The Night Stalker (22 page)

Hunter drove around aimlessly for a while before ending up at the oceanfront on Santa Monica Beach.

He liked watching the sea at night. The sound of waves breaking against the sand together with the quietness calmed him. It reminded him of his parents and of when he was a little kid.

His father used to work seventy-hour weeks, jumping between two awfully paid jobs. His mother would take any work that came her way – cleaning, ironing, washing, anything. Hunter couldn’t remember a weekend when his father wasn’t working, and even then they struggled to pay all their bills. But Hunter’s parents never complained. They simply played the cards they were dealt. And no matter how bad a hand they got, they always did it with a smile on their faces.

Every Sunday, after Hunter’s father got home from work, they used to go down to the beach. Most times they got there as everyone else was packing up and getting ready to leave. Sometimes the sun had already set. But Hunter didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it. It was like the whole beach belonged to him and his parents. After Hunter’s mother passed away, his father never stopped taking him to the beach on Sundays. Sometimes, Hunter would catch his father wiping away tears as he watched the waves break.

There were tourists everywhere, especially down Third Street Promenade and in the many beach bars that lined the oceanfront. A boy sped past him in rollerblades, quickly followed by a younger girl, clearly struggling with her technique.

‘Slow down, Tim,’ she called after the boy pleadingly. He didn’t even look back.

Hunter sat on the sand for a while, watching the waves and breathing in the sea breeze. He spotted a group of night surfers in the distance. Five in total, two of them female. They seemed to be having a great time. A boy was practicing his soccer juggling skills close to the water. He was good, Hunter had to admit. A couple holding hands walked past in silence and both nodded a cordial hello at Hunter, who returned the gesture. He watched them walk away, and for a moment he lost himself in a memory. Something few people ever knew about him – he’d been in love once, long ago.

Unconsciously his lips spread into a melancholic smile. As the memory developed, the smile faded and an empty pit took hold of his stomach. A lonely tear threatened to form at the corner of his eye. But the memory was interrupted by his cell phone ringing in his pocket. The display window read – unknown number.

‘Detective Hunter.’

‘Wassup, dawg?’
D-King said in his chilled-out lilt. Loud hip-hop music was playing in the background.

‘Not much,’ Hunter replied.

D-King wasn’t one for beating around the bush. ‘Sorry, dawg, there’s no word on the street, you know what I’m saying. The Chicanos, the Jamaicans, the Russians, the Chinese, the Italians, whoever . . . no one knows anything about no girl getting a stitch job. She wasn’t a gang hit, at least not a known gang.’

‘Yeah, I figured that out since we last talked.’

‘Did you find out who she was?’

‘Yeah.’

D-King waited, but Hunter didn’t follow up.

‘Let me guess, she wasn’t a working girl.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I told you, dawg. I would’ve known if she was.’ There was a hesitant pause. ‘Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll keep asking around. If I hear anything, I’ll give you a holler.’

He disconnected, brushed his hands against each other, clearing off the sand before grabbing his jacket and walking back to his car. The throng of people around the bars was starting to die down, and for a moment Hunter considered going inside. He could do with a shot of single malt . . . or five. Maybe
that
would completely clear his mind.

A woman sitting at one of the many outside tables laughed loudly, catching Hunter’s attention. She was attractive with short brunette hair and a magnificent smile. Their eyes met for a brief instant and he remembered that Kelly Jensen’s apartment was in Santa Monica. Her art studio wasn’t far either. Culver City was practically the next neighborhood.

The file Hunter had got from Missing Persons said that the investigating officer had visited both locations without any major breakthroughs. The suspicion was that Kelly had been abducted from her home address as she parked her car and made her way into her apartment building. There were no witnesses and no CCTV camera footage.

Hunter checked his watch. He and Garcia had planned on checking out both places tomorrow, but what the hell. He was already there, and there was no way he’d be getting any sleep anytime soon.

Kelly Jensen’s apartment was on the second floor of a luxurious building on the exclusive San Vicente Boulevard, a stone’s throw away from the west end of Santa Monica Beach.

Hunter parked his car just outside her apartment block and observed the traffic for a while. Cars came and went every ten to fifteen seconds. As he got out and closed the door behind him, he recognized Kelly’s car as described in the information sheet he’d received from Missing Persons – a candy white 1989 anniversary Pontiac Trans-Am T-top in pristine condition. It was parked just a few spaces from where he had pulled up. Hunter put on a pair of latex gloves before mechanically looking up at the surrounding buildings. There were several lights on. He approached Kelly’s car and cupped his hands over the driver’s window. Its interior looked to be spotlessly clean.

Hunter already had the keys to Kelly’s apartment. They had been sent to Parker Center together with the MPU case files, and those were in the back seat of his car. He let himself into the building and made his way up to the second floor. After fumbling for the right key, he unlocked the door to Kelly’s apartment, stepped inside and paused by the entrance for a moment before trying the light switch. Nothing.

‘Great.’ He flicked on his flashlight.

Her living room was spacious and nicely decorated. Hunter took his time looking around. The tidiness was almost compulsive, except for the dust that had accumulated since Kelly had gone missing. Every object seemed to have its place.

There were a few photo frames on a long glass sideboard against one of the walls – most of the photos were of her and her parents.

The kitchen was open plan, on the west side of the living room. No lights worked there either. Hunter opened the fridge and was immediately slapped across the face by a gust of warm, putrid air.

‘Damn!’ He jumped back, slamming the door shut. The power must’ve been off for a few days now. He exited the kitchen and moved further into the apartment.

The bedroom was enormous, probably bigger than Hunter’s entire one-bedroom flat. In the en-suite bathroom he found a large collection of make-up items and several bottles of face, hand and body creams. Her bed was perfectly made. On her dresser Hunter found another portrait of her parents, some necklaces and bracelets, and a collection of fragrances. The drawers were overflowing with lingerie and summer clothes.

Hunter returned his attention to Kelly’s parents’ portrait. She looked a lot more like her mother than her father. Hunter couldn’t help but think about the pain they were about to go through when the sheriff in Great Falls knocked on their door. It was the worst news any parent could ever receive. He’d been the bearer of such news more times than he cared to remember.

As he placed the frame back on the dresser, his flashlight beam reflected on the silver frame and his body tensed. The frame worked like a mirror, and he caught a glimpse of a dark figure standing right behind him.

Click.

Hunter heard the muffled sound of a semi-automatic pistol being cocked inches away from the back of his head. But before the person standing there had a chance to say or do anything, he spun on the balls of his feet and swung his arm around with purpose. The flashlight caught the intruder’s pistol-holding arm with a loud thud.

Gun and flashlight flew across the room, smashing against the wardrobe door and falling to the floor. The flashlight ended up under the bed, facing the wall, its deflected beam now just strong enough to keep the room from slipping into total darkness.

Hunter’s left hand was already at his shoulder holster. He’d managed to wrap his fingers around the handle of his gun when the intruder delivered a well-placed kick to his abdomen, catching Hunter right at the pit of his stomach. Air left him like a ripped balloon and he stumbled backwards, gasping for oxygen. Hunter knew another kick would quickly follow. This time it came in the form of a side sweep to the right side of his body, around the same height as the first one, but Hunter was ready for it. He blocked it with the outside of his forearm and unleashed a devastating blow with his left fist, catching the intruder square in the chest. Hunter used his momentum to step forward and sent in a follow-up punch to the face. It was blocked with martial-art precision. Hunter didn’t miss a step, another left punch to the side of the torso – blocked. Right punch to the chest – blocked. Left elbow to the face – blocked.

What the fuck?
Hunter thought. Can this guy see in the dark or what?

A new, higher and more powerful jump kick came from the intruder. Hunter saw it late, but even so, his rapid reaction allowed him to swerve most of his head out of the way. The tip of the intruder’s boot grazed Hunter’s right eyebrow, nicking it. Hunter used his swerving motion to gain speed and pirouetted his body around three hundred and sixty degrees. The movement took only a split second, and at the end of it Hunter delivered a new punch with his left fist straight to the intruder’s ribcage. But some last-minute intuition told him to take some of the power off the strike. Even so, this time there was no blocking. The intruder doubled over and stumbled back. In a blink of an eye Hunter reversed his movement, spinning his body in the opposite direction. As he faced his attacker again, he was holding his gun with his right arm fully extended. The barrel of his weapon just inches away from his attacker’s face.

‘Move and you’ll be having dinner with Elvis.’

‘Fuck, that was a fast draw.’

Hunter frowned. It was a woman’s voice.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ she asked.

‘Me?’ Hunter cocked his gun. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I asked first.’

‘Well, I have a gun.’

‘Yeah? So did I.’

‘Well, guess what? I still have mine, and it’s pointing right at your face.’

A split-second pause.

‘OK, point taken.’ She lifted her hands but didn’t say a word.

‘I’ll ask again, in case you forgot – who the hell are you?’

‘My name is Whitney Myers.’ Her voice was calm.

Hunter waited but Myers offered nothing else. ‘And . . . ? Is your name supposed to mean anything to me . . . ?’

‘I’m a private missing persons investigator. If you allow me to move I can show you my credentials.’

‘Your hands are going nowhere for now, buttercup.’

He looked at her suspiciously. Even through the weak light coming from under the bed, Hunter could tell Myers was wearing dark trousers and shirt, flat-soled shoes, a small pouch belt around her waist and a black skullcap.

‘You dress more like a burglar than a PI.’

‘Well, you don’t dress like a cop either,’ she stabbed back.

‘How do you know I’m a cop?’

She tilted her head in the direction of the wardrobe. ‘Standard issue LAPD flashlight.’ A short pause. ‘Unlike your gun. Nothing standard about that. HK USP tactical pistol. A Navy Seals favorite. You’re obviously part of some special section, or a pretty big gun fanatic. I’m guessing both.’

Hunter’s gun was still aimed dead at her eyes. ‘If you knew I was a cop, why the hell did you attack me like that?’

‘You never gave me a chance to say a word. I was about to politely ask you to turn around slowly when suddenly you turned into Captain America on crack. I was just defending myself.’

Hunter considered it. ‘If you’re a PI, who hired you?’

‘You know I can’t tell you that. It’s privileged information.’

Hunter’s gaze moved to his gun and then back to Myers. ‘Under the circumstances, I don’t think you’ve got much of a choice.’

‘You and I both know you’re not gonna shoot me.’

Hunter chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you. All I need is a reason.’

Myers didn’t reply.

‘Plus I can arrest you for breaking and entering. You know how it goes. You’ll have to drag a lawyer down to the station, then you’ll be properly interrogated . . . yada, yada, yada . . . and we’ll find out anyway. So you’d better tell me something, or this is about to become a
very
long night for you.’ Hunter could feel thin lines of blood running down the right side of his face from the cut just above his eyebrow. He stood perfectly still.

Myers fixed Hunter down with a solid stare. She could see the resolve in his eyes. He wasn’t about to let her go easy. But Myers also wasn’t about to tell Hunter the truth about Katia and Leonid Kudrov. She wasn’t prepared to tell him her secrets, or that – out of habit and as a way of keeping her updated with who her potential clients could be – Myers was sent a daily list of names, including photographs, of new additions to the Missing Persons Unit database. The list was compiled and filtered by her LAPD informer, Carl O’Connor.