Hunter was seasoned enough to know that protesting wouldn’t make a sand grain of difference. He hated people butting into his investigations, dictating what he should and should not do, hence his reputation for not exactly sticking to protocol all the time; but the LAPD had a chain of command, and he was a long way down it. Sometimes he had to go along to get along, and this sure as hell was looking like one of those times. He said nothing.
Alice’s eyes browsed the pictures on the board for just a moment. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered in a weak breath and quickly turned away.
Hunter’s stare was fixed on her.
‘I knew Derek well,’ she said in a more tender voice. ‘I helped him in tens of cases. I helped him put away many of the names in that list. He was a good man who didn’t deserve any of this. I want to help. And I know I can because I’m the best at what I do. Please give me a chance to help you catch the son of a bitch who did this to Derek.’
Nineteen
Before Hunter could say anything, there was a new knock at the door.
‘Busy here this morning,’ Garcia joked before calling out. ‘Come in.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ a male voice replied from outside. ‘Not enough hands.’
Everyone in the room frowned. Garcia stepped up to the door and pulled it open.
A rookie officer, barely out of his teens, was standing outside in a crisp, straight-out-of-the-bag police uniform. Both of his arms were wrapped around a large package, covered by thick black plastic sheets held in place by duct tape.
‘Forensics lab just delivered this for you, Detective.’
‘OK, thanks. I can take it from here,’ Garcia said, reaching for it. The package was a lot lighter than it looked. Its base was flat and easy to grab hold of. ‘Over by the board?’ Garcia asked Hunter, after allowing the door to close behind him.
‘Yeah, I think that’ll do.’ Hunter cleared a space on a small table and pushed it closer to the pictures board. Garcia carefully deposited the package on it.
‘What is that?’ Alice asked, moving around to the other side.
‘A life-sized replica of this,’ Garcia replied, pointing to the photograph on the board.
Hunter saw Alice hold her breath for a beat. ‘Have you ever worked this closely with a homicide investigating team?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Alice replied firmly. No embarrassment.
Hunter took a penknife out of his pocket and flicked it open. ‘As I said before, this isn’t Club Med.’ He skillfully cut through the duct tape. ‘You can stay if you want. But this will be no picnic.’
‘I hate picnics.’ Alice stood her ground.
Hunter and Garcia pulled down the black plastic cover, letting it drop to the floor. For a long moment, the only sound in the room came from the pedestal fan behind Garcia’s desk. Doctor Hove was right; forensics had done a fantastic job in replicating the morbid piece, despite the short amount of time. The replica was done in white plaster, cast over a light wooden base, no color finish, but it still made the hairs at the back of Garcia’s neck stand on end, and it had knocked the air out of Alice’s lungs.
Hunter found it hard to tear his eyes away from it. Images of the real thing flashed at the back of his mind like fireworks, going off every few seconds. With it, his subconscious brought back the same sensations he experienced two days ago when he walked into that crime scene for the first time. He could smell the pungent odor of that room. He could see the blood splattered all over the walls and floors, and the way it trickled down from the human flesh sculpture. For a second he could even see the bloody words painted onto the far wall ‘GOOD JOB YOU DIDN’T TURN ON THE LIGHTS’.
‘Do you mind if I pour myself a glass of water?’ Alice said, finally breaking the silence. Her words seemed to have interrupted some sort of group trance. Hunter and Garcia blinked almost at the same time.
‘Please do,’ Hunter replied, folding his arms over his chest. His attention was still on the piece. He walked over to the other side to look at it from a different angle.
Garcia moved a few steps back, as if trying to see a bigger picture.
There was nothing there. The piece resembled nothing else they’d ever seen. It didn’t trigger anything in either of their minds.
‘That has got to be the most grotesque thing I’ve ever seen,’ Alice said, after downing a glass of water as if to put out a fire inside her. ‘And judging by the way you two are looking at it, you have no idea what it means, do you?’
‘We’re working on it,’ Hunter replied.
She refilled her glass. ‘Well, I know someone who might be able to help.’
Twenty
Silver Lake is a hilly neighborhood, east of Hollywood and northwest of downtown Los Angeles. The place is inhabited by a wide variety of ethnic and socioeconomic groups, but it is best known for the eclectic gathering of hipsters and creative types that live there, as well as a significant LGBT community. The neighborhood is also home to some of the most famous modernist architecture in North America, and that was exactly where Hunter and Alice were heading.
Alice owned a red Corvette, and she drove it like a boy racer trying to prove a point; crisscrossing lanes without signaling, cutting in front of traffic, and accelerating as if trying to outrun a tsunami every time a traffic light went yellow. Hunter sat beside her in the passenger’s seat. His seatbelt securely fastened.
‘Ms. Beaumont, if we go any faster we might travel back in time,’ he said, as she hooked onto West Sunset Boulevard.
She smiled. ‘Am I scaring you?’
‘The way you drive would scare Michael Schumacher.’
Another smile. ‘I’ll tell you what. If you stop calling me Ms. Beaumont and call me Alice, I’ll slow down.’
‘That’s a deal, Alice. Now please take your foot off the gas before we end up in 1842.’
They reached Silver Lake in just under fifteen minutes.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Alice said, as she parked in front of Jalmar Art Gallery. ‘Miguel is a bit eccentric.’
Hunter grabbed the replica created by the forensics lab from the backseat and followed her inside.
Miguel Jalmar was an art collector, gallery owner and connoisseur extraordinaire when it came to modern sculpture. Passionate about art from a very young age, he was still in his teens when he started collecting.
‘Alice, darling,’ Miguel said in a high-pitched voice, putting down the book he was reading and leaping from his chair as soon as Alice and Hunter walked into his gallery.
Miguel was in his mid-forties, tall, slim, with straight midnight-black hair that came all the way down to his chest. Immaculately dressed in a D&G suit, he had a chic three-day beard and smelled of expensive cologne. He hugged Alice as if he’d just found his long lost sister, before kissing her on both cheeks.
‘Thanks for seeing us at such short notice, Miguel,’ Alice said, breaking away from his embrace. ‘We really appreciate it.’
‘Darling, anything for you, you know that.’ The high-pitch had vanished from his voice, but not the femininity. His eyes moved to Hunter and his eyebrows arched in a curious way. ‘And who is this? More importantly, where have you been hiding him?’
‘This is Robert Hunter. He’s a friend of mine.’
Hunter smiled and nodded at Miguel.
‘Robert Hunter . . . ? Now that’s a strong, masculine name. I like that. And by God, look at those broad shoulders and those biceps. I bet you work out like a bodybuilder.’
So that’s what Alice meant by ‘eccentric’, Hunter thought.