The captain shifted her weight from one foot to another.
‘But something here isn’t matching,’ Hunter continued.
‘What do you mean?’
‘One thing we do know for sure from the crime-scene pictures is that the killer didn’t torture Laura.’
The captain’s brow furrowed.
‘Torture, degradation and sadistic sexual abuse are a big part of most murder/kidnappings,’ Hunter explained. ‘When the reason behind the kidnapping isn’t money, if and when the victim is found, there are usually clear indications of physical torture and abuse.’ He walked up to the pictures board. ‘Before identifying her, Garcia and I went through these pictures with a fine-toothed comb and a magnifying glass trying to identify any physical marks that could point us in the right direction.’ He shook his head. ‘Not a scratch. Laura had no bruises other than the ones caused by the stitches and her own nails.’
‘If whoever kidnapped her was after revenge,’ Garcia said, ‘he would’ve tortured her, Captain. If he were obsessed with her, there’s a good chance he would’ve raped her. In both cases, her body should’ve shown bruises.’
‘Once the aggressor starts using violence to get what he wants . . .’ Hunter continued, ‘. . . then we’re into a very fast downward spiral. His dominance over her, the false sense of power it gives him, will hook him like a drug. The violence will escalate, the rapes will become more aggressive until . . .’ He let the sentence hang in the air.
‘But that’s not what we have here.’ Garcia took over. ‘We’ve got the kidnapping, the keeping of the victim and the murder, but not the violence.’
Captain Blake almost choked on Garcia’s words. ‘Not the violence?’ She glanced at the pictures board and then back at both detectives. ‘He placed a bomb inside her and stitched her shut – while she was still alive. What the hell do you consider violent?’
‘That’s precisely the problem, Captain,’ Hunter cut in. ‘The violence only came at the end, with the murder. And we all agree it was gruesomely sadistic. But the lack of any bruising on Laura’s body indicates that the killer wasn’t violent towards her while she was held captive. There was no escalation. It went from zero violence to monstrous in one quick step.’
‘And that tells us what?’
Hunter held her stare. ‘That we’re dealing with an extremely unstable, explosive individual. When he loses his temper, someone loses their life.’
Thirty-Three
Patrick Barlett was one of the top financial advisors in the whole of California. He ran his own company from the fortieth floor of the famous 777 Tower.
Barlett’s company reception office was decorated to impress. Hunter thought he no doubt subscribed to the theory that money attracts money.
There were two receptionists standing behind a semicircular steel and green-glass reception counter. Their synchronized smiles greeted Hunter and Garcia as they approached the counter. Hunter flashed his credentials, but was careful to keep his thumb over the word homicide. The receptionists’ smiles lost some of their sparkle. Two minutes later, Hunter and Garcia were shown into Patrick Barlett’s office.
If his company’s reception was impressive, Barlett’s office was majestic. The entire west wall was one huge floor-to-ceiling window, offering the sort of panoramic views of Los Angeles few had ever seen. The floors were pristine bare oak boards. The walls were painted white with just a hint of blue. The entire office was full of sharp edges and gleaming surfaces.
Barlett greeted both detectives with an overpowering handshake.
‘Please, come in,’ he said in a smooth, deep voice. ‘I’m sorry for the mess, I just got in. I came straight from the airport.’
Barlett was thirty-one years old, as tall as Garcia but with a strong, quarterback frame, tanned skin and a full head of brown hair. His eyes were dark, nearly black. His facial bone structure was as attractive as any Hollywood superstar.
As Hunter explained the reason for their visit, he saw something change inside Barlett’s eyes, as if something precious had been smashed to pieces.
Barlett sat behind his imposing desk unable to speak for a minute. His stare stayed on Hunter for several seconds before switching to a small picture frame on his desk. The photo showed three couples at what looked like a gala dinner. Patrick and Laura were sitting side by side. They looked happy. They looked in love.
‘There’s got to be some sort of mistake.’ The smoothness in his voice had given way to an anguished quiver.
Hunter shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, no.’
‘There must’ve been. Who identified the body?’
‘Mr. Barlett,’ Hunter’s voice sounded firmer this time, ‘there’s no mistake.’
Patrick’s eyes returned to the photo frame for an instant before breaking away and finding refuge in the panoramic view. His hands moved from his desk to his lap, like a kid trying to hide the fact that they were shaking.
‘When did you last see Miss Mitchell, Mr. Barlett?’ Garcia asked.
Silence.
‘Mr. Barlett?’
His gaze moved back to both detectives. ‘Huh? Please call me Patrick.’
‘When did you last see Miss Mitchell, Patrick?’ Garcia repeated, a fraction slower this time.
‘Weeks ago, on the last night of her exhibition at . . .’ he searched the air for the name but didn’t find it, ‘. . . in West Hollywood somewhere.’
‘The Daniel Rossdale Gallery?’ Hunter helped him.
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
‘Were you invited?’ Garcia again.
‘It wasn’t an invitational exhibition.’
‘I mean, did Miss Mitchell know you were going? Did she ask you to go?’
Barlett’s entire demeanor changed into something a lot harder.
‘Am I being accused here?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘This is absolutely ridiculous. If you think I’d ever be capable of hurting Laura, then you guys are probably the worst detectives this town has ever seen. Either that, or you didn’t bother doing a background check on us. We have history together. I love Laura. I’d take my own life before I hurt her.’
Hunter noticed that Barlett didn’t even mention the fact that he wasn’t in town when Laura’s body was found.
‘Did you try contacting her again after the exhibition? Apparently you didn’t part on very good terms that night.’
‘What?’ Patrick glared at Garcia. ‘That’s bullshit. You need to get your facts right, Detective. I drank a little too much that night and I acted like a jerk, I admit it. But that was all. Nothing more. And yes, I tried calling her the next day to apologize, but all I got was her answering service.’
‘Did you leave a message?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she call you back?’
Barlett gave Garcia a nervous chuckle. ‘No, she never does. I’m used to it.’
‘Why do you say you acted like a jerk?’ Garcia again. ‘What happened?’
Barlett paused, trying to decide if he should say any more. ‘Since it’s obvious you have me as a suspect, I think we should adjourn this conversation until I have my lawyer present.’
‘We’re not accusing you of anything, Patrick,’ Garcia countered. ‘We’re just clearing up a few points.’