The Night Stalker

West Coast.’

Coleman cocked his head back. ‘Canvas Beauty?’ he said with a surprised chuckle. ‘Wow. That was three maybe four years ago.’

‘Three,’ Hunter confirmed.

‘I was in the production team for that. Very low budget stuff.’ Coleman took off his glasses and started polishing them with a piece of cloth. ‘That documentary was a fluke. A promotional trick. You sure that’s the one you want?’

Hunter rested his left elbow on the arm of his chair and his chin on his knuckles. ‘What do you mean, a fluke?’

‘The only reason it was shot in the first place was because of our regional director at the time,’ Coleman explained. ‘His daughter was an artist, a painter. She’d been trying to break into the scene for some time without much success. So suddenly a new documentary script found its way to the top of our schedule. You know the drill — include a few truly talented upcoming artists, heavily feature his daughter in the middle of it all and hope for the best.’

‘Did it work?’

Coleman nodded hesitantly. ‘I guess it did its job. She got noticed and I think she’s doing OK with her art. That regional director left us a couple of years ago, so I wouldn’t really know.’

‘What’s her name?’ Garcia asked. ‘The regional director’s daughter?’

‘Ummm. .’ Coleman started fidgeting with a ballpoint pen. ‘Martina,’ he remembered. ‘That’s it, Martina Greene. May I ask why you’re interested in that particular documentary?’

‘We just wanna have a look at it and find out which other artists were featured,’ Hunter replied. ‘Were they filmed individually? I mean, on different locations, on different days?’

Another chuckle from Coleman. ‘Nope. As I said, it was really low budget. Even our director wouldn’t be able to justify spending real money on it. So we crammed the whole thing into one day’s shooting. We got all the artists together one afternoon at the. .’ he looked away for a second as if struggling to recall, ‘. . Moca Museum in South Grand Avenue.’

‘Were they all women?’

Coleman frowned and thought about it for an instant. ‘On that particular documentary, yes.’

‘And do you know if it was aired again? Maybe recently?’

‘I can check, but I wouldn’t think so. As I said, it wasn’t a very good piece of work.’ He pulled himself closer to his computer and typed something into his keyboard.

When the result came back a few seconds later, he repositioned his computer monitor so Hunter and Garcia could have a look. ‘Nope, aired once two weeks after it was produced and that was it.’

‘Do you have any more recent documentaries or interviews in the same vein as that one?’ Garcia asked. ‘I mean, featuring Los Angeles female painters?’

A look of interest came over Coleman’s face. ‘Anyone in particular?’

‘If you could just show us whatever you have, we’d be very grateful,’ Hunter was quick to answer. He didn’t want Coleman’s curiosity piqued further.

Too late. Once a reporter, always a reporter.

Coleman twitched in his chair before returning to his computer. ‘When you say “more recent”, how recent do you mean?’

‘A year, maybe two.’

This time the search took a little longer.

‘OK, in the past two years we’ve produced three programs on painters,’ Coleman said, ‘but they weren’t exclusively on Los Angeles or Californian artists.’

Garcia frowned. ‘That’s it, three programs in two years?’

‘Very few people are interested in the art of painting, or in the life of modern painters,’ Coleman explained, sitting back in his chair. ‘We live in a capitalist world where money rules, Detective, and to us viewing numbers is what translates into money — advertising time. If we air a documentary on hip-hop, rap, or whatever trendy new singer is storming the charts, our viewing numbers hit the roof. We air one on painters or any less popular branch of the arts, that number drops to less than a third, even during prime time. Get the picture?’

‘Could we get copies of all three,’ Hunter said, ‘together with the Canvas Beauty one?’

‘Of course.’

‘We’ll also need a copy of the work log for the Canvas Beauty documentary. Names of everyone who worked on it — cameraman, make-up artists, production and editing team. . everyone.’

‘No problem. I’ll put you in touch with Tom, our archives guy. He’ll get you whatever you need.’

As Hunter closed the door behind him, Coleman reached for the phone and dialed the private number of a very good friend of his: Donald Robbins, the lead crime reporter at the LA Times.

Sixty-Five

The CCTV files from Mr. Wang’s convenience store had finished uncompressing. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find from the footage, but the Missing Persons investigator’s assumption that Kelly Jensen had been abducted from Santa Monica, either while parking her car, or walking from it to her apartment building didn’t sit right. Even in the dead of night, San Vicente Boulevard was way too busy. Cars drove by every ten seconds or so. Someone could look out the window at any time. It was just too risky. A risk that her killer could’ve easily avoided by taking Kelly from her much quieter studio in Culver City. And the small parking lot at the back provided a perfect location for an abduction. It was secluded and badly lit. If Hunter were the one planning to kidnap Kelly, that’s where he’d have done it from.

Hunter checked his watch. It was late. Before leaving the office, he quickly read through the email he’d received from Jenkins, a good friend from the Records and Identification Division. It contained all the information he’d requested about Whitney Myers and her time with the force, but Hunter had found it hard to concentrate. The punishing headache that had been pounding his brain for the past two hours was threatening to intensify. He needed food. But the cupboards and the fridge back in his place hadn’t seen supplies in days. Besides, the only thing he knew how to cook well was popcorn, and he’d already had his share of it this month. He decided to go for something a little healthier. He printed out the contents of the attachment to Jenkins’ email, grabbed the laptop and headed for his car.

Uncle Kelome’s, a small Hawaiian restaurant in Baldwin Hills, served the best Aloha-style shrimp in the whole of Los Angeles. Hunter loved the food and the relaxed atmosphere. And right now there was nothing that he needed more than to relax, even if only for a few minutes while having his favorite, Volcano Shrimp Platter. The fact that their bar also kept a respectful stock of single malt Scotch was a welcome bonus.

Hunter placed his order at the counter and took a table at the far end of the dining room, hidden away from the often noisy bar. He sat down and buried his head in his hands. His headache was so intense it felt like his brain was about to burst inside his head.

A waitress brought him his drink and placed it on the table in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ he said without looking up.

‘Not a problem, but if you’d like those files I promised you, I’m gonna need my ID back.’

Hunter lifted his head too quickly, and for a fraction of a second his vision was filled with blurry dots. His eyes quickly refocused on Whitney Myers’ face.

She smiled.

Hunter didn’t.

‘Can I sit down?’ she asked, already pulling out the chair opposite him.

Despite himself, Hunter appraised Myers. She looked different tonight. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders. She was wearing a dark blue pencil skirt suit. The top button on her blazer was undone, showing a silk white blouse underneath. Her make-up was so light it was almost invisible, but it skillfully accentuated her features.