Chris Carter - The Night Stalker

Too late. Once a reporter, always a reporter.

Coleman twitched in his chair before returning to his computer. ‘When you say “more recent”, how recent do you mean?’

‘A year, maybe two.’

This time the search took a little longer.

‘OK, in the past two years we’ve produced three programs on painters,’ Coleman said, ‘but they weren’t exclusively on Los Angeles or Californian artists.’

Garcia frowned. ‘That’s it, three programs in two years?’

‘Very few people are interested in the art of painting, or in the life of modern painters,’ Coleman explained, sitting back in his chair. ‘We live in a capitalist world where money rules, Detective, and to us viewing numbers is what translates into money – advertising time. If we air a documentary on hip-hop, rap, or whatever trendy new singer is storming the charts, our viewing numbers hit the roof. We air one on painters or any less popular branch of the arts, that number drops to less than a third, even during prime time. Get the picture?’

‘Could we get copies of all three,’ Hunter said, ‘together with the Canvas Beauty one?’

‘Of course.’

‘We’ll also need a copy of the work log for the Canvas Beauty documentary. Names of everyone who worked on it – cameraman, make-up artists, production and editing team… everyone.’

‘No problem. I’ll put you in touch with Tom, our archives guy. He’ll get you whatever you need.’

As Hunter closed the door behind him, Coleman reached for the phone and dialed the private number of a very good friend of his: Donald Robbins, the lead crime reporter at the LA Times .

The CCTV files from Mr. Wang’s convenience store had finished uncompressing. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find from the footage, but the Missing Persons investigator’s assumption that Kelly Jensen had been abducted from Santa Monica, either while parking her car, or walking from it to her apartment building didn’t sit right. Even in the dead of night, San Vicente Boulevard was way too busy. Cars drove by every ten seconds or so. Someone could look out the window at any time. It was just too risky. A risk that her killer could’ve easily avoided by taking Kelly from her much quieter studio in Culver City. And the small parking lot at the back provided a perfect location for an abduction. It was secluded and badly lit. If Hunter were the one planning to kidnap Kelly, that’s where he’d have done it from.

Hunter checked his watch. It was late. Before leaving the office, he quickly read through the email he’d received from Jenkins, a good friend from the Records and Identification Division. It contained all the information he’d requested about Whitney Myers and her time with the force, but Hunter had found it hard to concentrate. The punishing headache that had been pounding his brain for the past two hours was threatening to intensify. He needed food. But the cupboards and the fridge back in his place hadn’t seen supplies in days. Besides, the only thing he knew how to cook well was popcorn, and he’d already had his share of it this month. He decided to go for something a little healthier. He printed out the contents of the attachment to Jenkins’ email, grabbed the laptop and headed for his car.

Uncle Kelome’s, a small Hawaiian restaurant in Baldwin Hills, served the best Aloha-style shrimp in the whole of Los Angeles. Hunter loved the food and the relaxed atmosphere. And right now there was nothing that he needed more than to relax, even if only for a few minutes while having his favorite, Volcano Shrimp Platter. The fact that their bar also kept a respectful stock of single malt Scotch was a welcome bonus.

Hunter placed his order at the counter and took a table at the far end of the dining room, hidden away from the often noisy bar. He sat down and buried his head in his hands. His headache was so intense it felt like his brain was about to burst inside his head.

A waitress brought him his drink and placed it on the table in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ he said without looking up.

‘Not a problem, but if you’d like those files I promised you, I’m gonna need my ID back.’

Hunter lifted his head too quickly, and for a fraction of a second his vision was filled with blurry dots. His eyes quickly refocused on Whitney Myers’ face.

She smiled.

Hunter didn’t.

‘Can I sit down?’ she asked, already pulling out the chair opposite him.

Despite himself, Hunter appraised Myers. She looked different tonight. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders. She was wearing a dark blue pencil skirt suit. The top button on her blazer was undone, showing a silk white blouse underneath. Her make-up was so light it was almost invisible, but it skillfully accentuated her features. Hunter noticed that the group of guys sitting at the table to his right had all turned to look at her; two of them were almost drooling. Hunter’s eyes moved from Myers to the glass in front of him and then back to her.

‘Balvenie, 12-year-old single malt,’ she announced before touching her glass against his. She was drinking the same. ‘It’s always a pleasure finding someone else who appreciates a proper drink.’

Hunter placed his hands on the table but didn’t say anything.

‘Wow, you look shattered,’ she continued. ‘And I’m sorry about that.’ She gestured towards the cut above his eyebrow before placing a palm on the left side of her torso. ‘You were right, my ribs aren’t broken, but they’re bruised to shit.’

Still silence from Hunter, but it didn’t seem to bother her.

‘I must admit, your file is quite a read. A child prodigy. Really?’ She pulled a face. ‘Attended the prestigious Mirman School for the Super Brainy on a scholarship, and cruised through their entire curriculum in two years. After that, Stanford, also on a scholarship. Received your PhD in Criminal Behavior Analysis and Biopsychology at the age of twenty-three? That’s impressive.’

Not a word from Hunter. Myers carried on.

‘Made detective in record time and was immediately asked to join the RHD… now that really is impressive. You must’ve kissed a lot of ass or impressed the hell out of some important people.’

Still nothing from Hunter.

‘Now a detective with the infamous HSS, and you’re affectionately called the one-man zombie squad by most of your department.’ She smiled. ‘Cute nickname. Did you come up with that yourself?’

She continued, unfazed by his lack of response.

‘Your specialty is ultra-violent crime, and you hold an impressive arrest record. Your book is still mandatory reading at the FBI National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crimes. Have I left anything out?’

Hunter had never written a book, but one of his university professors was so impressed with his thesis paper on Criminal Conduct that he forwarded it to his friend at the FBI academy in Virginia, who passed it on to the academy director. A few weeks later a young Robert Hunter was invited to Quantico to talk to a class of experienced officers and instructors. The one-day talk became a week-long seminar, and at the end of it the director asked Hunter’s permission to use his thesis as required reading material for all field officers. Now no one graduates from Quantico without reading it.

‘So you read my life story,’ Hunter finally said. ‘It must’ve been a pretty boring few minutes.’

‘On the contrary. I thought it was very colorful.’ Myers smiled again. ‘Though there’s a strange gap. For a couple of years it seems you just disappeared off the face of the earth. Not a scrap of information on you anywhere. And my research team is the best there is.’