The Crucifix Killer(22)

Hunter lived alone; no wife, no kids and no girlfriend. He’d had his share of steady relationships, but his job had a way of taking its toll on them. The dangerous RHD lifestyle wasn’t easy to cope with and girlfriends always ended up asking for more than he was prepared to give. Hunter didn’t mind so much being alone any more. It was his defense mechanism. If you have no one, they can’t be torn away from your life.

Hunter’s apartment was located on the third floor, number 313. The living room was oddly shaped and the furniture looked as if it had been donated by Goodwill. A couple of mismatched chairs and a beaten-up black leatherette sofa were placed against the far wall. To its right, a small badly scratched wooden desk with a laptop computer, a three-in-one printer and a small table lamp. Across the room a stylish glass bar looked totally out of place. It was the only piece of furniture Hunter had purchased brand new and from a trendy shop. It held several bottles of Hunter’s biggest passion – single malt Scotch whisky. The bottles were arranged in a peculiar way that only he understood.

He closed the living-room door behind him, turned on the lights and moved the dimmer switch to the ‘low’ setting. He needed a drink. After pouring himself a double dose from the twenty-year-old bottle of Talisker, he dropped a single cube of ice in the glass.

He couldn’t shake the faceless woman’s image from his mind. Every time he closed his eyes he could still see the carving on the back of her neck; he could still smell the pungent odor from that room. Could this be happening again? Could this be the same killer? And if yes, why has he started killing again? The questions kept coming and Hunter knew the answers wouldn’t follow at the same speed. He stirred the ice cube once around the glass with his index finger and brought it to his lips. The sour, peppery taste of the Talisker relaxed him.

Hunter was certain that this would be another sleepless night, but he needed to somehow rest. He turned on the lights in the bedroom and emptied his pockets onto the bedside table. Car keys, house keys, some pocket change and a small piece of paper that read Call me – Isabella. A smile played on his lips as he remembered the whole morning incident.

‘I can’t believe I suggested she was a hooker to her face,’ he thought and the smile turned to laughter. He liked her sense of humor and her wit. She had thrown his sarcasm straight back at him. She was certainly different from most of the dull women he met in bars. He checked his watch. The time was coming up to one in the morning – too late. Perhaps he’d call her some other time.

He walked to the kitchen and pinned Isabella’s note on a corkboard next to the fridge, before making his way back into the bedroom ready to fight insomnia.

From the parking lot, hiding in the shadows a dark figure avidly observed the flicker of lights coming from the third-floor apartment.





Eleven





Hunter managed to doze off a few times during the night, but that was the best he could do. By five-thirty in the morning he was up and feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. Gritty eyes, dry mouth and a nagging headache that would be with him throughout the rest of the day – all the signs of a sleep hangover. He poured himself a strong cup of coffee and considered adding a quick shot of whisky to it, but that would probably make him feel worse. By six-thirty he was dressed and ready to leave when his cell phone rang.

‘Detective Hunter speaking.’

‘Robert, it’s me, Carlos.’

‘Rookie, you gotta stop calling me so early in the goddamn morning. Do you ever sleep?’

‘Sometimes, but last night it was hard to.’

‘You can say that again. So what’s up?’

‘I just talked to Doctor Winston.’

Hunter quickly glanced at his watch. ‘This early? Did you wake him up as well?’

‘No, he’s been up most of the night. Anyway, he said his team of forensic examiners didn’t come up with anything from the wooden house either.’

Hunter ran his hand over his chin. ‘Yeah, I was half expecting that,’ he said disappointedly.

‘He also said that there’s something he wants to show us, something important.’

‘There always is. Is he in the Coroner’s office now?’

‘Yep.’

‘OK, I’ll meet you there . . . half an hour?’

‘Yeah, that’s enough time, see you there.’

The Los Angeles County Department of Coroner is located on Mission Road. As one of the busiest Coroners in the entire United States, it can receive anywhere up to one hundred bodies a day.

Hunter parked next to the main building and met Garcia by the entrance door. He’d seen his fair share of dead bodies after ten years as a detective, but Hunter still felt uneasy walking down the corridors in the Department of Coroner. The smell was like a hospital, but it had a different sting to it, something that burnt the inside of his nostrils and irritated the back of his throat.