fullness of the face due to weight loss or gain.
The main problem Garcia faced was that he had only the close-up photo of the victim, the one from the crime scene, to compare them to. The swelling on the victim’s lips together with the thick black threaded stitches forcing them tightly together deformed the bottom half of her face. Matching any of the photographs sent from Missing Persons to that one would be a long and laborious task.
An hour later Garcia had reduced the possible matches from fifty-two to twelve, but his eyes were getting tired, and the more he looked at the pictures, the fewer distinguishing features he saw.
He spread the twelve printouts out on his desk, creating three lines of four with their respective information sheets next to them. The photos were all of reasonable quality. There were six face portraits, passport-style; three where the subject had been cropped from a group picture; one showed a wet-haired brunette sitting on a jet ski; another smiling brunette was by the pool; and the last picture showed a woman at a dinner table holding a glass of champagne.
Garcia was about to start the whole process again when Hunter walked through the door and saw him hunched over his desk, staring intensely at the group of neatly arranged photographs.
‘Are those from Missing Persons?’ Hunter asked.
Garcia nodded.
‘Anything?’
‘Well, I started with fifty-two possibilities and have been comparing them to our crime-scene photos for over an hour now. The swelling on our victim’s face makes things a lot harder. I’m now down to these,’ he nodded at the twelve photos on his desk, ‘but my eyes are starting to play tricks on me. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to look for any more.’
Hunter stood in front of Garcia’s desk and allowed his eyes to jump from photo to photo, spending several seconds on each one. A moment later his gaze settled on the facial close-up of the unidentified victim. He moved them all nearer together, making a new photo group before reaching for a blank sheet of paper.
‘Every face can be looked at in several ways,’ Hunter said, placing the sheet of paper over the first photo at the top of the group, covering two-thirds of it. ‘That’s how composite sketches are created. Individual characteristics added together one by one.’
Garcia moved closer.
‘The shape of the head and ears, the shape of the eyebrows, eyes and nose, the mouth, the jaw line, the chin. .’ As he mentioned each facial feature, Hunter used the paper sheet to cover all the other ones. ‘We can very crudely use the same principle here.’
A few minutes later they had discarded another eight photographs.
‘I’d say our victim could be any of these four,’ Hunter said finally. ‘They share all the same physical features — oval face, small nose, almond-shaped eyes, arched eyebrows, prominent cheekbones. . the same as our victim.’
Garcia agreed with a nod.
Hunter checked the personal fact sheets Garcia had stapled to the back of each picture. They’d all been reported missing over a week ago. Their home and work addresses were scattered all over town. At first glance there seemed to be no other similarities between the four women other than their looks.
Hunter glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve gotta check them all out today.’
Garcia reached for his jacket. ‘I’m ready.’
Hunter handed him two of the photographs. ‘You take those and I’ll take these two.’
Garcia nodded.
‘Call me if you get lucky.’
Eighteen
Whitney Myers drove through the tall iron gates of the sumptuous mansion in Beverly Hills just forty-five minutes after she had received the call. She parked her yellow Corvette C6 at the far end of the wide cobblestone courtyard, took off her dark glasses, and placed them on her head like an arc to hold her shiny, long black hair back. She grabbed her briefcase from the passenger’s seat, checked her watch and smiled to herself. Considering LA’s afternoon traffic and the fact that she had been in Long Beach when she got the call, forty-five minutes was lightning fast.
She was greeted at the steps that led up to the mansion’s main entrance by Andy McKee, a short, overweight, brilliant attorney-at-law.
‘Whitney,’ he said, using a white handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’
‘Not a problem,’ she smiled as she shook his hand. ‘Whose house is this? It’s gorgeous.’
‘You’ll meet him inside.’ He looked at her appraisingly and the sweat returned to his forehead.
Whitney Myers was thirty-six years old with dark eyes, a small nose, high cheekbones, full lips and a strong jaw. Her smile could be considered a weapon with the power of turning steady legs into gelatinous goo. Many strong and eloquent men had babbled incoherently and giggled like kids after she hit them with it. She looked like a model on a day off, even more beautiful because she wasn’t trying.
Myers started her career as a police officer at the age of twenty-one. She worked harder than anyone in her bureau to move through the ranks and make detective as quickly as she could. Her intelligence, quick thinking and strong character also helped push her forward, and by the age of twenty-seven she finally received her detective’s shield.
Her captain was quick to recognize that Myers had a gift when it came to persuasion. She was calm, articulate, attentive and extremely convincing when putting her point across. She was also good with people. After six months on an intensive and specialized course with the FBI, Myers became one of the chief negotiators for the West and Valley bureaus of the LAPD and the Missing Persons Unit.
But her career as a detective with Los Angeles’ finest came to an abrupt end three years ago, after her efforts to negotiate a suicidal jumper off the roof of an eighteen-story-high skyscraper in Culver City went terribly wrong.
The aftermath of what happened that day put Myers’ entire life under severe scrutiny. An investigation was launched into her conduct, and Internal Affairs came down on her like a heavy downpour. After several weeks, the IA investigation was inconclusive and no charges were brought against her, but her days with the LAPD were over. She’d been running her own missing persons investigation agency since then.
Myers followed McKee through the house, past a double staircase and down a hallway lined with pictures of famous movie stars. The hallway ended in the living room. The room was so imposing it took Myers a few seconds to notice a six-foot-two, broad-shouldered man standing at an arched window. In his right hand he held an almost empty glass of Scotch. Despite being in his mid-fifties, Myers could see he had a boyish charm about him.
‘Whitney, let me introduce you to Leonid Kudrov,’ McKee said.
Leonid put his glass down and shook Myers’ hand. His grip was tense and the expression on his face was the same she’d seen in every face that had ever hired her — desperation.
Nineteen
Myers declined the offer of a drink and listened attentively to Kudrov’s account of events, taking notes every other sentence.
‘Have you called the police?’ she asked while Leonid refilled his glass.
