The Night Stalker (15 page)

‘There must’ve been. Who identified the body?’

‘Mr. Barlett,’ Hunter’s voice sounded firmer this time, ‘there’s no mistake.’

Patrick’s eyes returned to the photo frame for an instant before breaking away and finding refuge in the panoramic view. His hands moved from his desk to his lap, like a kid trying to hide the fact that they were shaking.

‘When did you last see Miss Mitchell, Mr. Barlett?’ Garcia asked.

Silence.

‘Mr. Barlett?’

His gaze moved back to both detectives. ‘Huh? Please call me Patrick.’

‘When did you last see Miss Mitchell, Patrick?’ Garcia repeated, a fraction slower this time.

‘Weeks ago, on the last night of her exhibition at . . .’ he searched the air for the name but didn’t find it, ‘. . . in West Hollywood somewhere.’

‘The Daniel Rossdale Gallery?’ Hunter helped him.

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

‘Were you invited?’ Garcia again.

‘It wasn’t an invitational exhibition.’

‘I mean, did Miss Mitchell know you were going? Did she ask you to go?’

Barlett’s entire demeanor changed into something a lot harder.

‘Am I being accused here?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘This is absolutely ridiculous. If you think I’d ever be capable of hurting Laura, then you guys are probably the worst detectives this town has ever seen. Either that, or you didn’t bother doing a background check on us. We have history together. I love Laura. I’d take my own life before I hurt her.’

Hunter noticed that Barlett didn’t even mention the fact that he wasn’t in town when Laura’s body was found.

‘Did you try contacting her again after the exhibition? Apparently you didn’t part on very good terms that night.’

‘What?’ Patrick glared at Garcia. ‘That’s bullshit. You need to get your facts right, Detective. I drank a little too much that night and I acted like a jerk, I admit it. But that was all. Nothing more. And yes, I tried calling her the next day to apologize, but all I got was her answering service.’

‘Did you leave a message?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she call you back?’

Barlett gave Garcia a nervous chuckle. ‘No, she never does. I’m used to it.’

‘Why do you say you acted like a jerk?’ Garcia again. ‘What happened?’

Barlett paused, trying to decide if he should say any more. ‘Since it’s obvious you have me as a suspect, I think we should adjourn this conversation until I have my lawyer present.’

‘We’re not accusing you of anything, Patrick,’ Garcia countered. ‘We’re just clearing up a few points.’

‘Well, it looks and sounds like an interrogation to me. So, if it’s all the same to you, I really think I should have my lawyer present.’ He reached for the phone on his desk.

Garcia leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his stubbled chin.

‘That’s your prerogative, Patrick,’ Hunter took over, ‘but that won’t help anyone. It will certainly waste time, though. Time we could spend hunting Laura’s killer.’

Patrick paused mid-dial and stared at Hunter.

‘I understand this line of enquiry might seem upsetting to you, but at the moment everyone is a suspect and we wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t come knocking at your door. Laura’s final exhibition night seems to be the last time anyone saw Miss Mitchell alive. You were seen arguing with her that night.’ Hunter leaned forward. ‘You’re an intelligent man, so think about it. Given your well-documented outbursts, your history with Laura Mitchell, and the fact that you’ve been trying to get her back for the past four years without success, does it come as a surprise to you that we’re here? What would you do if you were us?’

‘I would never hurt Laura,’ Barlett repeated.

‘Fine, but this ain’t the way to prove it. No matter what you do, lawyer or no lawyer, you’ll still have to answer our questions. We’ll just get a warrant and drag this thing out for a lot longer.’ Hunter emphatically allowed his eyes to focus on the photo on the desk. Barlett followed his stare. ‘Whoever killed Laura, the woman you loved so much, is still out there. Do you really think that fighting us and wasting time is such a good call?’

Barlett’s eyes didn’t leave the photograph.

Hunter and Garcia waited.

‘I was jealous, I admit it,’ he finally said as his eyes became glassy. ‘That guy was shadowing Laura everywhere she went like a hungry dog. Staring at her all the time as if she were naked or something. Then I saw them talking. Laura was a very private person, not the flirty type, so of course I was jealous. But there was something different about that guy.’

‘Different how?’ Hunter asked.

‘I don’t know. The look in his eyes when he stared at her. As I said, he was shadowing her. Just a few steps away from wherever she was, but he wasn’t there for her art.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because not once did he look at any of the paintings. While everyone else was walking around, admiring the exhibition, his eyes were on her . . .
only
on her. As if Laura
was
the exhibition.’

‘Don’t you think that your opinion of this man could’ve been distorted by the fact that you were jealous of him?’ Garcia suggested.

Barlett shook his head. ‘I was jealous of him, all right, especially after I saw him chatting to Laura and the way she was smiling at him, but that’s not the reason he caught my attention. I spotted the way he was staring at her way before they talked. I’m telling you, he wasn’t there for the exhibition. He was there for her.’

‘And you told Laura that?’ Garcia asked.

‘Yes, but she wouldn’t listen. She got angry. She thought I was jealous. But I was just trying to protect her.’

Hunter retrieved a snapshot from a folder he’d brought with him. It was one of the photos they’d got from the Daniel Rossdale Gallery. The one showing the tall, dark-haired stranger who had swapped phone numbers with Laura. He was standing next to her, staring at the camera. Hunter placed the photo on the desk in front of Patrick. ‘Is this the person you’re referring to?’

Patrick moved closer. His eyebrows contracted. ‘Yes, that’s him.’

‘And you’d never seen him before?’

‘Not before that night, no.’

Hunter’s phone rang in his pocket.

‘Detective Hunter,’ he answered and listened for a long moment. His eyes lit up as he faced Garcia.

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘So, where exactly are we going?’ Garcia asked, easing his car out of the parking spot.

‘Norwalk,’ Hunter said, punching the address he was given over the phone into the GPS system.

One of the officers they had visiting art galleries with a snapshot of the man who’d swapped phone numbers with Laura Mitchell on the final night of her exhibition had hit gold. The owner of an exclusive gallery in Manhattan Beach had recognized the person in the photo. Nine months ago he’d purchased a canvas by Laura Mitchell from the gallery during one of their exhibitions.

Most art galleries will ask their clients to allow the purchased piece to remain on display until that particular show is over. The Manhattan Beach Gallery always insisted on taking down a name and contact number for its clients.

The man’s name was James Smith.

Norwalk is a mostly middle-class neighborhood located seventeen miles southeast of downtown Los Angeles. It took Hunter and Garcia fifty-five minutes to get from South Figueroa Street to the address they were given on the poorer side of Norwalk.

The address led them to an old, gray concrete monstrosity. A six-story-high public housing unit with dirty windows which was in desperate need of a coat of paint. Garcia parked his car across the road from the building’s entrance. A group of five guys who were bouncing a basketball around just a few yards away stopped all activity. Ten eyes were glued to Hunter and Garcia.

‘
jQue passa
five-o?’ the tallest and fittest one of the group called as both detectives crossed the street. He had no shirt on and his muscles glistened with sweat. Most of his torso, arms and neck were covered in tattoos. Hunter recognized some of them as prison branding.
‘jQué quieres aquí, puer-cos?’
He let go of the ball and folded his arms defiantly. The other four grouped up behind him like a defensive line-up.

‘
No somos policías
,’ Hunter said, flashing his gym membership card. He knew the group was way too far away to be able to see it properly. ‘I’m from the City of Los Angeles Housing Authority.’ He flicked his head towards Garcia. ‘He’s from Pensions and Welfare.’

The whole group’s hard-ass demeanor evaporated in an instant.

‘Oh man, I gotta go,’ the one with glasses said, checking his watch. ‘I’ve got a job interview in an hour.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ the skinny, shaven-headed one said.

They all nodded and mumbled in Spanish as the group broke away, all five of them reaching for their cell phones.

Garcia couldn’t hide his smile.

The entrance lobby was in as much need of attention as the rest of the building. Dirty walls, water stains on the ceilings, and the stale smell of cigarettes greeted Hunter and Garcia as they came through its metal and wired-glass doors.

‘Which floor?’ Garcia asked.

‘Fourth.’

Garcia reached for the elevator call button.

‘You gotta be kidding, right?’ Hunter chuckled. ‘Have you noticed the state of this place? That’s a risk too far.’ He gestured towards the stairs. ‘Safer to use those.’ They took the steps two at a time.

The fourth floor corridor was long, narrow, badly lit and it smelled of old fried onions and piss. They passed a semi-open door where a baby was crying somewhere inside. The TV in the living room was on, showing some sort of courtroom program.

‘Not really the sort of place you’d expect an art lover to live,’ Garcia commented.

Apartment 418 was two doors from the end of the corridor. Hunter knocked and waited fifteen seconds.

No reply.

He knocked again and moved his ear to the door. Ten seconds later he heard someone approaching from inside. The door unlocked with a loud clang and then was pulled back a fraction, just the length of the security chain. The lights inside the apartment were off. All he could see was a pair of eyes looking out from about a foot away from the door. The sweet smell of jasmine seeped through from inside.

‘Mr. Smith?’ Hunter asked. ‘James Smith?’

Silence.

Hunter subtly placed the tip of his boot against the bottom of the door and lifted his badge. ‘We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?’

Two more seconds of silence. Suddenly, in a desperate reaction, the door was pushed forward with a jerk, but Hunter’s foot stopped it from slamming shut.

‘James . . . ? What the hell?’ Hunter called.

The tension on the door relaxed as Smith let go of it. They heard the hustle of foot scuffing inside the apartment, moving deeper within, and away from them. Hunter looked at Garcia quizzically for a split second. They both realized it at the same time.

‘Fire escape . . .’

Hunter pointed to the far end of the hall. ‘Back alley . . . go . . . now.’

Garcia spun around on the balls of his feet and took off down the corridor like a locomotive. Hunter pushed the apartment’s door open but it halted at the security chain. He slammed his left shoulder hard against it. Once was all it took. The chain came undone from the doorframe, wooden splinters flying through the air. Hunter saw and heard the door at the end of the apartment’s hallway slam shut. He dashed towards it but didn’t get there in time. A step away from it he heard the lock turn. Mechanically he tried the handle. Nothing.

‘Smith, c’mon . . .’ He shoved his shoulder against the door. It didn’t budge. He tried again, harder this time. Solid as stone. He took two steps back and sent his boot straight onto the door handle. Once, twice, three times. The door rattled a little but that was all. He knew it was pointless carrying on. The door probably had surface-mounted deadbolt locks on the other side. Hunter could shoot the hinges off, but that would be overkill, and way too hard to justify in a report.

‘Smith, c’mon, open up.’

Chances were he was already halfway down the fire ladder.

‘Fuck!’

Hunter backtracked down the corridor to the next room along on the right, which was on the same side as the room James had locked himself in. The door was shut but not locked. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was in almost complete darkness. Hunter didn’t look for a light switch – no time – and dashed towards the window on the far wall, almost tripping over something on the floor. Just like the room James had gone into, the window faced the building’s back alley. There were no curtains, but the glass had been sprayed with black paint. It was an old-style window. Two panels. The bottom one had slots for fingers at the bottom. No locks, just a single rotating latch. Hunter undid it and pushed the bottom panel up. Stuck.