‘Are we back playing games again, sweetheart?’ Hunter challenged. ‘I thought you said you were through fucking around.’
Myers glared at him again.
‘Kelly Jensen is dead. Murdered in a way your nightmares couldn’t produce. Your Missing Persons case is over. That’s all you need to know.’
‘Client/investigator confidentiality privileges don’t end once the case is over. You know that.’
‘The ex-boyfriend could be a suspect.’
A second of hesitation.
‘He isn’t,’ Myers said confidently. ‘Or do you think I didn’t have him thoroughly checked out before taking the case. And you said that Kelly was killed yesterday. He’s been out of the country for five days.’
‘If you’re so sure of his innocence, why not give me his name and let me check him out too.’
A long, uncomfortable moment played out between them before Myers put out her right arm, the palm of her hand facing up. Her eyes staring straight into Hunter’s. ‘Can I have my ammunitions clip back?’
Hunter knew she was asking for a trust gesture. A give in order to receive kind of thing. He slowly retrieved the magazine from his pocket and placed it in her hand. Myers didn’t load it into her gun. Instead, she just stared at it for a long moment. Her lie was snowballing into something she knew she wouldn’t be able to control. She needed to get out of there before she made a mistake.
‘You know I can’t give you his name. If I do I’ll never get another client again. But I can hand you everything I have on the case. Maybe you can find something there.’
Hunter saw her right eye twitch ever so slightly.
Myers looked down and checked her watch. ‘Give me a few hours to gather everything together and you can have whatever I have.’
Hunter continued to observe her.
‘I know where to find you.’
Hunter watched Myers leave the room before reaching into his pocket. He looked down at the Private Investigator’s ID he’d slipped out of her leather wallet.
‘And I know where to find you,’ he whispered to himself.
Fifty-Six
Kelly Jensen’s art studio was a refurbished mechanic’s garage behind a row of shops in Culver City. The street was narrow and hidden away from the main roads, at the top of a small hill. To the right of her studio was a small parking lot, where all the shop owners kept their vehicles during the day. At that time at night it was completely empty. The only light came from a lamppost on the corner, its bulb old and yellowing. Hunter looked around for security cameras. Nothing.
The studio was spacious and well organized. There were shelves and drawers for every different paint color, type of brush, palette, and canvas sizes. All finished paintings were placed on a large wooden rack that occupied the entirety of the north wall. There was only one canvas stand, positioned just a few feet from the large window that faced west. Kelly liked watching the sunset while working, Hunter guessed. A paint-splattered cloth covered the painting on the stand. Unlike Laura Mitchell, Kelly seemed to only work on one canvas at a time.
Hunter lifted the stained cloth and checked the painting underneath it. Dark, shadowy skies against a placid lake that surrounded the ruins of an old building on top of a steep sloping hill. Hunter stepped back to get a better view.
Kelly was a realist painter, and the effect she achieved with that particular canvas was so vivid it was like standing at the shore, looking out into the horizon. But she’d done something Hunter had never seen before. It was as though the whole scenery was seen through a smoky glass. Everything had a sad, gray tint to it, as if the weather was about to close in on you with a vengeance. The painting looked so real it made Hunter feel cold. He pulled the collar of his jacket tighter against his neck.
Kelly’s ample working space was uncluttered. The only furniture around the place were the shelves and drawer units against the walls, the storing rack, and an old, beat-up armchair several feet away from the window, facing the canvas stand. There were no six-foot canvases, partitions, or anything else for that matter. No place for anyone to hide behind. There was an improvised kitchen area in one corner, and a small bathroom in the opposite one. Hunter checked everywhere. There was no way the killer could’ve waited and then sneaked up on Kelly in there without her noticing it.
Hunter walked back up to the window and stared out into the night. Because her studio was at the top of a hill, the view was unobstructed and quite astonishing. No wonder Kelly used to paint facing that view. He checked the locks. All quite new and very secure. The small parking lot was to the far left, but only part of it was visible from the window.
Suddenly, just a couple of feet from where he was, something moved outside the window with incredible agility.
‘Shit!’ Hunter jumped back, his hand going for his gun.
The black cat ran the length of the window ledge in just a split second. Hunter stood motionless, both arms extended, his grip tight around his pistol handle, his pulse racing.
‘Goddamn it! Not twice in one night,’ he finally breathed out. How could he not have noticed the cat? He moved closer and looked again. The lack of any light outside made the window work almost as a two-way mirror. At night, a person dressed all in black could have observed Kelly without being noticed. Hunter unlocked the window, pushed it open and welcomed the cool breeze that kissed his face. He leaned forward and looked out, first right then left, in the direction of the parking lot. That’s when he noticed something at the far wall blink at him.
Fifty-Seven
The shrieking scream that came from her TV made Jessica Black wake with a start. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa and hadn’t even noticed the old, black-and-white B-movie horror film that had started.
She rubbed her gritty eyes, pulled herself up into a sitting position, and looked around her living room for Mark, her boyfriend. He was nowhere to be seen.
The woman on the screen screamed again and Jessica groggily reached for the remote control that had fallen between her legs, and switched the set off. The scented candle she’d lit earlier had burned halfway through, and the entire room now carried the sweet smell of apples and cinnamon. Jessica watched the flame burn for a minute. Her Wechter acoustic guitar was resting by the side of the sofa next to her. Still watching the flame, she ran her hand across the strings and allowed her memories to catch up with her.
Jessica had got her first acoustic guitar on her tenth birthday. Her father had bought it for her as a present in a garage sale. It was an old and scratched plank of wood with rusty strings that sounded more like a dying dog than a musical instrument. But even at that age, Jessica understood her father had spent money he couldn’t afford just to make her happy. And happy she was.
Her fascination with the instrument had started two years earlier. Just like every afternoon before she had gotten sick, her mother had taken Jessica to the park close to where they lived. That day there was an old black man playing guitar just yards away from the bench her mother liked to sit on. That day, instead of running around with the other kids, Jessica sat on the grass in front of the old man and watched him play all afternoon, mesmerized by the sounds he could get out of only six strings.