‘Just wondering.’ Hunter handed Laurent a card. ‘If you think of anything else, please don’t—’
‘Wait!’ Laurent cut him short. ‘Laura Mitchell and Kelly did meet. It was a few years ago. I’d forgotten all about that. Right at the start of Kelly’s career. I had just started representing her. She was interviewed for a cable TV documentary. Something about the new wave of American artists from the West Coast, or something along those lines. Several artists took part in it. I think it was all filmed at the . . .’ his eyes moved to a blank spot on the wall ‘ . . . Getty Museum or maybe at the Moca, I can’t be sure. But I’m in no doubt Laura Mitchell was one of the artists who was there that day.’
Fifty-Two
Night had already darkened the sky by the time Hunter and Garcia got back to Parker Center. They both felt exhausted.
‘Go home, Carlos,’ Hunter said rubbing his eyes. ‘Spend the night with Anna. Take her out for dinner or a movie or something. There ain’t much we can do now but review information, and our brains are both too fried to process anything at this time.’
Garcia knew Hunter was right. And Anna would really appreciate having her husband for an entire night. He reached for his jacket.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ he asked as Hunter turned his computer on.
‘Five minutes,’ Hunter replied with a nod. ‘Just gonna check something on the net.’
It took Hunter a lot longer than he expected to find any references to the documentary Kelly Jensen’s agent had mentioned. It was a low budget production by the Arts and Entertainment cable TV Channel called Canvas Beauty, The Upcoming Talents from the West Coast. It had only aired once, three years ago. He called the A & E TV network office in LA, but at that time of night, there was no one there who could assist him. He’d have to contact them again in the morning.
Hunter didn’t go straight home after he left his office. His mind was too full of thoughts for him to try to brave the solitude of his apartment.
If the killer was really forcing his victims to kill themselves by impact-activating a trigger mechanism, then they were right about Laura Mitchell, the first victim. She wasn’t supposed to have died on that butcher’s counter. She was supposed to have jumped down from it. The bomb was supposed to have gone off inside her. But the trigger was never activated. She died from suffocation. Her mother had told Hunter about the choking seizures Laura used to suffer when young. Possibly some psychological condition that had ceased to manifest itself after she started painting. Hunter knew that such conditions could easily be shocked back to life by a traumatic experience, like severe panic. The kind of panic she would have experienced in that dark back room, alone, with her mouth and body stitched shut.
Hunter drove around aimlessly for a while before ending up at the oceanfront on Santa Monica Beach.
He liked watching the sea at night. The sound of waves breaking against the sand together with the quietness calmed him. It reminded him of his parents and of when he was a little kid.
His father used to work seventy-hour weeks, jumping between two awfully paid jobs. His mother would take any work that came her way – cleaning, ironing, washing, anything. Hunter couldn’t remember a weekend when his father wasn’t working, and even then they struggled to pay all their bills. But Hunter’s parents never complained. They simply played the cards they were dealt. And no matter how bad a hand they got, they always did it with a smile on their faces.
Every Sunday, after Hunter’s father got home from work, they used to go down to the beach. Most times they got there as everyone else was packing up and getting ready to leave. Sometimes the sun had already set. But Hunter didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it. It was like the whole beach belonged to him and his parents. After Hunter’s mother passed away, his father never stopped taking him to the beach on Sundays. Sometimes, Hunter would catch his father wiping away tears as he watched the waves break.
There were tourists everywhere, especially down Third Street Promenade and in the many beach bars that lined the oceanfront. A boy sped past him in rollerblades, quickly followed by a younger girl, clearly struggling with her technique.
‘Slow down, Tim,’ she called after the boy pleadingly. He didn’t even look back.
Hunter sat on the sand for a while, watching the waves and breathing in the sea breeze. He spotted a group of night surfers in the distance. Five in total, two of them female. They seemed to be having a great time. A boy was practicing his soccer juggling skills close to the water. He was good, Hunter had to admit. A couple holding hands walked past in silence and both nodded a cordial hello at Hunter, who returned the gesture. He watched them walk away, and for a moment he lost himself in a memory. Something few people ever knew about him – he’d been in love once, long ago.
Unconsciously his lips spread into a melancholic smile. As the memory developed, the smile faded and an empty pit took hold of his stomach. A lonely tear threatened to form at the corner of his eye. But the memory was interrupted by his cell phone ringing in his pocket. The display window read – unknown number.
‘Detective Hunter.’
‘Wassup, dawg?’ D-King said in his chilled-out lilt. Loud hip-hop music was playing in the background.
‘Not much,’ Hunter replied.
D-King wasn’t one for beating around the bush. ‘Sorry, dawg, there’s no word on the street, you know what I’m saying. The Chicanos, the Jamaicans, the Russians, the Chinese, the Italians, whoever . . . no one knows anything about no girl getting a stitch job. She wasn’t a gang hit, at least not a known gang.’
‘Yeah, I figured that out since we last talked.’
‘Did you find out who she was?’
‘Yeah.’
D-King waited, but Hunter didn’t follow up.
‘Let me guess, she wasn’t a working girl.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I told you, dawg. I would’ve known if she was.’ There was a hesitant pause. ‘Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll keep asking around. If I hear anything, I’ll give you a holler.’
He disconnected, brushed his hands against each other, clearing off the sand before grabbing his jacket and walking back to his car. The throng of people around the bars was starting to die down, and for a moment Hunter considered going inside. He could do with a shot of single malt . . . or five. Maybe that would completely clear his mind.
A woman sitting at one of the many outside tables laughed loudly, catching Hunter’s attention. She was attractive with short brunette hair and a magnificent smile. Their eyes met for a brief instant and he remembered that Kelly Jensen’s apartment was in Santa Monica. Her art studio wasn’t far either. Culver City was practically the next neighborhood.
The file Hunter had got from Missing Persons said that the investigating officer had visited both locations without any major breakthroughs. The suspicion was that Kelly had been abducted from her home address as she parked her car and made her way into her apartment building. There were no witnesses and no CCTV camera footage.
Hunter checked his watch. He and Garcia had planned on checking out both places tomorrow, but what the hell. He was already there, and there was no way he’d be getting any sleep anytime soon.