A buzzer screeched on Littlewood’s desk. He paused his Dictaphone and pressed the intercom.
‘Go ahead, Sheryl.’
‘Just checking if there’s anything else you need from me today.’
Littlewood consulted his watch. It was way past office hours. He’d forgotten that Janet Stark liked her sessions to start as late as possible.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Sheryl, you should’ve gone home over an hour ago. I lost track of time.’
‘It’s OK, Nathan.’ Littlewood had insisted that Sheryl call him by his first name. ‘I don’t mind. Are you sure you don’t need me to stay behind? I can if you want me to.’
Sheryl had been Littlewood’s office manager/secretary for just over a year, and the sexual tension between them could probably light up a small town. But he reserved for her the same courtesy he gave his patients, despite the clear attraction that existed between them. Sheryl, on the other hand, would have dropped all professionalism and jumped into bed with Littlewood faster than anyone could say guacamole, given the opportunity.
‘No, I’m fine, Sheryl. I’m just catching up on some notes. I’ll be leaving soon. Half an hour max. Go home, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Littlewood returned to his recording and his notes. It took him another thirty-five minutes before he had everything organized the way he wanted. By the time he got to his office building’s underground garage, there were only three cars left. His was parked in the far corner, under a faulty light.
Despite his psychology practice doing well enough, Littlewood drove a silver, 1998 Chrysler Concorde LXi. He called it a classic, but his friends teased him that just because it was old, it didn’t make it a classic.
He used the key to unlock the door and got into the driver’s seat. He was desperately hungry, and he could certainly do with a stiff drink. The day’s effort in dodging sexual innuendos also left him wanting something else, and he knew just where to go to get it.
He turned the key in the ignition. His engine stuttered and coughed like a dying dog but it didn’t come to life. Sometimes his old Chrysler could be temperamental.
‘C’mon baby.’ He patted the dashboard.
Littlewood pumped the gas pedal three times and tried again.
More coughing and rattling – no success.
Maybe it was time to upgrade to a newer model.
One more time.
‘C’mon, c’mon.’
Nothing.
‘Give me a goddamn break.’
More pedal pumping.
Chu, chu, chu, chu, chu.
Littlewood slammed his clenched fists against the steering wheel and cursed under his breath before closing his eyes and leaning back on his seat. By the looks of it, it would have to be a taxi tonight.
That was when he felt something like he’d never felt before. A sixth-sense warning that came from deep inside him, almost freezing his blood in his veins and making every hair on his body stand on end.
Instinctively his eyes shot up, searching for the rearview mirror.
Looking back at him, from the darkness of his backseat, was the most evil-looking pair of eyes he’d ever seen.
Seventy-Two
Hunter sat alone in total darkness facing the pictures board in his office. It was late and everyone had gone home. In his hand he held a flashlight, which he kept flicking on and off at uneven intervals, in an attempt to trick his brain.
As light enters the eye and hits the retina, the eye’s photographic plate, the image that is formed is inverted, but is interpreted the right way up by the brain. If you allow that image to be projected onto the retina for just a split second before cutting off the light source, the brain then has to interpret only what it can remember, drawing from what modern medicine calls the ‘immediate’ or ‘f ash’ memory.
If the image is a shape well known to the brain, like a chair, the minor details the brain failed to register due to the short light exposure, are automatically compensated by the long-term memory – the brain thinks ‘it looked like a chair’, so the brain pulls a chair image from its memory bank. But if the shape is unknown to the brain, then it has nothing to fall back on. It then compensates by working harder in trying to identify details from the original image. That was what Hunter was trying to do, force his brain to see something it hadn’t seen before.
So far, it hadn’t worked.
‘Is this your idea of disco lights?’
Hunter turned in the direction of the voice and switched on his flashlight. Alice was standing by the door, holding her briefcase.
‘I didn’t know you were still here,’ he said.
‘What, you think you’re the only workaholic in this place?’ She smiled.
Hunter shifted in his seat.
‘Do you mind if I switch on the lights?’
‘Go ahead.’ He flicked off his flashlight.
Alice hit the light switch before nodding at the board. ‘Got anything new?’ She knew what he was trying to do.
Hunter rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger while shaking his head. ‘Nothing.’
Alice placed her briefcase on the floor and leaned against the doorframe. ‘Are you hungry?’
Hunter hadn’t thought about it the whole day, and as he did his stomach rumbled. ‘Starving.’
‘Do you like Italian?’
Seventy-Three
Campanile was a rustically elegant restaurant on South La Brea Avenue, reminiscent of a little Mediterranean village, complete with a bell tower, a fountain-accented courtyard, and a tiny bakery.
‘I didn’t know you liked this place,’ Hunter said as he and Alice took a table in the courtyard.
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’ She looked at him with a faint smile on her lips, but not wanting Hunter to dwell on her words, she quickly followed them up. ‘I used to come here a lot. I love Italian food, and the chef here is fantastic. Probably the best around this part of town.’
Hunter couldn’t disagree. ‘So you don’t come here a lot anymore?’
‘Not as much. I still love Italian food, but I’m not getting any younger, and I really have to watch what I eat. Shifting any excess weight isn’t as easy as it used to be.’
Hunter unfolded the cloth napkin and placed it on his lap. ‘I don’t think there’s any shifting to be done.’
Alice paused and looked back at him in a peculiar way. ‘Was that you paying me a compliment?’
‘Yes, and at the same time telling you the truth.’ Alice pushed her hair back behind her ears and swept it around over her left shoulder. A self-conscious and slightly flirtatious move.
It went totally unnoticed.
‘Shall we order?’ Hunter asked.
‘Why not.’ The reply came in a less than enthusiastic tone.
They both ordered spaghetti. Hunter had his with primavera sauce, and Alice had hers with the chef’s special spicy meatballs and sundried tomatoes. They shared a bottle of red wine and tried as best as they could to keep the conversation away from the investigation.
‘How come you’ve never married, Robert?’ The question came at the end of the meal, as the waiter poured them both the rest of the wine. ‘As I said, in school most of the girls I knew had a thing for you. I’m sure you had plenty of opportunities.’
Hunter studied Alice while he had a sip of his wine. She had real interest burning in her eyes, almost like a reporter digging for a new scoop. ‘There are certain things that just don’t go together. What I do and married life are two of them.’