‘What factor?’
‘A time signature.’
‘A what?’
‘I know it sounds crazy, but I went over every message twice. It took me a while.’ She moved to the front of her desk and leaned back against its edge. ‘They’re all twelve seconds long.’
Cohen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Twelve seconds? All sixty of them?’
‘Precisely. Not a second more, not a second less. Even the last message with the noise and the creepy murmur – twelve seconds exactly.’
‘And that’s not a fault with the machine?’
‘Nope.’
‘Did anyone set the message recording time to only twelve seconds?’
Myers looked at Cohen inquisitively. ‘I didn’t even know you could do that.’
‘I’m not sure you can, but I’m just trying to cover all angles.’
‘Even if that’s possible, who’d set a message recording time to only twelve seconds?’
Cohen had to agree. ‘OK,’ he said as his stare returned to the voice recorder. ‘Now that’s officially messed up, and I’m officially intrigued. There’s gotta be a meaning to it. No fucking way the twelve seconds thing is a coincidence.’
‘No fucking way,’ Myers agreed. ‘Now we’re just going to have to find out what it means.’
Twenty-Six
‘What?’ Garcia asked, facing Hunter and moving towards the canvas. ‘What have you found?’
‘We need to get the Forensics guys in here, now.’ He paused and looked up at his partner. ‘Someone was hiding behind this canvas.’
Garcia crouched down next to Hunter.
‘Look at this.’ Hunter pointed to the floor just behind the canvas base. ‘Can you see the dust marks?’
Garcia squinted as he moved his face so close to the floor it looked like he was about to kiss it. Moments later he saw it.
Since it had been placed there, regular house dust had settled on the floor around the canvas edge. Garcia saw a long, dragging dust mark.
‘The canvas was moved forward,’ he finally admitted.
‘Enough for a person to get behind it,’ Hunter noted.
Garcia bit his bottom lip. ‘Laura could’ve moved it forward herself.’
‘She could’ve, but check this out.’ Hunter pointed to a spot further behind the canvas, closer to the wall.
Garcia squinted again. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’
Hunter reached for his pen flashlight. ‘Look again.’ He handed it to Garcia.
Garcia directed the light beam to the spot Hunter had indicated. This time it didn’t take him long to see it.
‘I’ll be damned.’
Just a few inches from the wall, he identified the faint outline of foot imprints left in the dust. Clear indications that someone had been standing there.
‘Look at it one more time,’ Hunter said. ‘See anything that strikes you as odd?’
Garcia returned his attention to the imprints. ‘Nope, but you obviously have, Robert. What am I missing?’
‘The amount of variation on the imprints.’
Garcia looked for a third time. ‘There’s barely any.’
‘Exactly. Isn’t that strange?’
It finally clicked. When standing in a confined space for even a small amount of time, it was natural for anyone to fidget and shift his or her weight from foot to foot, to try to move into a more comfortable position every time the old one becomes uncomfortable. That shifting should, in theory, leave behind several different onionskin imprints. There were none. And that could only mean two things – either the killer didn’t wait long, or – and the thing that really bothered Hunter – the killer was preternaturally patient and disciplined.
Hunter’s cell phone rang in his pocket.
‘Detective Hunter.’
‘Detective, it’s Pam from Operations,’ said the voice at the end of the line. ‘I’ve emailed you all the information we managed to get on Patrick Barlett. At the moment he’s out of town.’
‘Out of town?’
‘He’s been away at a conference in Dallas since Tuesday evening. He’s flying back tomorrow – mid-afternoon. Everything checked out.’
‘OK, thanks, Pam.’
Hunter disconnected and returned his attention to the space behind the large canvas and the faint foot imprints. A strong and fast perpetrator could have covered the distance between there and where Laura would have been standing in a flash, too fast for her to react. But Hunter didn’t believe her attacker had surprised her in that way. If he had, there would have been some sort of a struggle, and there were no such signs anywhere. If someone had crept up behind her and sedated her in some way, Laura would have no doubt dropped her paint palette and brush, not placed it on the unit next to the stand. The surrounding floor area where Laura would have stood while working on her canvas was covered in small speckles and splashes of paint, not blotches and smudges caused by a palette hitting the ground.
‘Pass me the flashlight, Carlos.’
Garcia handed it to him and Hunter moved its beam to a point on the brick directly behind the large canvas.
‘Something else?’ Garcia asked.
‘Not sure yet, but brick walls are notorious for pulling fibers out of fabrics if you lean against them.’ Hunter kept inching the beam up. When he got to a point about six feet from the floor, he paused and moved forward, stopping just millimeters from the wall, careful not to disrupt the dust. ‘I think we might have something.’
He reached for his phone and dialed the number for the Forensics team.
Twenty-Seven
West Hollywood is famous for its nightlife, celebrity culture and diverse atmosphere. Themed bars, chic restaurants, futuristic and exotic nightclubs, art galleries, designer boutiques, sports centers, and the most varied selection of live music venues will keep you entertained from sunset to sunset. Informally referred to as ‘WeHo’ by most Angelinos, the word is that if you can’t get your kicks in West Hollywood, then you’re probably already dead.
It was just past 6:00 p.m. when Hunter and Garcia got to the Daniel Rossdale Art Gallery in Wilshire Boulevard. The building was small, but stylish. Smoked glass together with concrete-and-metal frames were used to create a pyramid-style structure that could be considered a sculpture on its own.
Calvin Lange, the gallery’s curator and Laura Mitchell’s closest friend, had agreed to a meeting. Laura’s last exhibition had been at his gallery.
Hunter and Garcia were shown to Calvin Lange’s office by an attractive and elegantly dressed assistant.
Lange was sitting behind his desk, but stood up as both detectives entered the room. He was a wiry, sandy-haired, smiling man in his early-thirties.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said as he firmly shook their hands. ‘You said over the phone that this was about Laura Mitchell?’ He indicated the two leather chairs in front of his desk and waited for both detectives to have a seat. ‘Have there been any problems with any of her paintings purchased from this gallery?’ He paused and quickly studied both detectives’ expressions. Then he remembered Laura’s mother’s phone call to him two weeks ago. ‘Is she OK?’
Hunter filled him in.
Calvin Lange’s eyes flicked from Hunter to Garcia and then back to Hunter. His lips parted but no words came out. For an instant he looked like a little kid who’d just been told Santa Claus was a con. Still in shocked silence, he approached the minibar built into the tall wooden unit on the north wall, and with a trembling hand reached for a glass. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ His voice quivered.