bus that stopped directly opposite the diner entrance.

He ordered another coffee and checked his watch. Three minutes until the next bus was due to arrive, enough time for a bathroom break. He’d been following the same routine for the past few days – arriving at around noon and leaving only when the diner closed at eleven o’clock but so far he’d had no luck.

He splashed some cold water on his face and ran the tip of his right index finger over the ugly scar on his forehead. ‘It won’t be long now,’ he whispered to his reflection.

The bus was just driving away when he stepped out of the bathroom. It had come at least a full minute ahead of its scheduled time. He cursed himself and ran to the front of the diner, his eyes frantically searching, but most passengers had already scattered away.

The brunette in a red and white waitress uniform had to run, but she made it to the bus stop just as the bus was ready to leave. Taking a seat by one of the front windows, she buried her face in her hands and wondered what excuse she could give her landlord.

The man in the diner never saw her.

The smell of burned flesh was still just as strong as the night before, and it made both detectives gag as they re-entered the house in Malibu. Garcia chewed on two anti-acid tablets before cupping his hands over his nose and mouth. His stomach retched as they approached the living room, and he stopped by the door. Bending over, he held onto his knees, concentrating hard not to be sick again.

‘Why don’t you wait here?’ Hunter suggested, pulling a pair of latex gloves over his hands. ‘I’ll check the fireplace.’

‘That sounds like a plan,’ Garcia replied, exhaling a long breath.

Pulling the collar of his shirt up like a mask to cover his nose and mouth, Hunter approached the room’s south wall and the fireplace. Fingerprint powder was everywhere. The armchair Amanda Reilly had been tied to had been taken away for further forensic examination. The once-beautiful living room now felt like a torture chamber, and it made the hairs on the back of Hunter’s neck prickle. He took a deep breath and moved the focus of his flashlight onto the large fireplace. It was decorated with several figurines, four color-coordinated vases and two candleholders, but Hunter’s attention was on the two silver-plated picture frames. One at each end of the mantelpiece. The frames themselves looked pretty common, probably standard issue in any department store. Hunter first checked the one at the far right. There was a gap between the frame and the wall of about eight inches, enough for him to check the back without having to pick it up – nothing out of the ordinary. He checked the second frame, and again found nothing. Finally, he picked them both up.

The photographs weren’t of Dan Tyler or his wife. The first one he examined showed a woman with a pretty smile sitting comfortably on a black leather sofa. A glass of red wine in her right hand. She was attractive in a high-maintenance way; short blond hair, way too much makeup and enigmatic baby-blue eyes. There was something arrogant about her. The second photograph was of a man leaning casually against a white wall. Slender, with neatly trimmed fair hair and unexpressive hazel eyes, he was dressed in a light green T-shirt and faded blue jeans. At first look, there was nothing extraordinary about any of those two characters. But who were they?