Chris Carter - Gallery of the Dead

‘Thanks, Larry.’ Agent Fisher leaned back on her chair as she looked up at her partner. ‘Though I’d much rather have a bottle of wine right now.’ A soft tilt of the head. ‘Vodka would do just as fine, too.’

‘That could be easily arranged.’ Agent Williams checked his watch.

‘Yeah, I wish. You’ve seen me drunk, right?’

‘Uh huh.’ Agent Williams smiled at her and their eyes locked.

There was no denying that Special Agent Larry Williams was an extremely attractive man, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. Looks aside, he was intelligent, dedicated, accomplished, a total gentleman, and the best agent she had ever worked with.

He was also completely in love with Agent Fisher.

Despite all his efforts to keep it secret, Agent Fisher saw it in his eyes every time he looked at her. She heard it in his voice. She felt it in his touch.

Truth be told, in different circumstances, Special Agent Erica Fisher would’ve probably fallen for him as well, but her heart belonged to someone else. Someone very, very different.

After a quick bathroom break, Agent Fisher returned to her files. As her brain played with different thoughts, she began separating all the photographs they had into three distinct groups — victims, carvings, and crime scene. That done, she got up from her seat, took a couple of steps back from her desk and let her eyes slowly walk those columns once... twice... ten times.

We have deciphered these, but we haven’t yet figured out the real meaning behind any of these phrases.

‘This is so pointless.’

Her brain felt numb, her eyes felt tired, her body felt drained.

This killer is reaching out.

‘There’s nothing here. Detective Garcia was wrong.’

He wants us to understand him. He wants us to understand why he’s doing what he’s doing.

‘Maybe I’ll try again tomor—’

As Agent Fisher began turning away from her computer screen, something in one of the photos caught her eye and she paused.

One second...

Her body revitalized.

Two seconds...

The brain numbness was gone.

Three seconds...

There it was.

Despite how tired he felt, Hunter decided that before driving home he would stop by The Thirsty Crow Lounge in Silver Lake. The place, which had once been a novelty truck-stop dive called Stinkers, had undergone a massive transformation and was now an easy-going, throwback bar, worlds away from the seedy watering hole it used to be. Its vast selection of Scotch, bourbon and spirits, together with its diverse cocktail menu, owed nothing to any of the more famous whisky and cocktail lounges in downtown LA. It was also a lot more reasonably priced, which considerably added to its appeal, and considering that Hunter’s biggest passion was single malt Scotch whisky, The Thirsty Crow Lounge had become one of his favorite places in recent years.

Back in his apartment, Hunter had a small but impressive collection of Scotch that would probably satisfy the palate of most connoisseurs. He would never consider himself an expert, but unlike so many of his friends, who also claimed to enjoy single malt Scotch whisky, he knew how to appreciate the flavors and robustness of the malts, instead of simply getting drunk on them. Though sometimes getting drunk worked just fine.

Hunter sat at the far end of the shiny white-topped bar, which together with the polished dark-wood paneled walls and the music of Parov Stelar playing out of the old-fashioned jukebox gave the place a cozy speakeasy look and feel. He had just ordered his first shot of Scotch when Professor Tracy Adams walked through the lounge doors. Her bright red hair fell loose past her shoulders, with her fringe styled into a charming 1940s victory roll. She wore a halterneck black-and-white rockabilly swing dress, which exposed both of her tattoo-covered arms. The silk bow around her waist matched her black, low-heel Mary Jane shoes perfectly. As she made her way toward Hunter, several patrons turned on their seats to look at her.

‘Have I missed much?’ she asked, nodding at the tumbler sitting on the bar in front of Hunter. The question came accompanied by a smile that could make even the most confident of men stutter.

‘Not really,’ Hunter replied, getting to his feet.

She gave him a peck on the lips. ‘I’m surprised, but very pleased you called.’

By choice, Hunter had been a loner for most of his life, and for that reason he had always been very comfortable in his own company. He didn’t mind drinking by himself, having dinner by himself, or even going places by himself. It gave him a chance to relax with his own thoughts. But sometimes, being alone with his thoughts wasn’t such a good idea. Plus, Garcia was right. Hunter knew he needed to disconnect from the case, even if only for a few hours. He needed to give his brain some breathing time, and he could see no better way of doing that than to be in the company of someone like Tracy. Not only was she intelligent, funny, and terribly attractive, but she certainly could keep up with the drinking as well.

He waited until Tracy had taken her seat before returning to his.

‘So what did you go for tonight?’ Tracy asked, referring to Hunter’s choice of Scotch.

He simply slid his glass her way.

She took it and even before bringing it to her nose she could smell the strong peat smoke.

‘Laphroaig?’ she asked, but immediately corrected herself. ‘No, Ardbeg.’

Hunter smiled. He knew she would get it right.

Just like Hunter, Tracy Adams loved Scotch whisky and her nose and palate were as refined as any expert’s, something she had learned from her father, a true Scotsman from the Highlands.

‘Is this Uigeadail?’ she asked as she brought the glass to her lips. ‘No.’ She corrected herself again, after the smallest of sips. ‘Corryvreckan, right?’ Her Scots Gaelic pronunciation was impeccable.

Hunter nodded.

‘Wow.’ She sat back as she slid the glass back to Hunter. ‘And with no water, either. That bad a day?’

Hunter didn’t have a favorite malt. He usually chose his dram according to how he was feeling, and though he was a mystery to everyone, Tracy had managed to pick up a few of his telltale signs. One of them was that if he’d had a bad day, Hunter would always choose a smoky malt, and one couldn’t get much smokier than Ardbeg Corryvreckan.

‘Not one of the best,’ he confirmed.

The bartender, who was at least six-foot-three, with a gleaming smile and blond hair tied back into a hipster ponytail, placed a black paper napkin on the bar in front of Tracy.

‘So what can I get you tonight?’ he asked in a baritone voice that could’ve belonged to a documentary narrator.

‘I guess I’ll follow suit,’ she replied, nodding at Hunter. ‘I’ll have the same, please.’

One of the bartender’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Really? That’s quite a heavy, smoky malt. A lot heavier on the alcohol too. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something a little smoother?’

‘It’s OK, Alex,’ Hunter said. ‘She can handle her Scotch better than anyone in here, including you and me.’

The bartender smiled as he looked back at Tracy. ‘Is that a fact?’

She shrugged.

‘In that case, welcome to The Thirsty Crow. I’m Alex.’

‘Tracy. Pleased to meet you.’

They shook hands.

‘An Ardbeg Corryvreckan coming up. Any ice with that?’

‘No, but if you give me just about a fifth of water in it I’d appreciate it.’

‘Oh, I like her,’ the bartender said, nodding at Hunter before pouring Tracy her drink.

Tracy and Hunter touched glasses.

‘I know you don’t talk about your work,’ she said, once the bartender had returned to his duties. ‘So I won’t even ask, but if you feel like talking about anything, you know I’m a great listener, right?’