‘You ain’t serious,’ Garcia said, staring at the dim flicker of the dashboard lights.
‘Chill out, it’s OK. This engine is just temperamental,’ Hunter replied, avoiding Garcia’s stare.
‘By temperamental you mean old, right? Anyway, the problem isn’t your engine. It sounds like a dead battery to me.’
‘Trust me, I know this car, it’ll be OK.’ Hunter tried once again and this time the engine made no sound. The dashboard lights flickered only once and then . . .
‘Umm! I guess you better call your road rescue service.’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘What? Please tell me you’re joking,’ Garcia said, leaning against the passenger door.
‘No I’m not.’
‘Are you crazy? You have a car that’s . . . How old is this car?’
Hunter screwed up his face trying to remember the exact year of fabrication. ‘About fourteen years old.’
‘You have a fourteen-year-old car and no road rescue plan? You’re either very optimistic or a mechanic, and I don’t see any grease on your hands.’
‘I’m telling you, I know this car. We just gotta give it some time and it’ll start, it always does. So coffee or beer?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well, we’ve gotta kill some time . . . twenty or so minutes. We could just sit in here and shoot the breeze, but since we’re on Sunset Strip, we might as well grab a drink while we wait, so do you prefer coffee or beer?’
Garcia looked at Hunter in disbelief. ‘I don’t see how waiting any amount of time will recharge your battery, but coffee will do for me.’
‘Beer it is then,’ Hunter said, opening his door and slipping out of the car.
‘Shall we go back to the Rainbow? Maybe you can continue your very interesting conversation with the “Rock Bitch” blond babe,’ Garcia taunted.
‘It’s OK, I got her phone number,’ Hunter teased back.
They found a small, quiet bar on Hammond Street. It was just past one in the morning and most punters were getting ready to go home. Hunter ordered two beers and a bag with ice for his ankle before taking a table towards the rear of the bar.
‘How’s the foot?’ Garcia asked as they sat down.
‘Fine. It’s just a simple twist,’ he said after a quick examination. ‘The ice will keep it from swelling up.’ He placed the bag of ice over his foot and rested it on an empty chair to his left. ‘I won’t be able to run for a couple of days but that’s all.’
Garcia nodded.
‘I’ve never seen anybody run the way you did, were you in the Olympics or something?’
Garcia smiled, showing glistening white and perfectly aligned teeth. ‘I used to be in my university’s track and field team.’
‘And you were very good at it by the looks of things.’
‘I’ve won a few medals.’ Garcia sounded more embarrassed than proud. ‘How about you? If you hadn’t twisted your foot you would’ve gotten to him easily. He was half your weight.’
‘I’m not as fast as you, I can tell you that,’ Hunter replied with a tilt of the head.
‘Maybe one day we’ll find out,’ Garcia said with a challenging smile.
A loud crashing noise came from the bar catching their attention. Someone had slipped from his bar stool, smashing his beer bottle and plummeting to the floor.
‘Time to go home, Joe,’ a short brunette waitress said, helping the man back to his feet.
‘There’s something that bothers me about this case,’ Garcia said following Joe out of the bar with his eyes.
‘Everything bothers me about this case, but let’s hear yours,’ Hunter replied, having another sip of his beer.
‘In this day and age, how can the killer not leave anything behind? I understand that the killer also has a lot of time to clean up the place before he leaves, but we’ve got lights and chemicals and different gadgets that can reveal a speck of dust on the floor. We’ve got DNA tests; we can convict someone by his saliva. Hell, if the killer had farted in that house the forensic team would probably have some gadget that could pick it up. How can the crime scenes be so clean?’
‘Simple, the killer never works on a victim at the location where the victim is found.’
Garcia half nodded accepting Hunter’s theory.
‘Our victim for example. She wasn’t skinned at that old wooden house. The killer surely has a very secure place, a killing place, a place where he feels safe, where he can take his time with the victims, where he knows no one would ever interrupt him. So all the messy stuff, the blood, the noise, the fibers are all left somewhere else. The killer then transports the victim to the place where he wants them to be found, usually a secluded place where the risk of being seen by a member of the public is very slim. All the killer has to do is wear some sort of overall that sheds no fibers.’