The Night Stalker (14 page)

Myers’ eyebrows rose.

‘I listened to it so many times it’s etched on my brain,’ he explained.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Positive.’

Myers’ eyes returned to her notebook. ‘According to Katia’s father, he called his daughter from his cell phone at eight fifty-three that night. The call lasted four minutes and twelve seconds.’

‘She answered that call, didn’t she?’

Myers nodded.

‘But eleven minutes earlier the answering machine picked it up. Was she out?’

Myers flipped a page. ‘Nope, the building’s concierge said that she arrived at around eight o’clock. He took her suitcases up to the penthouse for her.’ Myers’ fingers returned to her upper lip for an instant. ‘Of course. The towel on the kitchen floor. Katia must’ve been in the shower.’ She quickly checked her notes again. ‘Shit! Remember I told you we have no CCTV footage from the cameras in her building because there was a power surge that blew the fuse box.’

‘Yep.’

‘Well, the cameras went down just before eight.’

Cohen cleared his throat as he leaned forward. ‘And we already know there’s no fucking way that was a coincidence.’

‘That means the kidnapper knew
exactly
the time she’d be arriving home.’ Myers paused and fought back an uneasy feeling. ‘He was already waiting for her inside her apartment when she got there. That’s why he says welcome home. He
knew
she was home.’

Cohen’s whole expression changed. ‘So he made that last call from
inside
her apartment?’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Why? Why make the call if he was already there?’

‘I’m not sure. Fear factor? Sadism? It doesn’t matter.’

Cohen felt every hair on his body stand on end. ‘Oh my God.’

‘What?’

‘The background hissing noise that Gus picked up in the recording. At the studio he told me that it sounded like rain hitting a window far away, or maybe even a strong shower somewhere.’ Cohen’s eyes moved to Myers’. ‘The kidnapper was inside her bedroom when he made that call. He was watching her shower.’

The next morning Captain Blake was already waiting for Hunter in his office by the time he walked in at 7:51 a.m.

‘Carlos told me you identified the victim.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Her name is Laura Mitchell.’ He handed the captain a two-sheet report.

She scanned it and paused. ‘The killer stalked her from inside her own apartment?’ Her stare quickly bounced between both detectives.

‘That’s what it looks like, Captain,’ Hunter confirmed.

‘How did he get in? Any signs of forced entry?’

He quickly shook his head.

‘She could’ve let the killer inside herself,’ Garcia offered.

The captain nodded. ‘Which means that the killer could’ve used a false identity to sneak into the building and ring her doorbell, or maybe he was known to her, or he posed as a collector or buyer and made an appointment or something. But still, why hide behind a painting? It makes no sense.’

‘Exactly,’ Hunter agreed. ‘And that’s why I don’t think Laura opened the door to the killer and invited him in, but the possibility that he was known to her is real.’

Captain Blake thought for a moment. ‘The perpetrator could’ve had his own set of keys.’

Hunter nodded. ‘Either that or he’s a master locksmith.’

‘Did she have a boyfriend, a lover?’

‘We’re talking to her ex-fiancé later today. His flight from Dallas lands at 2:45 p.m.’

‘How long has he been away?’

Hunter rubbed his forehead. ‘Since Tuesday evening.’

‘Well, that takes him off the suspects list, doesn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t say that just now, Captain.’

Captain Blake faced Hunter. ‘Well, let’s see, he’s been out of LA since Tuesday evening. Our victim’s body was found two days ago – Wednesday afternoon, remember? No exact time of death, but the crime-scene forensic report said that it wouldn’t have been more than three to six hours prior to the discovery of the body. That means that he wasn’t in Los Angeles when she died, Robert.’

‘Yes,’ Hunter agreed, ‘but we also have no proof that our killer
actually killed her,
remember, Captain? He could’ve dumped her in that butcher’s shop – alive – hours before she died. Even the night before, giving the ex-fiancé an almost perfect alibi. We need more information before we start discarding suspects at this point.’

‘OK, I can go with that,’ the captain agreed. ‘How about this other guy Carlos told me about? The one who tried to pick Laura up on the last night of her exhibition?’

Hunter searched his desk for a copy of the picture of the stranger she was referring to and handed it to her. The captain stared at it for a few seconds.

‘We’ve been running this picture against the unified police database since yesterday. No matches yet. We’ve also got a team of uniformed officers going around every art gallery, exhibition hall, museum, art school, cafe, anywhere and everywhere where exhibitions take place. The chaperone at the Daniel Rossdale Art Gallery said she was certain she’d seen him before at a previous exhibition. Which means this guy is probably genuinely into art. Hopefully someone, somewhere will recognize him.’

‘The door to door of Laura’s apartment building gave us nothing,’ Garcia said. ‘Two to three weeks is a hell of a long time for any of the neighbors to remember hearing anything out of the ordinary, or seeing anyone suspicious.’

‘Have Forensics found anything else in her apartment?’

Hunter poured himself a glass of water. ‘They recovered several black fibers from a brick wall. No results yet, but a possible clue.’

‘Which is?’

‘A few of the fibers came from a point about six foot from the floor.’

‘Any hairs?’ Captain Blake asked.

‘None.’

‘So whoever was there was wearing a hat or a ski mask or something,’ she concluded.

‘The assumption is that while hiding, the attacker flattened his back against the brick wall,’ Hunter said. ‘If we’re right and the fibers came from some sort of head garment, he should be between six foot and six four.’

‘And if they haven’t?’

‘Then the fibers could’ve come from a sweater and we’re looking for a seven-foot giant.’

‘At least he’ll be easy to spot,’ Garcia joked.

‘No sign of a struggle?’ the captain asked without a hint of a smile.

‘None.’

She turned and stared at the crime-scene photographs pinned to the pictures board. No matter how often she looked at them, they made her wince every time. Violence in this city seemed to get worse with each passing year.

‘Talk to me, Robert, ’cause I’m really starting to dislike this whole thing. It’s been two days since we found Laura’s body. Two days since this scumbag blew a bomb inside a morgue and killed two other people, one of them being one of my best friends, and we’ve got shit so far. Why was she kept hostage for so long before being murdered? Has the Mitchell family received any sort of ransom requests or demands?’

Hunter shook his head. ‘No. And if we’re right, whoever this killer is, he’s not after a ransom. Murder/kidnappings are rarely about money.’

Captain Blake felt a chill start at the base of her neck. ‘You think he kept her for sexual pleasure?’

‘It’s possible. But with no autopsy report we’ll never know if Laura Mitchell was raped or not.’

Captain Blake let out a heartfelt sigh.

‘There’s always a reason why a kidnapper would keep a hostage without demanding money for the victim’s return,’ Hunter offered. ‘The two most common are revenge or an obsession with the victim, where the aggressor just can’t let go. Nine times out of ten it starts out as some sort of platonic love . . . to the power of a thousand.’ Hunter paused and allowed his eyes to rest on the portrait photograph of Laura Mitchell. ‘And almost undoubtedly that obsession is, or becomes, sexual.’

The captain shifted her weight from one foot to another.

‘But something here isn’t matching,’ Hunter continued.

‘What do you mean?’

‘One thing we do know for sure from the crime-scene pictures is that the killer didn’t torture Laura.’

The captain’s brow furrowed.

‘Torture, degradation and sadistic sexual abuse are a big part of most murder/kidnappings,’ Hunter explained. ‘When the reason behind the kidnapping isn’t money, if and when the victim is found, there are usually clear indications of physical torture and abuse.’ He walked up to the pictures board. ‘Before identifying her, Garcia and I went through these pictures with a fine-toothed comb and a magnifying glass trying to identify any physical marks that could point us in the right direction.’ He shook his head. ‘Not a scratch. Laura had no bruises other than the ones caused by the stitches and her own nails.’

‘If whoever kidnapped her was after revenge,’ Garcia said, ‘he would’ve tortured her, Captain. If he were obsessed with her, there’s a good chance he would’ve raped her. In both cases, her body should’ve shown bruises.’

‘Once the aggressor starts using violence to get what he wants . . .’ Hunter continued, ‘. . . then we’re into a very fast downward spiral. His dominance over her, the false sense of power it gives him, will hook him like a drug. The violence will escalate, the rapes will become more aggressive until . . .’ He let the sentence hang in the air.

‘But that’s not what we have here.’ Garcia took over. ‘We’ve got the kidnapping, the keeping of the victim and the murder, but not the violence.’

Captain Blake almost choked on Garcia’s words. ‘
Not
the violence?’ She glanced at the pictures board and then back at both detectives. ‘He placed a bomb inside her and stitched her shut – while she was still alive. What the hell do
you
consider violent?’

‘That’s precisely the problem, Captain,’ Hunter cut in. ‘The violence only came at the end, with the murder. And we all agree it was gruesomely sadistic. But the lack of any bruising on Laura’s body indicates that the killer wasn’t violent towards her while she was held captive. There was no escalation. It went from zero violence to monstrous in one quick step.’

‘And that tells us what?’

Hunter held her stare. ‘That we’re dealing with an extremely unstable, explosive individual. When he loses his temper, someone loses their life.’

Patrick Barlett was one of the top financial advisors in the whole of California. He ran his own company from the fortieth floor of the famous 777 Tower.

Barlett’s company reception office was decorated to impress. Hunter thought he no doubt subscribed to the theory that money attracts money.

There were two receptionists standing behind a semicircular steel and green-glass reception counter. Their synchronized smiles greeted Hunter and Garcia as they approached the counter. Hunter flashed his credentials, but was careful to keep his thumb over the word
homicide.
The receptionists’ smiles lost some of their sparkle. Two minutes later, Hunter and Garcia were shown into Patrick Barlett’s office.

If his company’s reception was impressive, Barlett’s office was majestic. The entire west wall was one huge floor-to-ceiling window, offering the sort of panoramic views of Los Angeles few had ever seen. The floors were pristine bare oak boards. The walls were painted white with just a hint of blue. The entire office was full of sharp edges and gleaming surfaces.

Barlett greeted both detectives with an overpowering handshake.

‘Please, come in,’ he said in a smooth, deep voice. ‘I’m sorry for the mess, I just got in. I came straight from the airport.’

Barlett was thirty-one years old, as tall as Garcia but with a strong, quarterback frame, tanned skin and a full head of brown hair. His eyes were dark, nearly black. His facial bone structure was as attractive as any Hollywood superstar.

As Hunter explained the reason for their visit, he saw something change inside Barlett’s eyes, as if something precious had been smashed to pieces.

Barlett sat behind his imposing desk unable to speak for a minute. His stare stayed on Hunter for several seconds before switching to a small picture frame on his desk. The photo showed three couples at what looked like a gala dinner. Patrick and Laura were sitting side by side. They looked happy. They looked in love.

‘There’s got to be some sort of mistake.’ The smoothness in his voice had given way to an anguished quiver.

Hunter shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, no.’

‘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.