One possibility that kept nagging Hunter was that there could have been more than one perpetrator, more specifically, a gang. Crimes like this one weren’t beyond the scope of certain gangs in Los Angeles. Some were notorious for their violence and their bad-ass, don’t-fuck-with-us attitude. Sending a warning to other gangs in the form of brutal beatings and murders happened more often than the mayor of Los Angeles would care to admit. These gangs also had a direct link to gun trafficking. Getting hold of a ready-made bomb, a grenade, or materials to make their own wouldn’t have been a problem. The victim could’ve belonged to some gang leader. Some of them liked to think of their women as possessions. If she’d betrayed him, especially if she did it with a rival gang member, this could have been their way of blowing her off.
And then there was the possibility that the stitches carried no symbolism whatsoever. As Captain Blake had suggested, they could simply be dealing with an extremely sadistic killer, someone who enjoyed hurting people for the sheer pleasure of it. And Hunter knew that if that were the case, more victims would follow.
‘The Missing Persons files we requested should be with us in the next forty-five minutes or so,’ Garcia said, coming off the phone and dragging Hunter away from his thoughts.
‘Great. You can start going over them if I’m not here.’ Hunter reached for his jacket. There was only one person he knew in LA who’d have knowledge of guns, explosives, trigger mechanisms and gangs. It was time to call in some favors.
Sixteen
D-King was probably the best-known dealer in Hollywood and Northwest Los Angeles. Though he was known as a dealer, no one was ever able to prove it, least of all the District Attorney’s office. They’d been trying to nail him to anything substantial without success for the past eight years.
D-King was young, intelligent, a fierce businessman, and very dangerous to anyone who was stupid enough to ever cross him. Allegedly, he dealt not only in drugs, but prostitution, stolen goods, weapons . . . the list went on and on. He also had a string of legitimate businesses – nightclubs, bars, restaurants, even a gym. The IRS couldn’t touch him either.
Hunter and D-King’s paths had crossed for the first time three years ago, during the notorious Crucifix Killer investigation. An unprecedented chain of events forced them into a standoff, and into reaching a decision that despite them being on different sides of the law, made them respect each other.
Hunter pulled D-King’s address from the police computer. Where else but Malibu Beach, where the super-famous and the super-rich called home.
As he brought his car to a stop by the enormous double iron gates fitted with security cameras, Hunter had to admit he was impressed. The two-story building was majestic: an ivy-covered, double bow-front brick construction with square granite piers every twenty feet.
Before Hunter had a chance to reach for the intercom button, a strong male voice called out.
‘May I help you?’
‘Yes, I’m here to see your boss.’
‘And you are?’
‘Tell D-King it’s Robert Hunter.’
The intercom clicked off and a minute later the iron gates parted.
The driveway was flanked by millimeter-perfect trimmed hedges. Hunter parked his rusted Buick Lesabre next to a pearly white Lamborghini Gallardo, just in front of a six-car garage. He climbed up the steps to the main house, and as he reached the top, the door was opened by a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-seventy-pound muscle-bound black man. The man frowned at Hunter’s car.
‘It’s an American classic,’ Hunter retorted.
Not even a ghost of a smile from the muscleman.
‘Please, follow me.’
The interior of the house was just as impressive as the outside. Twelve-feet-high ceilings, designer furniture and walls covered with oil paintings – some of them Dutch, a few of them French, all of them valuable.
As Hunter crossed the Italian-marbled floor in the living area, he noticed a jaw-droppingly beautiful black woman in a bright yellow bikini sitting among overstuffed cushions. She lifted her eyes from the glossy magazine in her hands and gave Hunter a warm smile. He politely nodded back and smiled internally. Even rock stars and sports superstars don’t have it this good.
The muscleman guided Hunter through a pair of sliding glass doors and out to the backyard and pool area. Four young and attractive topless women were by the edge of the pool, giggling and splashing water at each other. Three other musclemen in suits were strategically positioned around the yard. D-King was sitting at one of four artfully weathered teak tables at the poolside, under a white umbrella. His blue silk shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a muscular torso adorned with chains and diamonds. The blonde woman sitting with him was also topless. A single white gold loop ring pierced her left nipple.
‘Detective Robert Hunter?’ D-King said with a smile but without getting up. ‘Yo, wuz up, dawg? Now that’s a motherfucking surprise. How long has it been, three years?’ He indicated the chair opposite his.
Hunter took it. ‘Something like that.’ He nodded at the blonde woman, who replied with a wink.
‘Can I offer you something, Detective?’ D-King said, tilting his head towards his blonde friend. ‘Lisa here can mix you the most amazing cocktail.’
Hunter’s eyes stole a peek at Lisa, who smiled naughtily. ‘Anything you like.’
Hunter shook his head. ‘I’m fine for now, thanks.’
‘OK,’ D-King cut in, ‘so now that I know you’re not here for the company or the drinks, what can I do for you, Detective?’
Hunter’s eyes subtly moved to Lisa and then back to D-King. He got the hint.
‘Lisa, why don’t you go play with the other girls?’ He didn’t phrase it as a request. She undid the sarong around her waist and stood up. Only then Hunter realized that she was fully naked. Not a hint of embarrassment crossed her face as she paused in front of him for a long moment. Her body was as close to perfection as Hunter had ever seen. Lisa slowly turned and walked away, her hips swinging as if she were on a catwalk. The tattoo on her lower back read – I know you’re looking.
‘That’s right, baby, dance it up,’ D-King called out before turning to Hunter. ‘Admit it, Detective,’ he teased, ‘I know how to live, don’t I? Hugh Heffner and Larry Flynt have got shit on me. Playboy and Hustler can kiss my black ass all the way to Mississippi. My girls are hotter.’
‘What do you know about homemade explosive devices?’
The smile vanished from D-King’s lips. ‘I know they go bang.’
Hunter kept a poker face.
‘Officially, notta thing.’
‘And unofficially?’
D-King scratched the small scar above his left eyebrow with his pinky while scrutinizing Hunter. ‘If you’re here unofficially, why don’t you have a drink?’
‘I’m not thirsty.’
They regarded each other for a few more seconds.
‘First time we met you bullshitted for a while before coming clean. I hope we’re past that crap. What’s this really about, Detective?’
Hunter leaned forward and placed a close-up photograph of the victim’s face on the table in front of him, rotating it around to face D-King.
‘Oh, hell no, dawg.’ He cringed and moved back. ‘Last time you showed me a picture of a dead woman, all fucking hell broke loose.’