‘Not much.’
‘So there’s no doubt anymore, it’s him, it’s the Crucifix Killer.’
With frustration in his eyes Hunter could only manage a slight nod.
‘We’d better tell the captain.’
Hunter registered a certain excitement in Garcia’s voice. ‘I’ll call him from the car; we need to go check those gyms – you drive.’
Hunter’s conversation with Captain Bolter was quick. He told him about checking out a few gyms and about the killer’s phone call. The captain had cogitated the idea of placing a listening device in Hunter’s cell phone, but they’d tried it before with no luck. The caller had used a tracer scrambler device that bounced the call through twenty locations around the globe. For now, there was nothing anyone could do.
Their visit to the gyms in Hollywood came up empty. Neither the reception nor the fitness staff had seen a woman that resembled the computer-generated portrait. They’d need a warrant and a lot of man hours to go through all the member files in the gym’s database, and that would still be a shot in the dark.
The Gold’s Gym branch in Venice Beach is arguably the most famous gym in the world. It shot to fame with the release of the film
‘There’s no way we’re gonna go around LA checking all the gyms,’ Garcia said as they reached his car.
‘I know, this was a long shot anyway, but we had to try it,’ Hunter said rubbing his tired eyes. The previous sleepless night was starting to show its signs.
‘So what’s next, model and acting agencies?’
‘Not yet.’ Hunter was deep in thought for a moment. ‘Doctor Winston said he was confident our victim had money and she spent quite a lot of it on pampering herself remember?’
‘Yeah, so?’
‘If she was a struggling actress or model . . .’
‘One thing she wouldn’t have a lot of would be money,’ Garcia picked up where Hunter left off.
‘You’re getting good at this – ever thought about becoming a detective?’ Hunter said derisively.
Garcia lifted his right hand and showed Hunter his middle finger.
‘There’s someone else I’d like to visit.’
‘Who?’ Garcia asked intrigued.
‘If she was a struggling actress or model she’d still be able to make quite a lot of money by doing something else. You mentioned it before.’
Garcia frowned. After a few seconds he snapped his fingers and pointed at Hunter. ‘Hooker,’ he said triumphantly.
Hunter gave him an approving smile. ‘And I know just the guy we need to talk to.’
‘Let’s go then,’ Garcia said sounding eager.
‘Not now, he’s only around at night – are you busy tonight?’ Hunter said with a quick wink.
‘Are you asking me out on a date?’
It was Hunter’s turn to flip Garcia the middle finger.
Sixteen
George Slater left his office at the renowned Tale & Josh law firm at the usual time of six-thirty in the afternoon. His wife Catherine knew she wouldn’t be having dinner with him as it was Tuesday night, ‘poker night.’
George was an average-looking man. The kind that would never attract much attention in a crowd through looks alone, but no one could deny he was charming. Five foot nine with dark-brown eyes and hair to match, his impeccable dress sense had always managed to conceal his thin frame.
After leaving his office George sat listening to the radio news as he drove his luxurious M-Class off-roader Mercedes-Benz to a small rented apartment in Bell Gardens. He’d found the apartment over the internet and dealt directly with the owner avoiding the estate-agent middleman. In exchange for discretion, George had offered to pay the landlord cash – one whole year in advance.
Two copies of a hand-drafted agreement and a receipt for the amount paid were the only existing documentation of the transaction. No lengthy contracts, no traceable paperwork. Even the name on the contract was fictitious – Wayne Rogers. George took no chances. The property could not be traced back to him.
The apartment was located in a very quiet street just on the edge of Bell Gardens and that suited George just perfectly. It meant fewer people to witness him coming and going and the building’s underground garage offered him even more shelter from prying eyes.
The single-bedroom apartment wasn’t very spacious but it served its purpose. It certainly wasn’t luxuriously decorated. The entrance door opened straight into a small living room painted white. A three-seat black-leather sofa had been placed a little off the center of the room facing an empty wall. There was no TV set, no paintings, no rugs or carpet. In fact, apart from the sofa, the only other piece of furniture in the living room was a magazine holder. The kitchen was small and very clean. The cooker had never been used. The contents of the fridge were restricted to twelve bottles of beer, some chocolate bars and a carton of orange juice. The apartment wasn’t used for living in.
An en-suite double bedroom was located at the end of a small corridor. Inside it, an extravagant bed with a pompous iron-frame bedstead had been positioned against the wall directly opposite the door. To the left of the bed an all-mirrored-door wardrobe. The room had been fitted with a dimmer switch, or as George liked to call it – the mood switch. This was the most important room in the apartment.
George closed the door behind him, placed his briefcase on the floor next to the sofa and walked into the kitchen. After grabbing a beer from the fridge and twisting its top off he returned to the living room. The beer tasted ice-cold and it relaxed him on a desperately hot day. George drank half the bottle down before sinking himself into the sofa and grabbing his second cell phone from his briefcase. Very few people knew about his extra phone; his wife wasn’t one of them. George had one more sip of his cold beer before rereading the latest text message.
The message wasn’t signed, but there was no need. George, or Wayne as he was known, knew exactly who it was from – Rafael.
George had met the six-foot-one man of Puerto Rican descent through a male escort agency a year ago. At first their relationship was professional, but it soon developed into a forbidden affair. George knew Rafael had fallen in love with him and though his feelings for Rafael were very strong, he couldn’t call it love – at least not yet.
George checked the time – ten past eight. He had an hour before his lover was due to arrive. He finished his beer and decided to go for a shower.
As the water massaged his tired body, George fought a guilty feeling. He loved Catherine, and he loved making love to her on the few occasions he was allowed to. Maybe if they’d stayed in Alabama things would’ve been different, but LA had offered him something new. In today’s society being bisexual would be considered by some as quite normal, but certainly not by Catherine.
Catherine Slater was born Catherine Harris in Theodore, Alabama. Her upbringing by her excessively religious family had been very strict. She was an avid churchgoer, sometimes five to six times a week. Overbearing and opinionated, she firmly believed in no sex before marriage, and even then she believed sex shouldn’t be used as an instrument of carnal pleasure.
Catherine and George met during their freshman year of law school at Alabama State University. Both straight ‘A’ students, it didn’t take long for their classmate friendship to develop into an impossible, sexless romance. Blinded by his enormous desire to be with her, George asked for Catherine’s hand in marriage one month after their graduation.
