The Night Stalker

over.

Laurent frowned, taking a few seconds to remember. ‘Nothing in particular. I’m not sure about any of them being scary or upsetting, but I’m sure she got a few strange ones from infatuated fans. It happens more than you think. I just tell all my artists to disregard them.’

‘Disregard them?’

‘Fans come with fame, Detective; it’s a package deal that you can’t opt out of. And unfortunately some of them are just plain weird, but they usually mean no harm. All the artists I represent get them every now and then.’ His eyes moved back to the pack of cigarettes on his desk and he quickly debated if he should have another one. He started fidgeting with a black-and-gold Mont Blanc pen instead. ‘I’ve been Kelly’s agent for three years, and in that time I’ve never seen her unhappy, or worried. She always had a smile on her face, as if it were tattooed to her lips. I really can’t remember ever seeing Kelly unhappy.’

‘When did you last speak to Miss Jensen?’ Garcia asked.

‘We were supposed to meet up for lunch on the. .’ he flipped open a leather-bound diary on his desk and quickly leafed through it, ‘. . the 25th February, to discuss Kelly’s upcoming exhibition in Paris. Kelly had been very excited about that particular trip for months, but she never turned up for the meeting, and she never called to cancel either. When I tried getting hold of her, all I got was her answering service. Two days later I gave up trying and contacted the police.’

‘Was she involved with drugs, gambling, anything of the bad sort you know of?’ Garcia asked this time.

Laurent’s eyes widened for an instant. ‘God, no. At least not that I know of. She barely drank. Kelly was your typical good girl.’

‘Financial difficulties?’

‘Not with the kinda money she was making. Every one of her paintings sells for thousands. Probably more now.’

Hunter wondered if he threw a hundred bucks out the window, would Laurent jump after it?

Before leaving, Hunter paused by the door to the office and turned to face Laurent again. ‘Do you know if Miss Jensen was friends with another LA painter — Laura Mitchell?’

Laurent looked at him curiously before shaking his head. ‘Laura Mitchell? I’m not sure. Their styles are very different.’

Hunter turned to look back at him curiously.

‘Believe it or not,’ Laurent clarified, ‘many painters are funny in that way. Some won’t mix with different style artists.’ He pouted reflexively. ‘Some won’t mix with other artists at all. Why do you ask?’

‘Just wondering.’ Hunter handed Laurent a card. ‘If you think of anything else, please don’t—’

‘Wait!’ Laurent cut him short. ‘Laura Mitchell and Kelly did meet. It was a few years ago. I’d forgotten all about that. Right at the start of Kelly’s career. I had just started representing her. She was interviewed for a cable TV documentary. Something about the new wave of American artists from the West Coast, or something along those lines. Several artists took part in it. I think it was all filmed at the. .’ his eyes moved to a blank spot on the wall ‘. . Getty Museum or maybe at the Moca, I can’t be sure. But I’m in no doubt Laura Mitchell was one of the artists who was there that day.’

Fifty-Two

Night had already darkened the sky by the time Hunter and Garcia got back to Parker Center. They both felt exhausted.

‘Go home, Carlos,’ Hunter said rubbing his eyes. ‘Spend the night with Anna. Take her out for dinner or a movie or something. There ain’t much we can do now but review information, and our brains are both too fried to process anything at this time.’

Garcia knew Hunter was right. And Anna would really appreciate having her husband for an entire night. He reached for his jacket.

‘Aren’t you coming?’ he asked as Hunter turned his computer on.

‘Five minutes,’ Hunter replied with a nod. ‘Just gonna check something on the net.’

It took Hunter a lot longer than he expected to find any references to the documentary Kelly Jensen’s agent had mentioned. It was a low budget production by the Arts and Entertainment cable TV Channel called Canvas Beauty, The Upcoming Talents from the West Coast. It had only aired once, three years ago. He called the A & E TV network office in LA, but at that time of night, there was no one there who could assist him. He’d have to contact them again in the morning.

Hunter didn’t go straight home after he left his office. His mind was too full of thoughts for him to try to brave the solitude of his apartment.

If the killer was really forcing his victims to kill themselves by impact-activating a trigger mechanism, then they were right about Laura Mitchell, the first victim. She wasn’t supposed to have died on that butcher’s counter. She was supposed to have jumped down from it. The bomb was supposed to have gone off inside her. But the trigger was never activated. She died from suffocation. Her mother had told Hunter about the choking seizures Laura used to suffer when young. Possibly some psychological condition that had ceased to manifest itself after she started painting. Hunter knew that such conditions could easily be shocked back to life by a traumatic experience, like severe panic. The kind of panic she would have experienced in that dark back room, alone, with her mouth and body stitched shut.

Hunter drove around aimlessly for a while before ending up at the oceanfront on Santa Monica Beach.

He liked watching the sea at night. The sound of waves breaking against the sand together with the quietness calmed him. It reminded him of his parents and of when he was a little kid.

His father used to work seventy-hour weeks, jumping between two awfully paid jobs. His mother would take any work that came her way — cleaning, ironing, washing, anything. Hunter couldn’t remember a weekend when his father wasn’t working, and even then they struggled to pay all their bills. But Hunter’s parents never complained. They simply played the cards they were dealt. And no matter how bad a hand they got, they always did it with a smile on their faces.

Every Sunday, after Hunter’s father got home from work, they used to go down to the beach. Most times they got there as everyone else was packing up and getting ready to leave. Sometimes the sun had already set. But Hunter didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it. It was like the whole beach belonged to him and his parents. After Hunter’s mother passed away, his father never stopped taking him to the beach on Sundays. Sometimes, Hunter would catch his father wiping away tears as he watched the waves break.

There were tourists everywhere, especially down Third Street Promenade and in the many beach bars that lined the oceanfront. A boy sped past him in rollerblades, quickly followed by a younger girl, clearly struggling with her technique.

‘Slow down, Tim,’ she called after the boy pleadingly. He didn’t even look back.

Hunter sat on the sand for a while, watching the waves and breathing in the sea breeze. He spotted a group of night surfers in the distance. Five in total, two of them female. They seemed to be having a great time. A boy was practicing his soccer juggling skills close to the water. He was good, Hunter had to admit. A couple holding hands walked past in silence and both nodded a cordial hello at Hunter, who returned the gesture. He watched them walk away, and for a moment he lost himself in a memory. Something few people ever knew about him — he’d been in love once, long ago.

Unconsciously his lips spread into a melancholic smile. As the memory developed, the smile faded and an empty pit took hold of his stomach. A lonely tear threatened to form at the corner of his eye. But the memory was interrupted by his cell phone ringing in his pocket. The display window read — unknown number.

‘Detective Hunter.’

‘Wassup, dawg?’ D-King said in his chilled-out lilt. Loud hip-hop music was playing in the background.

‘Not much,’ Hunter replied.

D-King wasn’t one for beating around the bush. ‘Sorry, dawg, there’s no word on the street, you know what