Chris Carter - The Caller

‘This morning. I do it every morning just before getting to my office.’

‘And where is that?’

‘Downtown. West Ninth Street.’

The detective nodded. ‘Busy street. And did you notice anyone standing right behind you as you picked up the paper? I mean, anyone close enough to be able to smell your hair?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Think about it carefully now, Doctor. This morning, yesterday, maybe the day before?’

‘Believe me, Detective Webb, I’ve thought about it more carefully than you could imagine. I didn’t notice anybody standing behind me — this morning, yesterday, the day before, or any other day.’

Webb sat back on his chair and regarded the doctor for an instant. She was an attractive woman. Her midnight-black hair was perfectly styled into a short shaggy bob, with face-framing layers. Her eyes, which were just as dark as her hair, had a certain serenity to them that seemed contagious. Her whole presence somehow seemed very calming. Webb didn’t find it surprising that Gwen Barnes had chosen to become a psychotherapist.

‘Have you ever had any trouble with stalkers, Doctor?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I can’t say I have.’ Her turn to regard him. ‘You don’t seem convinced.’

Webb shrugged. ‘We get tens of stalker complaints every year, Doc. I deal with several of them. The truth is — you check most of the boxes for the sort of target they go for.’

Dr. Barnes was quite surprised by the comment, but her expression showed nothing. ‘And what boxes are those?’

‘You’re an unmarried, very attractive woman, Doctor. You seem to have a great career—’

‘How do you know I’m unmarried?’ she cut him short.

Webb pouted his lips and raised his eyebrows as if asking — ‘Is that question for real?’

Dr. Barnes lifted her hands in surrender. For a moment she had forgotten where she was.

‘OK,’ Webb said. He knew that Dr. Barnes had had more than enough time to think about the scenarios surrounding that note. ‘Let me ask you a few quick questions, Doc. Do you think that this note could maybe have come from an ex-anything — husband, boyfriend, lover — someone who you’d had some sort of relationship with in the past? Maybe someone with whom the relationship didn’t end on very good terms?’

The doctor shook her head. ‘No ex-husband, and no. That’s all I’ve been thinking about since I found this note. And since I’ve been waiting here for several hours, I’ve thought about it hundreds of times. I can think of absolutely no one.’

‘Once again, I’m sorry about all the waiting.’ Webb’s tone was plain and sincere. He moved on. ‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’

‘No, nobody.’

Webb nodded. ‘How about an ex-patient,’ he suggested.

‘Or maybe even a current one.’

Another shake of the head. ‘Nope. I thought about that too. I can think of no one who’d be capable of something like this.’

‘People are capable of things you just wouldn’t imagine, Doctor.’ Webb fumbled with his glasses. ‘Can you think of anyone at all that maybe would want to scare you, or... harm you?’

Dr. Barnes shrugged. ‘No, I can’t really think of anyone.’

Webb leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Would you like my truthful opinion, Dr. Barnes?’

‘No, not at all, just give me the bullshit, because that would be much more helpful.’

Webb just kept his eyes on her.

‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor said, showing him her palms once again. ‘It’s been a very stressful day.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘And I’m hungry.’

‘No need to apologize, Doc. I understand.’

‘So what’s your truthful opinion?’

Webb looked at the note on the table one more time before his stare glided back to Dr. Barnes. ‘I think this is just a hoax, pure and simple. Someone pulling your leg. Maybe someone who you don’t even know. A practical joker. Someone who knows you’re a psychotherapist and could maybe overanalyze the note. Maybe this person works in the same building as you. Maybe he’s seen you around as you pick up your paper in the morning, I’m not sure. But I’d say that this...’ He nodded once. ‘You being here. You being scared. Is the exact reaction he wanted to get out of the joke. I’m very sorry to say, Dr. Barnes, but I think that you’ve wasted your time.’

To Detective Webb’s surprise, Dr. Barnes agreed with him. ‘That was exactly what I thought when I first read the note. I thought it was a joke and not a very good one, but then I noticed that there was something else inside the envelope.’

Webb frowned as his stare hopped back to the envelope on the table. ‘What else?’

She reached for the envelope, tipped it, and allowed whatever else was inside it to slide out on to the tabletop.

With an imposing, three-hundred-plus collection of bourbon, rye, blended and single malt Scotch whisky, the Seven Grand was one of the most accomplished bars in the whole of Los Angeles for whisky aficionados.

Hunter jumped out of the cab directly in front of number 542, on West Seventh Street. The wind blowing from the coast had picked up considerably, and the night air had acquired the slight smell of damp soil, announcing that rain was imminent. Hunter pulled the collar of his jacket tight against the nape of his neck, pushed open the door and took the steps to the second floor, where the whisky bar was located.

‘Hello and good evening.’ The five-foot-seven, brown-haired hostess greeted Hunter by the Seven Grand glass door with an encouraging smile. ‘Will you be having dinner with us tonight, or only drinks?’ She spoke with a very charming Scottish accent.

‘Probably both.’

Being five inches shorter than Hunter, the hostess tilted her head to one side, trying to look behind him. There was no one else there.

‘Party of one?’

‘Story of my life,’ Hunter joked, nodding.

Her smile brightened as she collected a couple of menus.

‘Please follow me.’

She guided Hunter through the short entrance hall, which was decorated with plaid wallpaper and taxidermy, past the pool table room and bar on the right, and on to the busy restaurant floor. The sound of loud conversations mixed unevenly with the quickstep beat of electro swing playing from the ceiling speakers.

‘Have you dined with us before?’

‘Yes, I’ve been here a few times, mostly just at the bar. It’s been a while since my last time, though.’

‘I was about to say, I don’t recall seeing you here before, and I’ve been working here for the past eight months.’

‘Well, I don’t blame you,’ Hunter replied. ‘I don’t have a very memorable face.’

The hostess paused and turned to look at Hunter. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She renewed her smile. ‘On the contrary, you have a very... striking face, with kind-looking eyes. People remember that.’

‘Thank you.’ Hunter reciprocated the smile.

They moved past a large table where eight young men in expensive-looking, tight-fitting suits seemed to be having a party.

‘Hey there, sexy lassie ,’ one of them said, addressing the hostess in the worst Scottish accent Hunter had ever heard. For some reason, as the young man threw them into his sentences, he decided to stress the few Scottish terms he knew. He also sounded way past his limit. ‘We need another tipple over here, but none of this Scottish nonsense. We need another bottle of good old American bourbon — Tennessee-style, you hear? The lads over here are thirsty.’

The rest of his friends all broke out in loud laughter.

‘No problem, sir,’ the hostess replied politely. ‘I’ll send a new bottle to your table straight away.’