Alice asked to be shown two other book sections – psychology and art. She made a mental note of their numeric ranges as well.
‘OK, I just need some pen and paper and I can start.’
‘I can get you a pencil.’
‘That’ll do.’
They returned to the front of the library. Once back behind the checkout counter, Devlin handed Alice a few sheets of paper and a pencil, showed her the drawer in which she would find Ken Sands’s library cards, and left her to her task.
Ken Sands had ninety-two library cards, all of them packed full of book-catalogue numbers. He must’ve been one of those who could read a book a day. As Devlin said, time was something that every inmate had to spare, and it looked like Sands spent every spare second he had reading. It would take her forever to thoroughly check every card. Alice paused for a moment, her brain pondering the easiest and fastest way to work through them. She had an idea, and started jotting down catalogue numbers.
An inmate with a shaved head, who had been sitting quietly at the table closest to the checkout counter, approached Devlin and handed him a book.
‘This is a good book, Toby. I’m sure you’ll like it.’ Alice was way too busy writing down numbers to notice Devlin furtively inserting a slip of paper between the book’s pages. If anybody could get a message to someone outside Lancaster Prison, Toby could.
Police officers weren’t the only ones who looked after their own.
Sixty-Two
Many connoisseurs will say that the true lover of whisky will drink it with a little water, better still, spring water. Adding a little water to whisky before drinking will prevent its strength from numbing your senses and reducing your enjoyment. Water will also enhance the aroma and flavor of a whisky, bringing out its hidden characteristics. It is widely said that you should dilute your whisky with a fifth measure of water. Connoisseurs also frown upon those who add ice to their Scotch, since reducing its temperature will only freeze its aroma, and dull its taste.
Hunter couldn’t care less for what others said, connoisseurs or not. He enjoyed his single malt with a little water, not because it was considered the correct way of drinking it, but because he found that some whiskies were truly too intense to drink neat. Sometimes he enjoyed his Scotch with one, perhaps two cubes of ice, welcoming the coolness of the liquid as it slipped down his throat. Garcia drank his whichever way it came. Tonight, each had a single cube of ice in their glass.
They were sitting at one of the front tables inside Brennan’s, on Lincoln Boulevard – a dive bar famous for its turtle racing on a Thursday evening, and its jukebox’s classic-rock collection.
Hunter needed a break from his claustrophobic office, not to mention its morbid decoration of bloody crime-scene photographs and the replica body-part sculpture.
Hunter and Garcia both drank their whiskies in silence, each having his own rollercoaster of thoughts to deal with. Hunter had spoken with Doctor Hove on the phone. The toxicology-test results for Andrew Nashorn were in. Their prediction was correct. Traces of propafenone, felodipine and carvedilol were found in his blood, the same cocktail of drugs that was used to reduce Derek Nicholson’s heart rate.
A tall, long-haired blonde with a dancer’s lithe body and a walk that was as charming as it was sexy entered the bar. She was wearing skin-tight blue jeans, light-brown stiletto shoes, and a cream-colored shirt tucked in at the waist. Her surgically enhanced breasts stretched the thin cotton fabric so much the buttons were almost popping off. Hunter’s gaze followed her short walk from the entrance to the bar counter.
Garcia smiled at his partner but didn’t say a word.
Hunter had one more sip of his Scotch before stealing another peek at the tall blonde.
‘Maybe you should go talk to her,’ Garcia said, quickly tilting his head in the direction of the bar.
‘Sorry?’
‘Well your eyes are about to pop out of your head. Maybe you should go and say “hi”.’
Hunter studied Garcia’s face for a quick second before subtly shaking his head. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’
‘Of course not. But I still think you should consider talking to her.’
Hunter placed his glass down and stood up. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Garcia looked on, surprised, as Hunter made his way towards the bar and the tall blonde, who had already attracted plenty of male attention. Garcia wasn’t really expecting Hunter to make a move so quickly, if he made a move at all. ‘Now this should be interesting,’ he whispered to himself, shifting on his seat to get a better viewing position before leaning forward and placing both elbows on the table. He’d have given anything to have bionic ears at that moment.
‘Excuse me,’ Hunter said, coming up to the woman at the bar.
She didn’t even glance at him. ‘Not interested.’ Her voice was cold, monotone and a little snobbish.
Hunter paused a fraction. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, I’m not interested,’ she repeated, taking a sip of her drink. Still not even a glance in Hunter’s direction.
Hunter smiled to himself. ‘Well, neither am I. I just wanted to call your attention to the fact that you have sat on some gum, which is now stuck to the back of your jeans like a big blob of green gunk.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘Not such a great look.’
The woman’s gaze finally met Hunter’s for a split second before moving down. She twisted her body awkwardly, trying to look at the back of her jeans.
‘On the other side,’ Hunter said with a nod.
She twisted her body the other way, her hand shooting straight to her bum. The tips of her carefully manicured fingers touched the gooey mess of gum that ran from her bum cheek down to the top of her leg.
‘Shit,’ she said, pulling her hand away and looking at it with disgust. ‘These are Roberto Cavalli jeans.’
Hunter had no idea what difference that made. ‘They’re nice jeans,’ he said sympathetically.
‘Nice? They cost a fortune.’
Hunter stared back at her blankly. ‘I’m sure if you take it to a laundry service they’ll be able to get it off for you.’
‘Shit,’ she said again, making her way towards the rest room.
‘Well that was subtle,’ Garcia said when Hunter returned to the table. ‘What the hell did you say to her? All I saw was her grabbing her ass and then shooting straight out into the bathroom like a rocket.’
Hunter had a sip of his whisky. ‘Like I said, it wasn’t what you were thinking.’
Garcia chuckled and leaned back on his seat. ‘You’ve gotta work on your pick-up lines, man.’
Hunter’s cellphone rang in his pocket. He placed his glass down on the table and reached for it. ‘Detective Hunter.’
‘Robert, it’s Terry. I’ve got some info for you.’
Detective Terry Cassidy was part of the RHD team. Hunter had asked him to find out whatever he could on the whereabouts of the now-released Raul Escobedo, the rapist Nashorn had beat up before sending to prison.
‘I’m listening, Terry.’
‘Well, this guy you asked me to look into, Escobedo, he’s a bona fide piece of shit,’ Cassidy began. ‘Scumbags-R-us, you know what I’m sayin’? A rapist with a second hard-on for violence. They believe he raped as many as ten women.’
‘I know the original story,’ Hunter interrupted him. ‘What have you got?’
‘OK, our friend did some hard time inside. He got ten years for the violent rape of three women, the only three who’d testify. Now get this, during his spell inside, the barf bag repented. He found God.’ Cassidy paused, either for effect or because he was really insulted by the idea of someone like Escobedo saying that he was now reformed. Cassidy was a real Roman Catholic. ‘Inside, Escobedo started reading the Bible day and night, and took the theology program offered by the prison. He graduated with flying colors. Upon his release two years ago . . .’ another quick pause, ‘. . . you guessed it, he started preaching. Thinks he’s a reverend now, out there to spread the good word and help others repent. Calls himself Reverend Soldado. Named after Saint Juan Soldado, a folk saint revered by many in northwestern Mexico, where Escobedo’s family is originally from.’