‘Natalie Foster is my assistant,’ Lange explained, ‘but she’s a great photographer and very good with computers. She’s also our webmaster.’
Natalie shook both detectives’ hands. ‘Please, call me Nat.’
‘These are detectives from the Homicide Division,’ Lange told her.
Natalie’s smile quickly slipped from her face. ‘Homicide?’
Hunter explained the reason for their visit and Natalie’s entire body tensed. Her eyes searched for Lange’s and Hunter could tell her mind had flooded with questions.
‘We need to take a look at the photographs from Laura’s exhibition, Nat,’ Lange said.
It took a few seconds for his words to register. ‘Umm. . yes, of course.’ She placed the laptop on Lange’s desk and fired it up. As the computer booted, an anxious silence hovered over the room. Natalie typed in a password and scrolled a trembling finger across the laptop’s mouse pad as she searched for the pictures directory.
Hunter grabbed a small bottle of water from the drinks cabinet. ‘Here, have some of this, it’ll help.’ He poured some into a glass with ice and brought it over to her.
‘Thank you.’ She forced a smile before taking two large sips and returning her attention to the computer.
A few more mouse clicks later and Natalie set the picture display to full screen.
‘OK, here they are.’
The first picture was a wide shot of the main gallery floor on the opening night of Laura Mitchell’s exhibition. It looked full to capacity.
‘How many people were here that night?’ Hunter asked.
‘About a hundred and fifty.’ Lange looked at Natalie for confirmation. She nodded. ‘And there were a few more outside waiting to get in.’
‘Entry wasn’t by invitation only?’ Garcia asked.
‘Not always, it depends on the artist,’ Lange replied. ‘Most, especially the more famous and egocentric ones, like to make their launch nights invitation-and RSVP-only.’
‘But not Laura.’
‘Not Laura,’ Lange confirmed. ‘She wasn’t like most artists who think they’re God’s gift. She insisted her exhibitions were open to everyone and anyone. Even on artists’ nights.’
Most of the photographs were of Laura smiling and chatting to people. She was usually surrounded by a group of four or five. A few of the photographs showed her posing in front of a canvas or with a fan. She certainly was a very attractive woman. Hunter could hardly make the connection with the crime-scene photos he’d seen.
‘Wait,’ Lange said, stepping closer. His eyes squinted as he studied the photograph that had just appeared on the screen. ‘I think that’s him — the guy who swapped numbers with Laura.’ He pointed to someone standing at the back of the frame. He was tall with short dark hair and was dressed in a dark suit, but his face was partially obscured by a waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Natalie used the zoom feature at the bottom of the screen to enlarge it, but it didn’t make the man’s face any clearer. He looked to be around the same age as Laura Mitchell.
‘Have any of you seen him before?’ Hunter asked.
Lange shook his head, but Natalie looked uncertain. ‘I think I have, at one of our previous exhibitions.’
‘Are you sure? Can you remember which one?’
She took a moment. ‘I can’t remember which exhibition it was, but he looks familiar.’
‘Are you sure you saw him here in the gallery? Not in a coffee shop, restaurant, nightclub. .?’
Natalie searched her memory again. ‘No, I think it was here at the gallery.’
‘OK, if you see him again, or you remember which exhibition, you call me, all right? If he comes in, don’t try to talk to him, just call me.’
Natalie nodded and moved on with the pictures.
‘Stop,’ Lange said again a few pictures later. This time he indicated another tall, well-built man standing just a couple of paces behind Laura. He was looking at her as if she was the only person in the room. ‘That’s her ex- fiance. I think his name is. .’
‘Patrick Barlett,’ Hunter confirmed, once again enlarging the picture. ‘We’ll need a copy of all these files.’
‘Sure,’ Natalie said. ‘I can burn them onto a CD for you before you leave.’
Just a few pictures from the end of the archive, Lange told Natalie to stop again. There he was. The tall, mysterious, phone-swapping stranger. He was standing right next to Laura. But this time he was looking straight at the camera.
Twenty-Nine
Small but very well equipped, Gustavo Suarez’s studio was set in the basement of a single-story house in Jefferson Park, South Los Angeles.
Gus had been an audio engineer for twenty-seven years, and with a perfect-pitch ear it took a single note from any instrument for him to immediately place it on a music scale. But his understanding of sounds went much beyond musical notes. He was fascinated by their vibrations and modulations, what created them and how they could be altered by location and the environment. Because of his knowledge, gifted ear and experience, Gus had been called upon by the LAPD on several occasions where some sort of sound, noise or audio recording played a critical part in an ongoing investigation.
Whitney Myers had met Gus for the first time through the FBI, while training to be a negotiator. Their paths crossed again soon after, when she became a detective for the LAPD. As a private investigator, Myers had required Gus’ expertize on only two other occasions.
Gus was forty-seven years old, with a shaved head and more tattoos than a Hell’s Angel. But despite the intimidating look, he was as docile as a puppy. He opened the door to Frank Cohen and was instantly disappointed.
‘Where’s Whitney?’ he asked, looking past Cohen’s shoulders.
‘Sorry, Gus, it’s only me. She’s tied up.’
‘Damn, man. I got my best shirt on.’ He ran his hands down the front of his freshly ironed dark blue shirt. ‘Even splashed on some cologne and all.’
‘Splashed?’ Cohen took a step back and covered his nose. ‘You smell like you bathed in the stuff. What the hell is it, Old Spice?’
Gus frowned. ‘I
‘Yeah, no shit. More than most by the smell of it.’
Gus disregarded his comment and guided him down to the basement and into his studio.
‘So how can I help you guys this time? Whitney didn’t tell me much over the phone.’ He took a seat in his engineer’s chair and wheeled himself closer to his sound desk.
Cohen handed him Myers’ digital recorder. ‘We got this from an answering machine.’
Gus brought the device closer to his right ear and pressed play. As the strange sound came through, he reached for the bowl of Skittles next to the recording console. Gus had a thing for Skittles, they helped him relax and concentrate.
‘We think there’s a voice, or a whisper, or something hidden in the middle of all that static,’ Cohen offered.
Gus swirled a bunch of Skittles from his right cheek to his left one. ‘It’s not hidden, it’s just there,’ he announced, playing the recording from the beginning again. ‘Definitely someone’s voice.’ He got up, walked over to a cabinet and retrieved a thin cable that looked like iPod headphones. ‘Let me hook this thing up so we can have a better listen.’
Through the studio speakers, the sound was louder, the out-of-breath whisper more evident, but not clearer.
